Full tank

Coffee in one hand, keys in the other. Last check to see if the oven is off. I walk through the door, lock it behind me, and head down the walkway toward the elevator. A polite smile to the woman cleaning the stairs, and the elevator arrives. I step in, press P4, glance at the notices on the wall. One minute later, I’m in the garage heading to my car.

Backpack in the back seat, coffee in the console. The car starts, the sound player too. And then… that song comes on. The same one I heard twenty years ago on the bus that was taking me to the big metropolis. Still nothing particularly special about it, but that was what was playing. Ordinary, pleasant, but layered with meanings I never expected.

Everything starts to blur. I can’t remember where I am. I close my eyes and the music takes over my entire body. My breathing adjusts to its rhythm. So many feelings come with it. Who was I twenty years ago? A naïve boy with more plans than my small luggage could carry. A dreamer? Foolish? I don’t feel resentment or regret about moving to a big city and leaving everything behind. The song slows, fades. A voice returns — no instruments, just words. Then the melody comes back. I open my eyes. And I see… the fuel gauge. Full tank. I stare at it. No thoughts, just a feeling rising inside me.

I shift into reverse, then drive through the curves of the garage toward street level. Morning traffic outside, the usual. That feeling still grows. Reaching the street, I turn left instead of right. Why? No idea. No plan.

Notifications start lighting up my phone in the console. Without taking my eyes off the road, I power it off. I need silence. I keep driving. The music keeps playing, but I barely hear it. My mind isn’t blank — it’s full of thoughts sliding through like meditation, but different this time.

I reach the long bridge. I’m leaving downtown in the opposite direction of where I’m supposed to be going. The bridge is high, long, surrounded by low clouds that make everything look like I’m flying. It feels good. Then the road descends, and I see the sign for the highway. Should I leave the city?

A few miles later, I’m a traveler with no destination. Just the road ahead. Endless asphalt. Few cars. Mountains on one side, ocean on the other, sky above me. I hold the wheel but I’m not really in charge. Present, but not steering my own path.

The clouds hang low again, heavy and darkening. Raindrops touch the windshield, then turn heavy. I switch the wipers on — slow first, then fast. The sound of tires on wet asphalt, mixed with heavy rain on the roof, becomes louder than the music I’ve stopped hearing. I’m inside a storm. No lightning, no thunder. Just water falling above me, and steel keeping me dry.

The rain weakens. I can see the road again — still endless, even emptier now. I check the panel: still a full tank. I can go much farther. But where?

A heavy truck appears in the mirror — too close. How can something that weighty be as fast as me? The truck honks, wanting to pass. I don’t want to let it. He flashes his high beams. I try to ignore it. But on a one-lane road, he needs my permission. The road starts climbing — steep, long. The truck loses traction and falls behind. Relief. Focused again on the road, not on what’s behind me.

The road enters a dense forest. Tall trees, deep shadows. Mysterious. I can’t tell if I should go faster to escape it or slow down to let something happen. Then — a loud noise. The wheels slip, the car jolts. I lose control and drift off the road. I brake hard, giving myself as much room as possible. My heart races like never before. Inches from a massive tree, the car shudders to a stop. My hands shake. My chest burns from the seatbelt digging in. Silence. Just my breath trying to settle.

I look forward — nothing. I check the rear-view mirror — nothing. I open the window, not sure if I even want to look out. I do anyway. Still nothing. My hand releases the handle. I open the door, place my feet outside. I step out after unbuckling. I stand there, in nowhere, searching for something I can’t name. I walk a few meters from the car. Look both ways, into the forest — nothing. Whatever I reached isn’t here. Or isn’t real.

Back in the car — still running; I forgot to turn it off — I buckle up, shift into drive, and return to the road. Driving feels different now. I feel more in control. I feel the road, the tires moving left and right. I hear the music again — my chill playlist, the one that lifts my spirit.

A motel sign appears as I exit the forest. It feels like a good time to stop. Only a few cars sit parked out front. I leave my backpack but bring my phone, maybe to pay for a coffee — the cup in my console belongs to another life, earlier this morning. But the place has no café or restaurant. Just a reception with a bell. I tap it gently. A woman smiles as she approaches. She asks how many nights. Just one, I say. She hands me a form. For some reason, I write only my last name — something I’ve never done. I tap my phone to pay. She gives me the key. Room 12, one floor up. Wooden stairs lead to the back of the building.

The room is modest in size but nice. It smells freshly cleaned. The flannel floral bed sheet looks comfortable. I open the window; it faces the deep forest. No sound, just the trees slowly swaying.

I sit on the bed and grab my phone. I connect to the Wi-Fi to avoid calls. But notifications pop up. They make my stomach heavy. I check the time — almost night. A shock. How did the day pass so quickly? Where was I? Checking the map app, I realize I’m not that far from the city. What should take less than an hour has taken my whole day.

I open that app I used to play with, imagining new versions of myself connecting with different kinds of people. People who mirror me, and others who feel like the opposite. Same or different gender. Different ages, experiences, desires. I’m not looking for a match, just a place where imagination can wander through possibilities of connection.

Making it real has never been the point. But one day I stepped a little further, and the messages are still there with someone who is everything I’m not. I can’t understand why we matched. Still, on that day, I replied: “doing great, you?” And the conversation took off — unexpected, interesting, funny, sexy, smart. It felt like I was becoming someone I wished I could be, but wasn’t. My replies were too vague, impersonal, maybe too sharp. I felt I couldn’t keep up. So I stopped replying. Not because of them, but because of my own sense of being out of place. I didn’t block or delete the chat. Days passed. Weeks. A final message from that person: “still there?” — which I never answered.

Until today.

“Yes, I’m here. You?” — as if pretending no time has passed. I hit send at the same moment I drop the phone. Where does that come from? Why return to that chat and that person? I head to the washroom and wash my face — hot, almost burning, but I feel fine. I look in the mirror. It’s me, but also not. I’ve never been comfortable staring into my own eyes. Photos of myself, even my voice, were hard to bear. But now it’s different. I see my eyes and I like them. Deep black, vivid, powerful. I smile. I see myself smiling.

Back in the bedroom, lying on the bed, I open the app again.

“Nice! And what are you up to?” comes from the other side.

“Just feeling ready, wanna meet?” I reply.

Then a smiling face pops up, followed by a “why not!?”. I share my address.

About an hour later, a knock breaks the silence. I feel light, joyful, with no hesitation at all. 

I open the door to a new version of myself.