I already had the water hose with me. It was still in the trunk. I'd never gotten around to replacing it with the old, busted one at home, like I should've done weeks ago.
It’s strange, isn’t it? The things we overlook—dismiss as insignificant—somehow turn out to be the most essential in the end.
Do you ever wonder why that is? Why we don’t notice? Could it be a form of blindness, or is it just a lack of will? A denial? Or even entitlement?
Maybe it’s more like breathing—something we barely notice, always assuming it'll be there whenever we need it, appreciating it only after it’s already gone.
It feels almost selfish, doesn’t it? To only realize the value of something after the fact. What if we counted our blessings sooner? If we accepted that they're limited—not rightfully ours, but borrowed? Do you think that maybe, just maybe, when our last day inevitably arrives, when our final breath is spent, it won’t feel so much like a betrayal?
⏣⏣⏣
I carefully ease my car into the parking space, like I always do. I ensure to keep an even distance in between the lines on either side, despite the fact that no one else is around. I step out, scanning the lot, pausing a moment to cherish the silence. I gently close my car door, almost inaudibly, then pop the trunk.
The hose is longer than I remember—heavier too. Even the smell is stronger, probably from sitting in the heat for so long. I don’t mind it, though. There’s something so familiar about it—a distinct, almost nostalgic scent I can never quite place. Or maybe my mind was someplace else again—a habit that seems to happen more and more often these days.
I can barely even remember the drive here; small bits and pieces come to mind, tiny details, but nothing significant like the turns or what the traffic was like. It's mostly all a blur.
The only memories I seem to recall—vividly, at that—are the ones spent with a certain someone who once sat beside me in that little nook downtown—our secret paradise. I always look for it when I drive by, but I can’t remember if I passed it today. It usually pulls my eyes without fail.
My mind bursts with memories of endless days laughing over lunch, tracing the names carved into benches, tossing coins into the wishing well. Looking back, I regret not having wished for more. How could I have known? After all, I once thought my love was enough for the both of us—I thought my love was reciprocal.
I should have wished for more. For happiness, maybe? But I didn't. Instead, I had wished for truthfulness—for understanding. I'd wished for the gift of insight. I thought honesty was gold. I thought it could cure the world.
How foolish.
⏣⏣⏣
The coil of the hose banged against the bumper, yanking me out of my trance. I felt my face flush. I instantly begin apologizing for my inconsiderate disruption—for so rudely disturbing the peace. I wanted to cry, but drawing attention wasn’t an option. I needed to be completely alone for this to work.
I force a shy, friendly smile, subtly glancing side to side over my shoulder, but then I remembered: no one else was here—exactly as I’d planned. It didn’t save me from embarrassment, though. Tears well up in my eyes from the shame I felt over the sudden noise I'd caused.
I made sure to park far enough off the road that no one would easily see my car, but not so far that it would seem suspicious. People are less likely to ask questions if it looks like you just pulled over, right?
Until today, I'd never seen the underside of my car—or any car for that matter. Everyone else always made it look so easy, rolling beneath with an effortlessness, smiling like it was second nature. For me, crawling under my car was the hardest part, but I had to do it—the exhaust valve below the bumper is too wide to secure the hose into. I needed access to the smaller pipes underneath the car.
The metal was still hot from the drive. The heat singed my fingertips, but I didn’t stop. I pulled the hose tighter around the exhaust pipe, twisting it until it stretched just enough to stay in place. Then I crawled out and threaded it through the back window, leaving more than enough slack between each end.
I gave the hose a firm tug in both directions to ensure it held. The rubber edge scraped against the glass, loud enough to make me flinch, but I kept going. I grabbed an old jacket from the back seat and stuffed it into the window gap to seal it shut.
I stepped back to get a better view of my creative work of art, but I wasn't pleased. The jacket looked tacky all crumpled up in the window. It made my entire process appear rushed, as if it were some spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment idea. As if I'd been too careless to notice my own behaviors. I didn't want it to appear like I'd been in an altered state of mind—not thinking clearly, as though my decisions had been irrational—made without first weighing the reality of my actions.
I felt the familiar company of a frown take its rightful place upon my face—the only thing making me aware that I'd been smiling up until now.
I uncrumple the jacket, smooth out the creases, then shut the shoulders into the door frame, allowing the length to fall naturally over the outside of the car. I reroute the hose to snake through the jacket's sleeve, from the wrist, up through the neck, then in through the car window. I tie the sleeve around the hose to secure the airflow, then tuck the excess of the jacket in through the window, keeping the shoulders secure in the door frame.
"Perfect," I said through a choked laugh.
I circled once around my car, inspecting the exterior from top to bottom—everything had to be perfect. I couldn't have it any other way. I don't think that's a selfish wish, not just this once. I never got to make decisions on my own—everyone else always had a say, no matter the reason.
It was like nobody appreciated how I kept things so... tidy and organized. In truth, my fastidiousness came naturally to me, almost effortlessly; it was something I enjoyed wholeheartedly. Until, over time, it had evolved into being more like a chore than anything else. It had somehow become my job, like it was just expected of me. It ruined the delicate tenderness I'd once adored so dearly.
It wasn't long after that I started to feel like a stranger in my own home, my feelings ignored. I was just something to be stepped on, like a doormat; my pride trampled on with the door shut in my face.
They'd only noticed when I wasn't there.
What cut the deepest wasn’t just the lack of respect for everything I did—the crossed boundaries, the carelessness about what mattered to me—it was the thanklessness. That’s what hurt the most.
