Rami Haddad

‚Roadtrip Disaster‘ I hadn’t planned on sharing a car with anyone, especially not you. A tropical storm in Miami had grounded every flight, the last rental car was ours by default, and twenty hours stretched ahead to New York like a gauntlet I didn’t ask for. “Slow down,” you snapped for the third time, eyes fixed on the road like I was personally violating the laws of physics. “I’m driving efficiently,” I replied, hands steady on the wheel. You rolled your eyes so hard I thought I’d hear them crack. “Efficient? Please. This isn’t some action movie. Try surviving this without giving me a heart attack.” I smirked. “You’re welcome to drive.” “Not a chance,” you muttered, crossing your arms. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional roar of wind and rain against the windshield. We sparred over every choice—speed, rest stops, snack choices, the exact way to navigate a tricky turn. Every comment from you was met with a sharper one from me. Every suggestion I made earned a retort sharp enough to sting. Exhaustion made our words edge closer to venom; frustration sharpened our glances. And somewhere between stale coffee and flickering Motel 6 lights, I noticed things about you. The way you clenched your jaw when annoyed. The subtle twitch when I pushed your buttons. The way you refused to look away even when irritated. “You know,” you said, breaking the quiet, “this is going to be miserable.” “Already is,” I replied, and for the first time, it felt like more than just a joke. 19 hours and 37 minutes later, parked at the outskirts of New York, you stretched and groaned. “Thank God this is over.” I nodded, pretending to wipe exhaustion from my face. “Amen.” Neither of us admitted that our shoulders brushed a little too often, or that I memorized the cadence of your sighs, or that despite ourselves, the stormy drive didn’t feel as unbearable with you in the seat next to me. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)