The Daily Detour: Why I’m Always Early for Her and Late for Myself

My name is Julian, and my car is the only place where the world makes sense.

Living in Toronto means the morning commute is a battlefield of slush and snarled traffic. I live in the West End; my office is a five-minute walk from my front door. Yet, every morning at 6:30 AM, I am behind the wheel, driving forty minutes in the opposite direction to pick up Maya.

Logically, it’s a disaster. It adds two hours to my daily travel. It’s costing me a fortune in gas and wear-and-tear on a car I can barely afford to maintain. But logic has no seat in this vehicle. When I pull up to her curb and see her standing there, shivering in her pea coat with her coffee in hand, the inconvenience evaporates.

The Sacred Thirty Minutes

I’ve memorized the rhythm of our drive. I know exactly which potholes to avoid so she doesn't spill her drink. I’ve curated a playlist of "lo-fi beats" because she once mentioned that morning radio gives her a headache.

"You’re a lifesaver, Julian," she says as she climbs in, the scent of her vanilla perfume filling the small, enclosed space. "I don't know how I’d survive the TTC in this weather."

That’s my "high." That one sentence sustains me through the grueling hour of traffic I have to face alone after I drop her off. I over-analyze the way she rests her head against the headrest. Is she comfortable? Does she feel safe? I justify the fact that I’ve been reprimanded twice this month for being late to my own desk. My job is just a paycheck, I tell myself. This... this is my purpose.

The Passenger Side Ghost

The conflict hit me hardest this morning. It was snowing—a thick, grey blanket that turned the highways into parking lots. I had a flat tire halfway to her place. I changed it in the freezing slush, my fingers turning blue, terrified that I’d be late and she’d have to take the bus.

When I finally pulled up, ten minutes late and covered in road grime, she wasn't alone. A guy from her apartment building—someone she’d mentioned once as "the guy from 4B"—was standing next to her, laughing.

"Hey! You made it!" she said, hopping in. "I told Mark he could hitch a ride since we’re going the same way. You don't mind, right?"

I didn't mind. I couldn't mind. To mind would be to admit I wanted this time to be a sanctuary, not a carpool. Mark sat in the back, talking loudly about his weekend plans, while Maya turned around to face him, leaving me with only the back of her head.

I was the chauffeur for their conversation. I watched them in the rearview mirror—the way she laughed at his jokes, the way she seemed so much more alive than when it was just the two of us. I was the one who changed the tire in the snow; he was the one getting the smiles.

The Cost of the Commute

When I dropped them off at her office, Mark hopped out with a casual "Thanks, man," and Maya gave me a quick pat on the shoulder.

"See you tomorrow, Jules! You're the best!"

I watched them walk into the building together. I sat in the idling car, looking at the empty passenger seat. The floor mat was covered in the slush I’d brought in from fixing the tire. I realized then that I wasn't her partner; I was her utility. I was a reliable service, like the electricity or the water, something she used without ever wondering how it stayed running.

I drove the hour back to my office in total silence. I knew I’d get another warning from my boss. I knew my bank account was draining. But as I parked my car, I checked my mirror and saw a single strand of her hair on the passenger seat. I picked it up, carefully, as if it were made of gold.

She said I'm the best, I whispered. And just like that, I started planning exactly what time I’d need to wake up tomorrow to beat the snow.