But not this time. This time it was all about me. I'll do this exactly how I desire, and I'll be sure to see it through, even if it's the last thing I do—well, since it's the last thing I'll do...
A hideous feeling of guilt swelled inside my chest, growing heavier the longer I acknowledged it. But why? I should feel elated, shouldn't I? I should be proud of myself—brimming with pride for my sudden onset of stewardship, for finally administering my own individuality.
Shouldn't I?
But I didn't—not in the least bit. I guess feelings of self-empowerment were only meant to be felt by normal people—people who actually matter.
Sometimes I wish that I could've mattered—to anyone, for anything at all—that I could've been someone who made a real difference in the world. But that's not the hand I was dealt; fate had other plans for me.
That's not so bad, right? Maybe I'm just looking at it all wrong, and it's actually me who's the lucky one after all. Maybe being a nobody is truly a blessing...a blessing in disguise, of course. Just a really, really good disguise. Or maybe I'm the special one that everybody else wishes they could be.
Someone like me.
Yeah... right. Like that would ever happen.
Liquid pity spills in a stream down my cheek. A gentle wind freezes the flow solid—tight and prickly. I don't bother wiping it away—just leave it there as punishment. Or as some kind of heart on my sleeve. That ought to teach me a lesson.
I take a deep breath, allowing this emotion to run its course, expending its energy. Then I release it back into the universe, reminding myself: it'll all be over soon.
I slip into the driver's seat almost as quietly as I'd arrived. I give my attention to the lake—to its abundant moats of glittering confetti, free as the sun dancing on the water. Its twinkling lights lure like a snare.
I habitually pull the seatbelt over myself, but I stop, burying my face in my hands as I release the belt. The noisy whipping and winding as it recoils sends a wave of shame through me. I could almost hear their mock, “What good would a seatbelt do for you?” I give myself an ounce of credit for not making a fool out of myself entirely.
I look up to see two waddling ducks. If I kept myself completely still, I could just make out the sounds of their quacking. Their delicate voices sounded harmonic, like they're in agreement with one another—so pure. Not a worry in the world.
I almost envy their strength—how they choose to carry on with their lives, despite the challenges of living in the wild.
They pause at the edge of the lake, exchange glances, flapping their wings in unison, before hopping onto the water's surface. I swear, I could almost see an outline of a vintage heart closing in around them as they faded from view.
I cross my arms over my chest, my hands over my heart. I close my eyes, smile, and then squeeze my arms into myself, savoring their moment. It felt like an obligation—respectfully. Not everyone is lucky enough to bear witness to such beautiful moments of true, authentic love.
What a shame.
I suppose that's my cue—my turn to fade away. Not in quite the same manner as the ducks, but close enough. We'd at least both be sharing the setting sun as the background to our happily ever after.
For a moment I felt completely at ease. I leaned back in my chair and listened to the silence one last time, then I reached for my keys. The turn of the key in the ignition felt natural in my hand; the rumble of the engine felt soothing. My mind instinctively painted pictures of a drive home. One that I suddenly realized wouldn't be happening.
That's when the overwhelming smell of car exhaust filled my nose. It made my stomach turn and my head spin almost immediately. I took a deep breath, trying to relax my nerves, only to find myself coughing in response to the fumes. My chest felt tight, my body instinctively rejecting the poison, while my mind screamed for calm.
I felt my arm reach for the door handle, fingers hesitant as they wrapped around the cool metal. The idea of fresh air was intoxicating—an escape so close, so simple. My thumb rested over the latch, almost pressing down. The smallest movement would be enough to let it all out, to let me out.
But I froze, gripping the handle harder, as if anchoring myself there. I held my breath as I reminded myself: this is what I wanted. This is what I planned.
I tightened my grip until my knuckles ached, grounding myself in the pain in order to silence the part of me still fighting for a way out.
My fingers loosened their grip on the handle, and I let my arm fall limp at my side. The thought of stepping out into the fresh air teased at my resolve, but I knew better. I leaned back against the seat, letting the vibrations of the idling engine pulse through me like a faint heartbeat. I closed my eyes and felt the heaviness settle over me—part dread, part relief.
The muffled tone of the engine became a lullaby, sweet and rhythmic. It reminded me of road trips as a kid, my forehead resting against the car window, watching the world blur past as I dozed off. Back then, the sound meant safety, comfort. Now, it was something else entirely.
Or was it?
The air became increasingly saturated, pressing against my lungs like a weighted hug. My thoughts began to untangle, quieter now, less frantic. Faces I hadn’t seen in years flashed in my mind—family, old friends, people I’d lost touch with. Would they remember me? Would they understand? I wanted to believe they would, but I couldn’t be sure. What they thought wasn’t up to me.
The ducks on the lake came to mind again, the way they moved in perfect harmony, their small lives free of doubt or hesitation. Maybe they didn’t have the answers either. Maybe they just… were.
I opened my eyes and watched the sun dip lower on the horizon, casting the lake in a golden light, like honey. The scene was so still, so perfect, that for a moment I think I forgot to breathe. I wanted to hold onto it, freeze it in time. But time, like everything else, wasn’t mine to control.
My hands found their way to my lap, palms up, as though waiting for something to fall into them. But nothing came. I gave a small, broken laugh—so quiet it was almost a sigh.
As the last rays of sunlight disappeared, I closed my eyes again. This time, I didn’t fight the stillness. My chest rose and fell with the rhythm of the engine, slower and slower, until it felt like I was part of the lake itself, part of the air, part of everything. Or maybe a part of nothing.
And I let go.
This story is NOT meant to glorify self-doubt or suicide. My intention is to encourage reflection.
Know there are always paths to healing.
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