The Night Drove Itself

Confessions hidden within playful words

He was too drunk to walk straight,

too drunk for excuses or explanations.

So I guided him gently to the passenger seat,

buckled him in like it was second nature,

and started the engine.

I didn’t say much—

just drove.

Normally, my Cayman loves attention,

roaring through empty streets,

loud and defiant.

But tonight, I drove carefully.

Slow enough to soften the engine’s usual growl,

gentle enough to keep him asleep.

He leaned back,

eyes closed, lips slightly parted,

arms relaxed,

vulnerable in a way that pulled softly at my chest.

I didn’t want to disturb him.

Or the fragile peace holding us both.

After a while, unable to help myself,

I quietly asked,

“Why did you drink so much?”

Eyes still closed, his voice was faint,

but clear enough to hear every word:

“Because you were there.”

I didn’t respond—not aloud, at least.

After another quiet moment, I dared to ask:

“Do you think…

I have the power to hurt you?”

He hesitated,

but finally, calmly:

“You do.”

We stopped at a red light.

Slowly, he opened his eyes,

turned slightly,

leaned in—

his kiss gentle yet firm,

tasting faintly of beer and lingering sweetness.

He pulled back, murmuring playfully:

“Wait—does this count as drunk driving?”

I laughed softly,

leaning back to kiss him deeper,

ignoring the question entirely.

I drove on, heart quietly racing.

“Don’t go home tonight,” I whispered.

He paused.

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere,” I said quietly.

“As far as I’ll let you?” he asked softly.

“Yes.”

“Lingang far, or Songjiang far?”

“Which one is farther?”

“Lingang.”

“Then take me there,” I said, looking over.

He smiled,

a soft curve that blurred lines—

was it the alcohol speaking,

or the quiet truths he kept hidden?

I pulled up to his gate,

watched silently as he disappeared inside.

But I didn’t drive straight home.

Instead, I let my Cayman roar to life,

driving aimless loops around sleeping streets,

finally giving the car the release it craved,

finally feeling something inside myself loosen too.

Eventually, my phone lit softly.

“Got home safe. Going to sleep. Thank you for the ride.”

I heard his voice clearly in my head,

steady and gentle.

I like seeing him unguarded,

the easy intimacy he allows when drunk.

But this quiet, sober version of him—

careful, thoughtful, and always controlled—

I might like even more.

And yet, the truth remains:

I still can’t tell

which one is truly him.