Liam was a creature of kinetic energy. His life in the city was defined by forward momentum—fast coffee, faster deadlines, and an aggressive, sleek black road bike that he rode with borderline negligence. He thrived on the blur.
One Tuesday, racing to beat a changing light on 5th Street, Liam didn't see the pedestrian crossing. Maya, an art restorer who moved through life with deliberate, careful grace, was stepping off the curb, her mind on a delicate canvas.
The input was instant: A flash of a yellow coat, the sound of a gasp. Liam slammed on his hydraulic brakes. Physics took over. The rear wheel locked, the bike fishtailed violently, and Liam threw his weight back, barely avoiding a catastrophic T-bone collision. He managed to put his foot down just as his front tire grazed the hem of her coat.
"I am so, so sorry," Liam gasped, his pulse hammering. Maya just stared, her heart in her throat, looking from the tire to the breathless cyclist. It was terrifying, sudden, and completely effective at stopping them both.