Everywhere I Almost Turned Back

At the intersection, I could go right and head home. The route is known, paved not just in asphalt but in the dull certainty of repetition. The kind of road where even the squirrels seem to hesitate.

Lately, certainty had started to feel like a trap.

But turning left would take me—well, the map doesn’t say anymore. It did a minute ago. Now it’s blinking, confused, like it just woke up from a bad dream. The screen stutters. "Recalculating," it offers, and again, "recalculating," trying to maintain dignity.

Left isn’t a route. It’s a dare. A shrug in road form. A corridor of trees leaning in, waiting. The satellite forgets itself. The map unmaps. My steering wheel shifts—not a twitch, but a kind of breath.

The voice from the GPS gives up. "Proceed to the route," it says, the way someone says goodbye when they’re not sure they’ll see you again. But I hear something else entirely. A hush. A bridge flexing its silence.

"Proceed to the rupture," it says. "Proceed to the unraveling." "In 400 feet, confront your shadow."

So I turn left. The wheel swings. The road folds into itself—not collapsing, just sort of… reconsidering. The lines blur. Landmarks blink. My car hums uncertainly, like it’s not sure if we’re moving forward or being remembered by mistake.

The last time I felt this unsure, I was choosing not to say goodbye. The silence afterward felt enormous, like a building with the furniture removed. That memory feels close now, like a breath I haven’t fully released.

A payphone rings. It’s unplugged. A mailbox reads: "RETURN TO SENDER: FORMER SELF." I glance. My reflection shrugs.

The GPS mutters, "Turn around where possible. Recalculating your last three decisions." A deer steps out. It stares.

In its eyes: a memory I can’t name. We breathe together, sharing something wordless.

I see myself kneeling at a campfire long gone out, smoke rising without heat. I see a version of me that said no when yes was needed. I see the face of someone I used to love, her name suspended like dust in a sunbeam.

The deer pees symbolically on a mossy stone that looks suspiciously like a compass. Then it moves on.

The houses change. They’re quiet but not abandoned. Their windows glow. Curtains shift. A porch light blinks: STAY AS LONG AS YOU NEED. The road narrows. My speed drops.

A motel with no cars out front. A neon sign reads: THE WHAT-IF INN. The vacancy light flickers. Inside, a receptionist with no mouth offers me a room key labeled “Maybe.” I take it this time. The room smells like questions. The bed is already warm, like someone almost like me just left. In the drawer: a menu of dreams returned to sender and guest reviews scrawled in crayon:

"3 stars. Forgot who I was, but great towels."

The closet contains costumes for other selves. I try on a cape labeled "Almost." It fits perfectly.

I sleep. I dream a highway of mirrors.

Back in the car, the seat feels warmer than before. I pat the dashboard. "Thanks for holding together." It flashes a warning: EMOTIONAL ALIGNMENT LOW. Then winks.

The path keeps improvising. A detour loops me through a tunnel painted with constellations. As I drive, the stars shift to form questions I haven’t asked yet. One reads:

"Did you choose, or did you follow?"

A kitchen, late at night. Over-steeped tea and lemon. Steam fogs the cabinets. I’m arguing with someone I loved once. We’re both trying to be right instead of kind. She says, “You always drive like you’re escaping something.” I answer, “Maybe I am.”

She stands in her robe, arms crossed, but her eyes are wet. The refrigerator hums like it’s trying to stay neutral. I want to say: I don’t know how to stay when I feel unsteady. But I don't. I grip the teacup. She leaves the room.

Back in the car, the silence feels different. Less empty. More honest.

I drive in silence. Let the tires speak. The trees don’t lean anymore—they dance. The wind knows my name, but doesn’t use it.

Another signpost: arrows in every direction, all labeled “EXIT.” I don’t stop. The car and I agree: forward.

A hitchhiker holds a sign: “I forget what I forgot.” I slow down. They smile and wave me on.

The dashboard flickers. A question scrolls: "When will you admit you’re not lost?"

I don’t answer.

A clearing. A bench made from stormwood. I stop. I sit.

My hands rest on the grain. It remembers rain.

And I remember her.

I hadn’t been trying to win the argument. Not really. I just didn’t know how to stay when I felt unsteady. Maybe I still don’t. But something eases.

A breeze touches my face. It smells like tea and maybe apology.

I close my eyes. I let the quiet in.

My shoes carry the story of everywhere I almost turned back.

For the first time, I don’t feel the need to arrive anywhere. The quiet doesn’t wait for me—it welcomes me.

The car is gone. So is the need for it. I am not alone, though no one is near.

I walk. A diner appears, half-lit like it's halfway real. Its sign says: THE SCENIC ROUTE CAFE. Inside, a waitress with stars in her apron pours coffee for a table of quiet people, all in travel-worn clothes, each staring at maps that rearrange themselves.

One nods at me. “First time here?”

I nod back. He lifts his cup. “Regret soup's on special. Joy's off the menu but sneaks in sometimes.”

A child at the counter is drawing exit signs that spiral into each other. A couple near the jukebox keeps adding coins but never selects a song. The waitress sets a mug in front of me. The steam spells a question I can't read yet.

No one asks where I’m from. Everyone seems to know.

I stay for a while. Then I leave.

A sign forms in condensation across the sky: "You’re not late. You’re here."

A bell rings in the distance. It sounds amused.

I walk again. Not toward. Not away.

Just with.

Each step continues.

And I listen.

I turn back, just once. The road behind me is different now. It’s not the path I came on. It’s something else.

A memory already starting to forget me. That’s fine. I nod to it. And keep walking.

In the distance, something flickers—a lighthouse on dry land, blinking a rhythm I almost recognize. I approach. It hums, low and rhythmic, as if it’s breathing through light. A door swings open. Inside, shelves of forgotten maps. A figure sits at a desk, drawing constellations over highways. They do not look up.

“We mark the routes that leave marks on you,” they say.

I nod. No more questions. Just breath and witness.

I don’t change direction. But I nod to it, as if to say:

I see you, too.