Moment

A narrow street: late afternoon light slides along the brickwork as if trying to edge out of the scene. Traffic hums in the distance. A cyclist coasts downhill, relaxed, with one hand on the bar and the other adjusting something at his collar. A dog pulls its owner towards the curb. A phone slips from someone’s hand. A shout —one syllable, sharp and directionless— cuts the air.

Everything happens at once, or seems to.

Moira is the first to stop. Her shoes click once, then parade halt. She stands with her weight pitched forward, as if the moment itself has blundered into the back of her.

“Did you see that?” she says, not turning, her voice already sounding like an accusation.

Josef arrives half a beat later, breath visible in the cooling air.

“Probably nothing,” he says, reflexively, the words soft as a hand smoothing a wrinkled brow.

He bends to pick up the fallen phone, wipes it on his sleeve and holds it out to no one in particular.

Lindsay steps out from behind a parked car, eyes narrowed, scanning the street as if the incident has left a residue only she can detect.

“No, that was something,” she says. “People don’t just shout like that. Not any more.”

Her gaze flicks to the cyclist, who has stopped at the bottom of the hill and is looking back, uncertain.

Tom stands a little apart, one hand on the strap of his bag. He looks pale, as if the shout has echoed in some private chamber inside him.

“I think…” he begins, then stops. He tries again. “I think he meant to hit the dog.” His voice is thin, almost apologetic, as though he’s confessing to an imagined crime.

Raine is last to join them, her steps unhurried. She has seen the whole thing from farther up the street, the moment unfolding with the inevitability of a dropped slice of toast. She doesn’t speak. She watches the others instead: the way Moira’s jaw tightens, the way Josef keeps glancing at the dog to reassure himself it’s fine, the way Lindsay’s shoulders rise with each breath, the way Tom’s eyes won’t settle on anything.

The dog barks once; a small, startled sound. Its owner murmurs something soothing, tugging the lead gently.

Moira points toward the cyclist. “He swerved on purpose. You saw it.”

Josef shakes his head. “He lost his balance. It happens.”

Lindsay folds her arms. “No. He shouted first. That’s the part you’re ignoring.”

Tom flinches. “He shouted because he was angry. I saw his face.”

“You didn’t,” Moira says, too quickly. “You were behind me.”

Raine watches the geometry shift: Moira stepping toward Tom, Lindsay angling herself between them, Josef retreating half a step as if the air has become menacing. The cyclist begins to pedal slowly back up the hill, uncertain whether he’s being summoned or judged.

A bus sighs to a stop at the corner. A woman with shopping bags pauses, sensing tension but not its source. The street seems to hold its breath.

Lindsay turns to the others. “This is exactly what I’ve been talking about. People are on edge. Everything’s fraying. You can’t pretend this is normal.”

Josef rubs the back of his neck. “It was a near miss. That’s all.”

Tom’s voice trembles. “He looked right at me.”

Moira snaps, “You’re projecting.”

Raine finally speaks, her tone level. “Maybe everyone saw something true. Just not the same truth.”

The cyclist reaches them and dismounts, helmet dangling from one hand.

“Is the dog okay?” he asks, tentatively.

Moira opens her mouth, but Lindsay cuts in. “Why did you shout?”

He blinks. “I didn’t shout. I mean... I said ‘hey!’ because I thought he was going to run into the road.” He gestures toward the dog. “I was trying to warn him.”

“That’s not what it sounded like,” Tom mutters.

The cyclist looks at him, confused, then at the others. “I’m sorry if it came out wrong.”

Josef nods, relieved. “See? Miscommunication.”

But Moira’s eyes narrow. “You swerved toward us.”

“No,” he says, “I swerved to avoid the pothole.” He points to a dark, uneven patch in the asphalt. “Didn’t you see it?”

They all look. The pothole is there, ordinary and unremarkable; a small crater in the road’s surface. It has been there for months, though none of them noticed it until today.

Lindsay exhales sharply. “Convenient.”

Tom closes his eyes, as if trying to replay the moment frame by frame. “I thought...” he begins, but the sentence dissolves.

Raine watches the cyclist’s face, his earnestness and confusion. She watches the others watching him. She feels the moment slipping, becoming something else, something already half-remembered.

A car horn sounds in the distance. The dog shakes itself, tags jingling. The cyclist mounts his bike again, uncertain whether he’s been forgiven or dismissed.

“I really didn’t mean...” he starts. But Moira turns away and Lindsay looks past him and Josef gives a small, weary smile that could mean anything.

Tom mumbles, “Maybe I mis-saw it,” but no one answers.

Raine steps back, letting the group’s shape loosen. The cyclist rides off. The street seems to exhale the breath it’s been holding. The light shifts again, thinner now, almost escapes into evening.

They stand there a moment longer, each holding a different version of what happened, each version already hardening into memory. Then they drift apart, not together but away, their paths unbraiding as easily as they had converged.

Josef still holds the phone. He looks down at its screen —cracked, dark, unreadable— and slips it into his coat pocket. Not out of theft but out of habit, as if to preserve something that might later explain what had happened.

No one looks back.