The Traffic Jam That Changed Everything

“Morning,” he said, handing me coffee and the bag.

I blinked at him. “Where are we?”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Got tired of waiting. After about an hour, I took the next exit. Figured we could take the back roads for a while.”

“Back roads?” I repeated. “So… we’re lost?”

“Not lost,” he said, that little half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Just… rerouted.”

Something about the way he said it made me laugh, even though I wanted to be annoyed. I sipped the coffee — surprisingly rich and smooth — and decided to let the rest of my irritation dissolve into the steam curling above the cup.

The roads we took that morning wound through quiet towns where the houses had peeling paint but tidy porches. Fields rolled out in gold and green on either side, and old barns leaned like they were whispering secrets to each other. I rolled the window down and let the cool air brush against my face. It was the first time in weeks I’d felt… light.

Eventually, hunger pulled us into a diner called “Milly’s.” The sign was so faded you could barely read it, but inside, the smell of coffee and frying bacon wrapped around us like a blanket. The waitress called us “honey,” and the pancakes were so fluffy they almost melted on the fork.

Back on the road, we drove in companionable silence until he said, “You remember Tom and Rea? From that wedding last year?”

I nodded.

“They moved out here. Rea told me to drop by if we were ever in the area.”

“That was almost a year ago,” I said.

“Still counts,” he replied.

An hour later, we were in their driveway, and before I could even knock, Rea was pulling me into a hug. Their home was modest but warm, with the smell of bread baking and the faint sound of a record playing in the background. What was supposed to be a quick coffee became three hours of conversation, a tour of their vegetable garden, and more laughter than I’d had in months.

On the way home, I stared out the window. “What if we did this more often?” I asked.

“What? Get lost?” he said.

“No,” I smiled. “Just… slowed down. Took random exits. Talked to people. Lived a little.”

That was the day it started.

We began taking unplanned drives — no maps, no GPS, just a full tank and curiosity. We found a lakeside café with grilled cheese that could cure any bad mood, an old bookstore that only accepted cash, and once stumbled upon a couple celebrating their 50th anniversary on the porch of a roadside motel. They told us about their first date, their worst fight, and how they still wrote love letters every year.

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