Under The Dome Light

Part I — The Long Night (The Weight Before The Fall)

The parking lot was a cracked, yellow-lit disaster. Cars sat abandoned, forgotten. Our old Tahoe looked wrecked in the back, windows fogged, one headlight out. The inside light blinked, flashing over piles of clothes, a crushed soda can, and the smell of old coffee and damp blankets.

My breath puffed in the cold while my hands ached from sleeping in the driver’s seat. Riley was out in the back, buried in blankets, making small dream noises.

I looked back at her. Even worn down, hair everywhere, she had this peaceful look — like the world hadn’t broken her spirit yet. She never tried to make me feel like a screw-up, but sometimes just looking at her did that on its own.

I rubbed my eyes and sighed. Thirty-eight. I thought I’d have my life figured out by now — job, place, routine. A life that wasn’t always a train wreck. Instead, here I sat in a Walmart parking lot, questioning everything.

Riley was forty, but life had made her older. She once owned a little place in Gresham with flowers out front. She’d been married to a guy named Evan — a good man who crumbled when his parents died. Grief swallowed him whole, and talking never helped. Time didn’t either. They cared about each other, but you can’t outrun sadness.

She sold the house hoping for a fresh start. But costs shot up, hours at work dropped, and the bottom fell out.

That’s how we met — two people hiding under a laundromat awning in the rain. We talked. Helped each other with laundry. Then gas. Then sleeping in the car.

And now the car was our life.

Wind rocked the Tahoe. The light inside flickered again like it was tired too.

I thought about my dead friend — pills and silence. The kid I never got to see. My dad leaving when things got hard. All those ghosts sitting in the car with us.

I looked at Riley again. Even asleep, she deserved warmth and safety — things I couldn’t give her.

She had kindness left in her. She believed in me more than I believed in myself. Sometimes that belief felt heavier than the cold.

I opened the glove box and pulled out my beat-up notebook. Tried to write something. Anything. The page stared back blank, waiting.

I whispered into the dark:

She deserves better than this.

The dome light blinked twice, then died.

I sat there listening to her breathe, praying love wouldn’t be the thing that finished us.

⸻

Part II — The Morning That Hits Hard (The Decision)

The cold woke him — not sharp, but deep. The kind that waits inside your bones. The Tahoe windows were fogged, and every breath rasped in his throat.

Riley slept in the back, face toward the window, hair stuck to her cheek. He watched her like she was the last soft thing in the world.

Sixty-eight job applications yesterday. No replies. Not even a rejection anymore — just empty silence. He used to pretend things would turn around. He didn’t do that anymore.

She still believed. That was the worst part. That smile she had, like hope hadn’t abandoned her yet.

He reached for the notebook. The cover was soft from moisture. His hand shook.

He wrote:

Riley,

You were light in a place with no power.

I can’t let you carry me anymore.

Please live better than this.

I love you.

He folded the note, placed it by her coffee cup, and took one last look at her.

When he opened the door, cold slapped him awake. The parking lot stirred — carts rattling, engines coughing. Nobody noticed him leaving. Nobody ever did.

A horn blared. Someone yelled.

For a second — someone finally saw him.

And for him, that was enough.

⸻

Part III — The Ghost of Himself (Memory, Regret, and Rationalization)

He sat there in the cold long enough to feel numb. The world buzzed around him, but he was lost inside his own head.

Pieces of his life flashed — broken, scattered memories.

A quiet, strange kid. A mom always working. Learned silence early — stay quiet, don’t get left. Don’t ask, don’t get hurt.

Growing up wasn’t the fix he thought it would be. Jobs fell apart. Bosses promised callbacks that never came. Each failure another bruise on a soul already swollen.

Then pills. At first for pain. Then for sleep. Then for everything. He told himself he could stop — and he did — but sobriety didn’t heal anything. It just stripped away the numb.

He saw the hospital where his daughter Hope died. He never held her. Just saw her name on a tiny tag. He used to believe he could’ve been a good father. He didn’t believe that anymore.

And his friend. Always that memory. A phone call. Panic. “I just need something to sleep.” He handed him pills like it was nothing.

His friend never woke up.

He hadn’t slept right since.

Riley was the only light left. She didn’t fix him — she just saw him. Really saw him. Loved him anyway. And that kind of love is heavy.

He remembered her talking about Evan — not in longing, just kindness. The sympathy she had for someone who broke under life. She had that same sympathy for him. And he didn’t want her living that twice.

He reached for the notebook again. The pen scratched like it knew it was writing a goodbye.

He didn’t write apologies or prayers — just truth.

When he finished, he felt lighter. Not happy, just hollow in a soft way.

⸻

Part IV — The Dome Light Fades (The Final Kindness)

Dawn painted the sky gray. Cold wind sliced through the morning.

He opened the Tahoe door and the dome light blinked weakly, fighting to stay alive.

Riley slept curled up, face soft. Peaceful. Untouched for a moment by everything waiting outside.

He stared, wanting to wake her. To say sorry, to say he loved her, to stay.

But staying meant she would keep sinking too.

He set the note beside her coffee cup. Thought of her saying once, “Evan gave up. I told myself I’d never love someone who quit.”

He told himself this wasn’t quitting, this was freeing her.

He stepped into the cold. Cars rushed past. Someone honked. Someone shouted.

For a breath, he felt real again. Like he mattered. He managed a small smile and kept walking.

Riley woke to the cold air. Reached for him. Felt empty space. Her eyes fell on the note. Her hands shook before she opened it.

Sirens screamed somewhere close.

She jumped out barefoot onto the freezing pavement, clutching the note, whispering his name like maybe he could hear it.

Inside the Tahoe, the dome light glowed weak and tired — a soft light for a man who tried, who broke, and who finally let go.