If I had known I was going to die that night, I probably would have ordered the expensive whiskey. I definitely wouldn't have flossed that morning. What a waste of time that was.
But I didn't know. I was thirty-two years old, healthy, employed, and currently standing in the warm, golden glow of O'Mally's Pub, holding a tray of shots that cost way too much for a Friday closer.
"Miles! You legend!" Dave roared from the booth, his tie wrapped around his head like a Rambo bandana. "I thought you went to the bathroom, not to buy out the bar!"
"Just a round of tequila," I said, sliding the tray onto the sticky wood table. I had to peel my shoes off the floor with every step—that classic dive bar adhesive made of spilled beer and bad decisions. "And water for Sarah. She has that presentation on Monday."
Sarah looked at me with those big, soft eyes that always made my stomach do a little flip. She brushed a stray hair behind her ear, her cheeks flushed pink from the heat of the room. "You're an angel, Miles. Seriously. Who else remembers that?"
"Just doing my job as the designated Dad of the group," I joked, sliding into the booth. The leather squeaked, cracked and worn from decades of patrons.
I looked around the table. There was Dave, my college roommate, looking disheveled and triumphant. Sarah, the new hire I'd been crushing on for six months. And Greg, who was currently trying to balance a soggy coaster on his nose.
I took a sip of my beer. It was lukewarm, but I didn't care. I leaned back, soaking it in. The air smelled like stale hops, fried grease, and cheap perfume, but to me, it smelled like victory. We had just closed the chaotic Q3 accounts. My boss had actually complimented me in front of the VP. My rent was paid. I had a new LEGO Star Destroyer set waiting at home to be built over the weekend—three thousand pieces of pure, meditative bliss.
Life wasn't exciting. It wasn't an action movie. But it was good. It was stable.
"So," Dave said, slamming his empty shot glass down. He turned his predatory gaze on me. "Miles. My man. The myth. The monk."
"Don't start," I sighed, smiling despite myself.
"Thirty-two years old," Dave announced to the table, though they all knew the lore. "Fit. Good jawline. Makes six figures. And yet, still holding onto his V-card like it's a winning lottery ticket. Why, Miles? Why do you torture the women of this city?"
Sarah giggled, kicking me under the table. It wasn't mean. It was affectionate. The contact lingered for a second too long.
"I'm not holding onto it," I said, swirling my beer, watching the foam dissolve. "I'm just... waiting."
"Waiting for what? The apocalypse? A handwritten invitation from the Pope?" Greg asked, the coaster finally falling off his nose and landing in the salsa dip.
"For the spark," I said, shrugging. I felt a little embarrassed saying it out loud, but the tequila had loosened my tongue. "I want it to matter. Call me a romantic, but I want the fireworks. I want the electricity. I want to look at someone and feel like I just stuck a fork in a toaster."
Dave rolled his eyes so hard I thought they'd fall out. "You're hopeless. You're a cool guy, Miles, but you're weirdly wholesome. It's unnatural."
I laughed. I didn't mind. I liked being the wholesome one. I liked being the guy who made sure everyone got home safe, who carried the extra umbrella, who knew the difference between a deduction and a credit. I looked at Sarah, and she smiled at me—a real, lingering smile that didn't reach the rest of the group.
Monday, I told myself. I'm asking her out on Monday.
"I'm gonna head out," I said, standing up and grabbing my coat. It was a nice wool coat, one of the few expensive things I owned.
"What? It's barely midnight!" Dave protested, gesturing to the half-full pitcher.
"I want to walk a bit," I said. "Clear my head. Plus, that Star Destroyer isn't going to build itself."
"Nerd!" Greg shouted, dipping a chip into the salsa that now contained the coaster.
"Get home safe, Miles," Sarah said softly. Her hand brushed my arm as I squeezed out of the booth. "Text me when you get in?"
"Will do."
I walked out of the pub and into the cool night air. The transition was jarring—from the deafening bass of the jukebox to the sprawling, ambient hum of the city.
I loved this city at night. It felt like a living thing. Neon signs reflected in the puddles on the sidewalk—pinks, blues, and electric greens shimmering on the wet asphalt like spilled oil paintings. A police siren wailed in the distance, a lonely, rhythmic cry.
