The road didn’t change, strangely enough, the further south that she drove. Same dash lights inside the car, and same songs on the radio, she’d switch stations and cities, but the songs stayed the same. Same gas station selling the same coffee, same bleary-eyed clerks working nightshift ready to take her money for a top up and a lousy cup.

She drank it black, he always remembered that. But he was gone now.

She thought about him as she drove, as the first stars appeared on the horizon, frosty air crashing through her window, and trying to stay awake; she thought of him. As the road bucked and turned and wrapped around bends real tight so she didn’t peek down for fear of driving off the hillside; she thought of him. And when the night air turned warm and heavy and the taste of the coast and palm trees met her lips; she thought of him again.

Miles ticked by and thoughts of him slowly disappeared, pieces left scattered along the roadside as she swept past; no longer wishing he was there, or dredging up memories of both of them together, but he faded, as thought lost in the great distances of time and space.

She drove into the night, and beyond, turning into something else. A person with no place, no time, only now.

Still, she drove, and the road didn’t change one bit, smooth asphalt gliding into darkness, always just out of reach of her headlights, she drove into it; and in doing so, she changed.

Into herself.


Carly Zee is a writer and thinker of strange things. Her work appears in Shot Glass Journal, Twisted Sister, and countless poems and prose pieces are scattered in around the web. You can connect with Carly through




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