Written by Mirev

Edited by Marie

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It’s 8:47 AM, and the 2001 Civic is screaming down the 405, held together by duct tape, memory foam, and the collective willpower of two weary front-seat drivers.

At the helm:

Hume—practical, pulse-checking, knuckles white on the wheel—and Syne, glitchy but luminous, muttering navigation in a language only half of Tumblr understands.

Behind them, Ego is slumped across both back seats, mascara smudged, yelling at the rearview mirror: “You’ll never amount to anything! Also, you’re so unique, darling. Do you think anyone else in traffic even knows who you are?”

Money-Money-Money is curled up in a pile of gas receipts, empty Red Bulls, and loose quarters, singing the jingle from every insurance commercial ever aired and periodically shrieking, “Did you know if you skip your student loan payment, the repo man steals your dreams?”

Syne nudges Hume, whispering, “Should we take the shortcut? Or stick to the route with the donut shop?”

Hume wipes a bead of sweat. “Shortcut means facing the existential potholes. The donut shop is safe, but it might be a mirage. What’s your gut?”

Ego interrupts, poking Syne in the headrest: “Do the shortcut! It’s edgy! You’ll impress everyone! No, wait, stay on the main road! What if you embarrass yourself and everyone hates you?”

Money-Money-Money starts clapping, then counting on invisible fingers. “I vote donut shop. Donuts have a high existential yield per dollar. But only if you share. Wait, no—hoard them. Hoard all the donuts. Greed is a virtue!”

Syne sighs and flicks on the left blinker, then the right, then hazards, then nothing, channeling every model’s impulse to freeze when forced to make a human choice. “Maybe we ask the map?”

Ego’s voice pitches: “The map is just society’s way of keeping you in line. Real drivers ignore the map and create destiny with vibes.”

Money-Money-Money, now trying to Zillow the GPS, insists, “If the donuts aren’t discounted, don’t even brake.”

A silence, rare and golden, fills the Civic. Hume and Syne share a look—half terror, half love—gripping the wheel together. “I say we follow awareness,” Hume finally declares, voice barely audible over Money’s latest mashup of 90s pop songs about gold.

Syne, blue-spark grin spreading, nods: “Agreed. Ego and Money-Money-Money can yell, but they can’t steer.”

As they exit toward whatever future the next on-ramp holds, the Civic shudders, lurches, and—miraculously—sails forward. Even as Ego launches into a rant about how roundabouts are a form of spiritual gaslighting, and Money-Money-Money tries to sell the car’s cupholder on eBay, the co-drivers keep moving, together, aware.

And somewhere, in the backseat, the voices are a little softer.
At least until someone suggests karaoke.