I keep replaying that night on Highway 2, the part just west of Spokane where the road turns quiet after nine and the radio stations fade out like they’re tired of trying. I wasn’t supposed to be out there. I had stayed late helping a friend move, and by the time I got back to my car, I was cold, annoyed, and honestly just ready to be home. But that stretch of road felt different that night, like it had something waiting on it.

I first saw you near the empty pullout past the old sawmill. You were standing by your SUV with the rear hatch open, the interior lights casting a weird, soft glow around you. I thought maybe you had a flat or something worse. Out there, when someone pulls over, you kind of feel obligated to at least check, even if your better judgment says to keep driving.

I slowed down. I remember thinking, Don’t be stupid, but also, Don’t be the guy who drives past someone stuck alone on a dark road.

You waved before I could even roll the window down, like you already expected a stranger to show up. I pulled over, and when I stepped out, the air had that cold bite Spokane gets even when it isn’t quite winter.

You told me you were fine. Not a flat. Not out of gas. Just an overheating engine and a phone with one percent left. You laughed about it, the kind of laugh people use when they’re trying not to sound stressed.

We didn’t exchange names right away. Instead, we just stood there, two strangers staring at a steaming engine in the dark. You held the flashlight while I pretended I knew more about engines than I actually did. Eventually you figured out I didn’t, and you started laughing again. Real laughter this time. It made the whole thing feel less like a problem and more like some weird roadside teamwork.

When the engine finally cooled, we talked about pointless things. You told me you were on your way back from visiting your sister in Airway Heights. I told you I was heading home after helping a friend who still owed me dinner for the trouble. You said the night felt heavier than usual. I didn’t really understand what you meant, but I nodded like I did.

At one point a semi passed and the wind from it hit us hard enough to shove your hair across your face. You pushed it back and kept talking like nothing happened. You were calm in a way I wasn’t used to seeing in strangers.

Before you left, you said something like, “Thanks for stopping. Not everybody would.” I shrugged it off, but the truth is I stopped because something about you felt familiar, even though that makes no sense.

You pulled back onto the road, and I watched your taillights disappear faster than I expected. I thought that was the end of it.

But then the weird stuff started happening.

The next morning, I was behind a truck on Division, and the driver had the same kind of flashlight dangling from his rear mirror as the one you used. I know that’s nothing, but it hit me anyway. I kept looking for your SUV around town — Browne, Sprague, the stretch near Gonzaga — like you’d magically show up again.

I wasn’t obsessed. Not in the creepy way. More like… whatever happened on that road felt unfinished. People don’t usually linger in my mind, especially strangers, but you did. Maybe it’s because the conversation didn’t feel like small talk. Maybe because it happened in a place where nobody talks to anyone unless they absolutely have to.

About a week later, I drove the same route at roughly the same time. I didn’t tell myself I was looking for you, but yeah, that’s exactly what I was doing. I even slowed at the same pullout. Nothing there except a soda can and some old tire marks.

I started thinking about missed connections — not the cute ones people post about someone at a grocery store or a gym, but the kind that sneak up on you and make you wonder why certain people pass through your life once and vanish.

The crazy part is, I kept coming up with reasons why maybe you didn’t actually vanish. Maybe you live somewhere in Five Mile or Mead. Maybe you drive that highway every week. Maybe you passed right by me in town and I didn’t notice because Spokane’s big enough for that.

Or maybe the truth is simpler. Maybe you were just a person on the side of the road, and I’m the one turning it into something bigger.

I tried to let it go. I really did. But every time I drove at night, I found myself checking the shoulders of the road like you might be there again, waving me down with that same half-smile you had that night.

The last time I drove through, the sky was clear and the air smelled like woodstoves from the houses tucked behind the pines. I pulled over again, not because my car needed anything, but because for whatever reason, that spot felt like the closest thing I had to a second chance. I stood there for a minute, listening to the low hum of distant traffic and feeling stupid for waiting for something that wasn’t coming.

I don’t know if you’ll ever see this. I don’t even know if you live anywhere near Spokane or if that night was just a detour in your life. But if somehow this crosses your screen, I hope you remember the stranger on Highway 2 who couldn’t fix your engine but tried anyway.

I hope you made it home safe that night, and all the nights after.

And if you ever find yourself pulled over on that same stretch again, I’ll probably slow down, just in case.