She doesn’t drive, but she’s always in the passenger seat.
It started the day we met—she asked if I wanted help finding the freeway and never stopped giving directions. At first, I thought it was sweet. Thought it meant she paid attention. No one ever cared about my commute before, let alone how I took exits too early or forgot to signal when changing lanes.
“You always miss the turn,” she said that first night. “I’ll remind you next time.”
And she did.
She reminds me every time.
Now, it’s habit. I buckle in. She clears her throat. “You’re going to want to start slowing down.” The light is still green, the road still open. “You’ll need to be in the left lane eventually,” she tells me, five miles ahead of the turn. I merge anyway.
She taps the dash gently when I drift a little. “There’s construction up ahead,” even when there isn’t. “This neighborhood isn’t safe after dark,” even though I used to live there. “Don’t take that route,” even if it’s the only way I know how to go.
She grips the handle above the door when I go over the speed limit. I laugh, say, “You’re such a nervous passenger.” But she isn’t nervous. She’s exact. Calm. “It’s just that I see things you don’t,” she says, and I believe her.
I start letting her choose the music, the temperature. She knows which roads flood when it rains, which gas stations have bathrooms I won’t hate. I hand her the map even when I know where I’m going. Eventually, I stop knowing altogether.
“You always get turned around without me,” she says once. I nod, even though it’s not true. I used to be able to find my way just fine.
But love is trust, right?
Love is taking your hands off the wheel just long enough for her to point left. Love is not asking if you could have taken a different way. Love is stalling at the intersection until she tells you when to go. Love is thinking: she’s not stopping me from driving—she’s just making sure I don’t crash.
And when we miss the sunset at the overlook, I smile and say, “Maybe next time,” because she says the road was too steep, too narrow, too risky in this kind of weather.
And when I get lost without her once—just once—I sit in the parking lot of a grocery store I’ve never seen, turn off the ignition, and cry.
Because there’s no one to tell me if it’s safe to pull out. No one to tell me if the lane is clear. No one to remind me what I was doing before I fell in love with her voice saying, “Go now. No—wait. Okay. Now.”
She doesn’t drive. But I don’t think I do, either.
INSTANT NOODLES 