My Car Thinks It’s the Main Character

My car and I have a complicated relationship.

I call it transport.

It calls me optional.

Every morning begins with negotiations.

I approach the door like a hopeful diplomat,

key in hand, confidence borrowed from coffee,

and my car sits there quietly,

pretending it didn’t hear me coming.

I unlock it.

It unlocks back—

but only spiritually.

The door sticks,

as if the car is asking,

“Are you sure you deserve entry today?”

Inside, the seat remembers a version of me

that no longer exists—

a posture from three years ago,

before life happened to my spine.

I sit down anyway.

The seatbelt sighs like an overworked employee.

Then comes the moment.

The ignition.

I turn the key.

The car pauses.

It thinks.

It reflects on its life choices.

Finally—

rrr-rrr-rrr

like it’s coughing up memories.

“Easy,” I whisper.

The car responds by turning on

a warning light shaped like pure anxiety.

No explanation.

Just vibes.

The dashboard lights up like a disco

nobody asked for.

Symbols flash—

an engine outline,

a tire with feelings,

something that might mean

good luck.

I pretend not to see them.

The car knows.

We pull onto the road,

and immediately my car develops opinions.

About speed.

About direction.

About my music choices.

I turn on a song I love.

The speakers crackle in protest,

transforming vocals into what sounds like

a robot arguing underwater.

At stoplights, my car idles dramatically,

revving slightly,

like it wants the other cars to notice it.

“Look at me,” it says.

“I still run.”

But not too well.

Never too well.

My car hates hills.

Flat roads are acceptable.

Downhill? A dream.

Uphill? A personal attack.

Climbing even the gentlest slope,

the engine groans like it’s carrying

emotional baggage,

student loans,

and a refrigerator.

Other cars zoom past confidently,

young, shiny,

unburdened by history.

My car watches them go

and whispers,

“Show-offs.”

On the highway,

my car vibrates at exactly 62 miles per hour—

not 61, not 63—

as if that speed offends it morally.

I grip the steering wheel,

pretending the shaking is “road texture”

and not my car screaming quietly.

Sometimes, without warning,

the air conditioner switches personalities.

One moment: Arctic blast.

Next moment: emotional support fan.

I adjust the dial.

The car ignores me.

“Don’t touch me,” it seems to say.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Narrator:

It does not.

Every sound my car makes

feels suspicious.

Is that a normal click?

Was that thump always there?

Why does it sigh when I turn left?

I listen closely,

diagnosing nothing,

panicking professionally.

When I google the noises later,

the internet says either:

It’s completely normal

or

Your car will explode immediately

There is no middle ground.

My car also enjoys embarrassing me in public.

It waits until parking lots—

crowded ones—

to make the loudest noise known to humanity.

SCREEEECH.

People turn.

Children point.

Somewhere, a mechanic smiles.

I nod politely,

as if I meant to do that,

as if this was all part of a plan.

Parallel parking is a full performance.

My car refuses subtlety.

It jerks.

It hesitates.

It rolls backward just enough

to test my faith.

The backup camera shows nothing useful,

just a blurry suggestion of reality.

The sensor beeps aggressively

when I’m still three feet away

from anything remotely dangerous.

“BEEP BEEP BEEP,”

it screams,

as if warning me about existence itself.

Yet when there is actual danger—

a curb,

a cone,

my dignity—

silence.

My car believes in character building.

Rain reveals another personality.

The windshield wipers move

at three speeds:

too slow,

too fast,

and possessed.

There is no perfect setting.

Only compromise.

The windows fog up instantly,

turning my car into a mobile sauna.

I press buttons at random,

hoping one of them summons clarity.

Instead, the radio turns on.

Loudly.

At night, my headlights illuminate

everything except

what I actually need to see.

Trees? Crystal clear.

Road signs? Sharp.

That one raccoon 40 feet away? HD.

The pothole directly in front of me?

Invisible.

When my car needs gas,

it doesn’t politely inform me.

It panics.

The fuel light turns on

with the urgency of a disaster movie.

The range display drops dramatically,

like it’s offended I waited this long.

“40 miles left,” it says.

Then immediately,

“Actually… 18.”

I promise to stop soon.

The car does not believe promises.

Despite everything,

there are moments—

quiet moments—

when my car behaves.

Late-night drives.

Empty roads.

Soft music that even the speakers tolerate.

The engine hums evenly,

no warning lights flashing,

no strange smells,

no drama.

In those moments,

I almost trust it.

Then it makes a noise.

But still—

this car has been there.

Through bad days,

long drives,

missed turns,

and unexpected life detours.

It has carried groceries,

dreams,

regrets,

and that one box I’ve meant to return

for months.

It may be dramatic.

It may be stubborn.

It may have a warning light

that has become permanent décor.

But it starts—

eventually.

And every time I turn the key,

despite everything,

we agree on one thing:

We’re going forward.

Probably making noise.

Definitely together.

And honestly?

For a car with attitude,

bad timing,

and a flair for chaos—

It’s still my car.

Even if it thinks

it’s the main character. 🚗😄