Taxi Bill - [hot]

I fold it once, then again, sliding it into the pocket above my heart. Not for reimbursement. Not for taxes. But because this scrap holds more weight than its algorithm of distance and idle time.

I look at the fine print on the back: Not responsible for articles left behind.

I step out. The door thuds shut. The taxi pulls away, brake lights bleeding red into the night. And I stand there—holding a receipt for 28 minutes of my life—wondering why it feels like a ransom note. taxi bill

I tip in cash. Extra. Because the driver let me sit in the front when he saw my eyes were wet. Because he didn't ask if I was okay. Because he simply lowered the meter and said, "Where to?" —the most honest question anyone had asked me all year.

But we are all articles left behind. A glove. A phone charger. A half-finished sentence. A promise we forgot to keep. I fold it once, then again, sliding it

We pay to go somewhere else. But we never arrive free.

The meter clicked. Every tick a small death of possibility. But because this scrap holds more weight than

The answer, of course, is that it is.