The Mechanic Who Fixed Everything but Himself – Part 1: “Idle Engines, Heavy Hearts”

I’ve always said machines are easier than people.

People lie. Machines break but at least you know why.

Underneath this half-dead car, with oil dripping like blood and the exhaust still warm, I feel peace. It’s the only place I don’t have to pretend I’ve got my life figured out. No fake smiles. No fake plans. Just rust, tools, and the rhythm of doing something right.

They say I’m good with my hands. Maybe I am. I can rebuild an engine from scratch, fix a wiring short in minutes, and get a seized piston moving like it’s brand new. But I can’t seem to fix the mess inside me.

This garage isn’t just a workplace it’s my hiding place. I show up here late, after the world has gone quiet. I bring a thermos of chai, some old music in the background, and I work until my mind stops yelling. Most people don’t understand. They think I love cars more than life. They’re not wrong. But it’s not just love it’s survival.

A few years ago, life flipped on me. One day I had a father who laughed with his mouth full, and the next, I had silence at the dinner table. He was the one who taught me everything. How to listen to engines like they were talking. How to never guess diagnose.

He always said, “Beta, machines don’t lie. That’s why I trust them.”

That line stuck with me. Especially now, when trusting people feels like tightening a bolt on a cracked thread it’ll hold for a while, but it’s already doomed.

I still remember that night. Rain hammering the tin roof. Me, 17, crouched under my dad’s old Civic, trying to fix a stubborn starter. He stood there with that proud, tired smile, watching me struggle.

“You’re gonna build your own garage someday,” he said. “Just don’t forget to build yourself too.”

I smiled back. I didn’t know then that life would start tearing me down before I even got the chance.

The bell above the garage door jingles. I slide out from under the car and see her.

She’s holding keys, wearing a worried look, and standing next to a beaten-up Suzuki Alto that coughs like a sick dog.

“I think the clutch is gone,” she says.

I nod, motioning her inside. As I lift the car on the jack, I catch her watching the cluttered wall of tools, spare parts, and old posters. There’s an awkward silence, but I don’t mind. I’m used to things being quiet.

“It’s your place?” she asks, curious.

“Not yet,” I reply. “I just work here. Saving up to open my own shop one day.”

She smiles faintly. “That’s cool.”

Her eyes say more than her mouth does. Tired. A little lost. Familiar.

I get to work. The car’s clutch cable is worn and barely hanging on. Simple job, but my hands move slowly, distracted. I don’t know why, but something about her reminds me of someone I used to know. Someone I never really got to say goodbye to.

As I twist the final bolt, I feel it that ache in my chest I’ve learned to ignore. Not physical, not medical. Just… emptiness.

Some nights, I think about giving up. Selling all this junk. Getting a 9-to-5 where nobody expects dreams out of me. But every time I’m about to quit, I hear my father’s voice in my head. That calm confidence. That belief.

“You’re not broken, beta. You’re just not done being built.”

Maybe that’s my real motivation. Not just fixing cars.

But proving to myself that I’m still worth fixing too.

“It’s done,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag. “Try the clutch now.”

She presses the pedal and starts the engine. It purrs like it’s thankful. Her face lights up.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she says.

I smile, but it’s thin. “Just a mechanic.”

“No,” she says. “You fixed something that felt unfixable.”

I watch her drive away, the taillights disappearing into the night.

The silence returns. I look around the garage my little battlefield of bolts, tools, and dreams taped together with hope. I grab my chai, now cold, and sip it anyway.

Funny… I can fix anything. Except what’s in here.

I tap my chest once, then reach for another broken thing to work on.