I buttoned my coat, enjoying the bite of the wind against my face. I decided to take the long way home, past the park.
I walked past a 24-hour bodega. Mr. Henderson was out front, sweeping cigarette butts off the concrete.
"Working late, Mr. H?" I called out.
The old man looked up, his face a map of wrinkles. "Always, Miles. Always. You stay out of trouble."
"Trying my best," I said, tossing a five-dollar bill into his tip jar on the counter as I passed. "Get yourself a coffee."
I kept walking, shoving my hands in my pockets, feeling the leather of my wallet and the sharp metal of my apartment keys. I took a deep breath. The air was crisp, smelling of rain and exhaust fumes.
I passed a dark alleyway. A stray cat—a mangy orange tabby—darted out, freezing when it saw me. I stopped. I crouched down slowly, extending a hand.
"Hey there, buddy," I whispered. "Rough night?"
The cat hissed, arched its back, and bolted into the shadows.
"Fair enough," I chuckled, straightening up. "I'm not everyone's cup of tea."
I reached the crosswalk on 5th and Main. It was a massive intersection, usually gridlocked during the day, but empty now. The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long, stark shadows. The glowing red hand on the signal box kept me in place.
I rocked back on my heels, humming the song that had been playing in the bar. I checked my reflection in the shop window next to me. Not bad. The coat looked good. I looked... happy.
The light turned white. The walking man appeared.
I stepped off the curb.
I didn't hear the truck. That's the thing movies get wrong—they always add a horn honk, a screech of tires, a dramatic buildup. Reality isn't edited like that. Reality is chaos.
I didn't hear anything until the headlights washed over me.
They were blindingly white. Two artificial suns erasing the world, bleaching the color out of the neon signs, the wet pavement, and my hands.
I turned my head to the left.
Time didn't slow down. It sped up. My brain, processing at maximum overdrive, registered the grill—a massive, chrome grate that looked like a snarling mouth. I saw the rust on the bumper. I saw the terrified eyes of the driver behind the windshield—a guy in a baseball cap, mouth open in a scream I couldn't hear.
Oh, I thought. The thought was incredibly distinct, detached from the horror. I didn't clear my browser history.
The impact wasn't pain. It was just... physics.
Massive force met fragile biology.
I felt the sidewalk leave my feet. I felt the air leave my lungs in a violent whoosh. There was a sickening crunch—the sound of a wet branch snapping—echoing inside my own skull. It was the loudest thing I had ever heard.
The world spun. Sky. Pavement. Headlights. Sky.
I hit the ground. Hard.
I bounced, skidding across the wet asphalt, the rough stone shredding through my expensive wool coat like it was tissue paper. I came to a stop near the gutter, staring at a discarded soda can.
Move, I told my body. Get up.
My body didn't answer.
The pain didn't come immediately. Just a cold, creeping numbness starting at my toes and racing up my spine. I tried to breathe, but my chest refused to expand. It felt like I was wearing a vest made of lead. A warm wetness began to spread across my chest.
That's blood, my brain supplied helpfully. That's a lot of blood.
I stared up at the night sky. The stars were washed out by the city lights, invisible behind the hazy orange glow of light pollution.
Sarah, I thought. The image of her face popped into my mind, vivid and sharp. I never texted her.
My vision started to tunnel. The neon lights of the city blurred into streaks of color, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. The sounds of the city—the shouting, the car doors slamming, the frantic voice of the driver yelling "Oh God, oh God!"—sounded like they were underwater.
I wasn't scared. That was the surprise. I wasn't scared. I was just... disappointed.
I felt a tear leak out of my eye and slide down into my ear. It was hot.
I wanted to build that LEGO set, my fading brain whispered, latching onto the small things because the big things were too heavy to process. I wanted to feel the spark. I wanted to see what Monday looked like.
The darkness crept in from the edges, thick, heavy, and absolute. It wasn't sleep. Sleep is warm. Sleep is a pause. This was cold. This was a full stop.
The last thing I felt was a single drop of rain hitting my cheek. It felt incredibly cold, like a kiss from a ghost.
Then, the signal cut out.