I don't want to drive alone.

I have always been terrified of my traffic-congested mind, the wait for motion, the stillness of time with no fresh view but a familiar grotesque blank wall. But with you, sitting comfortably (as if the chair is designed for your frame and this car is fated to you) beside me, I have found a new form of cowardice rooted in selfishness that I never knew I have.

I have always been anticipating words that I can finally sew together to form a dress of poem while I wait scornfully for the go signal. I hated stopovers meant to relax my legs because they are delays to my destination. A distraction that mocks me as I doubt my ability to continue again. I hated the red light.

But sometimes, like now, when I stare at the color I hated before, I hope that it won't blink to green. That you, despite being for everyone, will stay with me forever stuck in this pause (even if it means no closet for me).

I know that there are many drivers out there waiting for a passenger to direct the map out of limbo. A companion to turn the radio on just so silence won't embrace the car. A friend to tell tales of woe while the beeping of vehicles clamors outside. I know because I was one.

I hope I still am one.

I hope you don't realize (not yet) that my seatbelt is buckled now. My rear-view mirror is fixed with the right angle to see what's behind and beside my path. The wipers are already drying the windshield and my car has a cleaner smoke. As if it is new, as if it wasn't made from scraped old parts – of fear and doubts, of broken insecurities tasseled together just to seem whole.

I hate this pretense especially when all you did was guide me as I traverse the hiatus of my journey. All you did was help me overcome my shaking hands that can't hold the clutch or steer the wheel. You taught me to breathe when pollution was surrounding my car.

I am indebted to you.

Perhaps this is why once the light changes, I will remember you in every roadblock, in every slow down sign, in every enforcer who waves their hands. I will remember you in the permanent seat that you temporarily filled.

Right now, however, I am so frightened. I beg the light not to change color.

Not yet.