Two Hours to Nowhere
by Sci-FiTy1972
Copyright© 2026 by Sci-FiTy1972
Fiction Story: A late-night Lyft ride turns into something neither of them expected. What starts as a simple drive becomes a series of shared songs, unfinished sentences, and small moments that feel heavier than they should. Time keeps moving. The road keeps counting down. And somewhere between Dayton and Cincinnati, two strangers begin to wonder if what they’re feeling is connection… or just the kind of closeness that only exists because it’s temporary.
Tags: Fiction AI Generated
Long rides like this were unusual.
Not uncommon.
Just rare enough to make her pause before she accepted.
Just outside Dayton. Apartment buildings lit unevenly, some windows glowing, others dark like they’d already checked out of the night. A plastic wreath still hung on one door, crooked and forgotten. Past tense decorations. The kind nobody bothers to take down because no one’s really looking anymore.
He slid into the back seat with a quiet, polite “Hi.”
Only after she pulled away did the navigation update.
Cincinnati.
She glanced at the screen, then at him in the mirror.
“That’s a long one,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”
People always apologized for needing to go somewhere.
The car still smelled faintly of pine. One of those little green air fresheners hung from the rear-view — shaped like a Christmas tree, faded now, the edges curling. It looked the same. It didn’t feel the same. Like a holiday that had already moved on without telling it.
They drove for a few minutes in silence. The kind that wasn’t awkward yet. The kind that still had room in it.
Streetlights stretched into long white lines across the windshield.
“Music okay?” he asked.
“Please,” she said. “I’ve already replayed today enough in my head.”
That earned a small smile.
The first song came on low. Old R&B. Familiar without being important. Then another. Then one she hadn’t heard in years.
“I forgot about this one,” she said.
“Me too,” he said. “It came on earlier and I didn’t skip it.”
They didn’t say why.
The assistant voice cut in, polite and flat.
“One hour, fifty-three minutes to destination.”
Neither of them reacted.
The road swallowed the sound.
A few miles later, the second song’s chorus crept up on them.
She sang one line under her breath without meaning to.
He didn’t look at her.
But his fingers tapped on his knee, just off-beat. Like he remembered the song, but not the exact version of himself who used to listen to it.
When the chorus came back around, neither of them pretended not to know the words.
They didn’t sing out loud.
They also didn’t stop.
The highway opened up. Warehouses thinned. The dark pressed closer to the road.
A field rolled by, invisible until it wasn’t.
The smell hit a second later.
Manure.
Sharp. Brief. Gone.
“Farm country,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Grew up around it. You forget how fast that smell travels.”
Then they both laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was there.
The assistant spoke again, cutting into the tail of the laughter.
“Faster route available. Saving three minutes.”
She glanced at the screen.
Didn’t touch it.
The song finished.
Silence settled in. Not empty. Just ... present.
They passed Middletown without either of them noticing right away.
She realized it only because the sign was already behind them.
It felt like they’d just left.
It felt like they’d been driving forever.
He talked about a job that didn’t end dramatically. No yelling. No slammed doors. Just an email and a conversation that used words like restructuring and best of luck.
“It wasn’t bad,” he said. “It just ... stopped being mine.”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.
She told him about how long drives made time feel different. Like you could set things down for a while. Pretend they weren’t yours to carry.
“Like putting a box in a closet,” he said.
“Exactly.”
She hadn’t said it first.
Headlights came up behind them. Too bright. High beams. The kind that feel personal even when they aren’t.
She adjusted the mirror.
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