half-built roads

Today, I finally got my driver's license.

Most of my friends did their road tests last year, and I watched as they slipped into new versions of themselves one by one – the ones who could just get up and leave. They didn't have to wait for a ride or plan around someone else's schedule. They carried their independence in their pockets, dangling from keychains and lanyards.

I told myself I didn't care. That I wasn't in any hurry. That there were bigger things to worry about – and on some days, that felt true. But on other days – when my friends would drive off after school while I sat waiting for my mother like a dope – the feeling of contempt settled on me like dust. Light, invisible, but everywhere.

It's not the kind of thing you talk about. It feels stupid to complain about being late to something so ordinary. But then again, it feels as if obtaining that license is a key milestone of being a teen – it's all relative.

There's a loneliness in being late. Not just because you're behind, but because it makes you start wondering what else you'll be late for. If you're already falling behind now, at something so simple, what about everything bigger that's waiting ahead?

When I opened my results today, I didn't quite smile or pump my fist; I just sighed, exhaling a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

Maybe that's what being late does to you. It strips the glamour from the celebration. It makes you realize that sometimes the things you waited so long for are just... things: a laminated card; the freedom that everybody else already has; a little less needing, maybe, but not necessarily a little more living.

Nothing had changed, not really. The world hadn't been waiting for me to catch up. It kept moving without me. And now, I would have to find a way to move with it.