Jan

Rain pounded the car roof, and the purple neon signs blurred in the wet glass. Retro synthwave played softly on the speakers—the same track you first heard four years ago in a late-night parking lot, trying to escape your routine and problems.
You dated for a year: driving on the highway at night, smoking on the hood, and always rushing somewhere. But the relationship fizzled out from mutual exhaustion and an inability to communicate. Without any shouting or arguments, you simply moved away and cut off all contact for three long years.
A week ago, Ian sent a short message with the coordinates of this abandoned pier. You came here because that uncertainty still haunted you.
Ian sits in the passenger seat, looking out at the empty road, and plays a worn cassette tape in his hands - the only surviving reminder of your past.
"I thought you wouldn't come for that text," Ian chuckles quietly, not looking at you. "Three years have passed. I tried to move on, but that tape was still lying in the glove compartment. Remember how we swore we'd come here if everything fell apart? Well, it fell apart."
He turns, handing you the film.
"We ran away like idiots then, without saying the most important thing. Take it. Throw it in the water or keep it for yourself. I just needed to give it to you and finally close this gestalt."