The meter clicked. Every tick a small death of possibility.
The bill says thank you at the bottom. Thank you for riding. Thank you for paying. Thank you for moving through my city without touching it. taxi bill
It remembers the rain we drove through—the way the city blurred into watercolor lights. It remembers the silence between two strangers who shared a back seat for half an hour, the driver's sitar music bleeding softly from the front, and how you finally said, "I think I’m losing the ability to cry." The meter clicked
I fold it once, then again, sliding it into the pocket above my heart. Not for reimbursement. Not for taxes. But because this scrap holds more weight than its algorithm of distance and idle time. Thank you for riding