Heartlines

1. Lonely Roads

Lily's fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, her mind racing faster than the road beneath her tires. The highway stretched ahead, empty and endless, much like her thoughts—thoughts that always seemed to creep up when she was alone for too long. "You're a good person, Lily." People said it all the time. But what did it even mean? Good for who? For what? Why did it matter to them if she was just a passing stranger in their lives?

Life wasn't that simple, and she certainly didn't feel like a "good person." Sure, she smiled, she was polite, and did what was expected of her. But that wasn't being good. That was being afraid to say no. It was her people-pleasing nature gnawing at her insides, making her stomach twist in frustration. A bitterness lingered—towards herself, towards the world, towards the cruel twist of fate that had taken her parents from her in a car crash two years ago. The thought of them—gone in an instant—tightened her chest.

"I'm so alone," she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. She had her grandmother, but Grandma was old now, her memory fading faster than Lily could keep up with. And Amy? Amy was half a world away, and their phone calls, once filled with laughter, now felt like echoes of a life Lily no longer lived.

Friends? No, not anymore. Her life had shrunk to the pub she opened few months ago—a tiny pub hidden in a forgotten corner of the city. She had believed it would be something special, something that would make her feel whole again. But instead, it was barely hanging on. Every day felt like a failure. Why had she, of all people, thought it was a good idea to open a place that relied on people, when she had none of her own?

"Girl, you don't even have friends," she muttered with a dry laugh, shaking her head at herself. Her social life was as extinct as the customers who barely trickled into her pub. No one to call, no one to fill the worn-out booths. Maybe that's why her business was failing.

She hadn't always been like this, though. Before her parents died, Lily had been the opposite—lively, outgoing, the kind of person who would light up a room. But when they passed, something inside her had shattered. She had stopped answering texts from friends, stopped greeting people on the street, gradually disappearing from everyone's radar. It wasn't that she liked being alone; it was just easier than dealing with the sympathetic looks, the heavy hands on her shoulder, the same exhausting questions. People always wanted to know how they died, how she was coping, and every word they said felt like an empty promise that things would somehow get better.

Lily sighed, her eyes glazed over as she stared down the road, wondering how much longer she could keep pretending everything was okay.

She pulled her beat-up car to the curb in front of Ale & Tale, her gaze flicking up to the weathered sign that hung above the door. It was barely past 3 PM, and the street outside was as quiet as ever—too quiet. She knew better than to expect anyone to come before 4 PM. Not that the place buzzed with life, even at the best of times. Brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, she straightened her shirt and braced herself for another painfully slow evening.

The pub was pristine—tables wiped clean, chairs neatly in place, everything ready for customers who never came. The dream she had held onto when opening this place felt like it was slipping further and further out of reach. She had thought that by creating this little corner of the world, she would find some purpose, maybe even some peace. But instead, she found herself drowning in bills and silence, with no one to share it with.

She slipped behind the counter, aimlessly polishing glasses that were already spotless. Her gaze, like clockwork, drifted across the street. The motorcycle repair shop. It was the one place in her line of sight that seemed alive. She had grown accustomed to watching the guys there, laughing, tinkering with bikes, chugging beers in between fixing engines. It was a little escape from her quiet world, a glimpse into something more.