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They are not strangers, but they treat each other as such.
“Where to?”
“Downtown, Plaza 26.”
The backseat door slams shut.
“Hey, ease up. I just got that fixed.”
The man does not bother with an apology. (He figures he won’t get one from him. Not now, not ever.)
It’s a delightfully slow drive. Morning, rush hour. Public transit would’ve been a better, much faster option. But maybe there’s another incident.
He turns on the radio, tunes in on the host chattering away about mindless politics. No news on delays, dreadfully boring. Then ah, he remembers, crystal clear. The trains are always densely packed around this time, and a certain person doesn’t like to be touched.
They roll to a stop.
Cars honking, commuters shouting. Things have surely changed since they last met. (He’s not sure if it’s a good change. Then again, when has change ever been good for either of them?)
His eyes flicker up toward the rear-view mirror.
Pressed suit, faded paisley. A dashing dark blue, odd taste for someone so ordinary. It’s fitted nicely to his muscular form, though. (They’d spent nearly a decade together, so of course, they’re well-acquainted with each other’s bodies, no matter how frail, no matter how frigid. He’d traced every inch, committing every scar to memory.)
“You work for the government.”
The man ignores him and peers out the window.
“What department?”
Again, he does not respond. It’s likely something dull—tax laws, infrastructure, anything uptight enough to require a three-piece suit.
7:59.
He turns off the radio and allows the silence to seep through. The air becomes thick between them, but it doesn’t phase; they’re used to being quiet around each other. It’s much more comfortable this way.
The car hasn’t moved a bit. At least, not in the last five minutes. Classic Mondays, everyone’s slow on the uptake.
Plaza 26 is about fifteen out, but with this traffic, they’ll make it there in a little less than thirty—that is, if they’re lucky. But he’s not too sure about luck. If either of them had any, they wouldn’t be sitting in the same damn cab.
“Might be faster to walk,” he muses.
Once more, no answer.
Another timeline, another opportunity, but they choose to stay put. Mutual agreement. It’s better not to move on. They can’t move on.
He scoffs.
“Got your tongue back, and you’re not even using it.”
His hands tighten around the steering wheel, all fingers curled inward except for the pinky on his left. Car accident, several years ago. Some things never change. What’s the point of being reborn if he has to suffer through the same consequences?
A space opens up in the next lane. He swerves, and the vehicle on his immediate right bleats with frustration. Fuck you!
“Fuck you, too!”
(He’s certain they can’t hear him, but it’s the thought that counts.)
“Just stay in your lane. I’m not in a rush.”
“So that’s what it takes to get you to open your mouth.”
“Keep talking, and I won’t tip.”
“As if you were planning on tipping in the first place.”
They fall silent again.
He successfully squeezes into the next lane.
“What are you going by? Song Zichen? Song Lan?”
Again, he’s met with sealed lips.
It doesn’t deter him in the slightest; he’s used to this.
“Or should I just call you Daozhang?”
“Song Lan,” the man answers. Tip of tongue, taut. He doesn’t want to entertain, but he’s no longer worthy of that title. “We’re past courtesy.”
“I used to hate mine, y’know. Xue Chengmei, thought it was mei as in coal, but it was actually mei as in beauty. Effeminate, but better than being called a useless rock.”
“Are you usually this chatty with your passengers?”
“No, just you.”
His gaze lifts to the rearview. This time, Song Lan meets him half-way.
“You married?”
“No.”
“Dating?”
“No.”
“Wanna ask me some questions?”
“No.”
He slams on the brakes, and Song Lan immediately lashes out to brace himself. The car behind them honks furiously. Morse code, you piece of shit! He rolls down the window and gives them a finger. They’re all stuck in traffic hell, no one knows how to drive, have some fuckin’ patience, ya shithead!
“Might wanna put your seatbelt on.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you tried to kill me.” A drawl, almost as if he didn’t intend to say it out loud.
His brow furrows. “If I wanted to, you’d already be dead.”
Song Lan looks down at his watch, looks up and away.
“Need me to pull over?”
“It’s fine.”
At long last, they begin to crawl forward. Slow, but steady. Must be a few apprehensive drivers at the big intersection—Just go! Dodge! No one cares about the stoplights!
“I haven’t, by the way.” Song Lan doesn’t ask for clarification, so he clarifies for him, “Killed anyone. Not in this timeline.”
He doesn’t expect praise, nor does he expect much of a response. Let’s be honest, it doesn’t matter what he’s done or hasn’t done. They’re a product of a tightly intertwined path, a foundation laid bare, and that will continue to define their relationship for as long as they both remember.
(Sometimes, he wishes he can forget. Let go, move on. But this is his divine punishment. A miserable life to relive for every life taken.)
“I only got in trouble with the law once. Speeding, twenty over.” Then, audibly lower, softer, “It was the night when I first saw him.”
That has Song Lan sitting forward, keen.
“He looked different. Brown, cropped hair. Round glasses. Still wore white, but now with a fancy little stethoscope. Would’ve looked right past him if his face hadn’t been haunting me every night.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Couldn’t bring myself to. He got into the cab in front of me. Don’t know what I would’ve done if he got into mine instead.”
They turn onto a quieter road.
“He works at the North General Hospital, if you want to see him.”
“I know.”
“Found him, or fated run-in?”
“Neither. I read about his research in the papers.”
“You think he remembers?”
Song Lan leans back into his seat, his eyes flickering toward the blurred buildings. He moves his hand across his thigh, but not once does he check his watch. It’s only been ten minutes.
“Meiqing found me two years ago,” he says after some time. “She mentioned that he’s still looking for us.”
“Funny. She ran in the other direction when she saw me.” His fingers drum along the steering wheel. “What did you tell her?”
“To forget me.”
They slow to a stop again. Single lane, stupid construction work.
“Why haven’t you? Approached him, that is.”
Song Lan narrows his eyes, lets them linger on ashen memories. Then, he says, “Same reason you haven’t.”
“And what reason is that?”
“I haven’t forgiven myself yet.”
They don’t talk much afterwards, and everything falls back into place. Pieces to a completed puzzle, they both fear rearrangement. Silence and stability are what they find most comfortable.
(And they found that together. Long, long ago.)
He pulls up to the curbside and hands over the card reader.
A quick tap, that’s all it takes. No tip, stingy bastard.
“Hey.” He leans across and rolls down the window. “Aren’t you gonna tell me to forget you?”
Song Lan pauses in his step, his expression neutral as it’s always been.
“You’re better off remembering.”
He scoffs. “Then you better remember me, too.”
That’s how they leave. Without a second look, without a single farewell. They turn in opposite directions, hoping their paths will never converge—but that’s not how fate plays out.
‘Cause they know, those who are destined to meet are doomed to meet again.