Along For The Ride

FEATURE | WRITING | ANAMATA / THE FUTURE

Written by Anonymous | Contributing Writer

‘What if you hate me?’ she asks playfully, pacing while on the phone with a stranger. ‘And what if you hate me?’ he asks in return, matching her energy.

So in the spur of the moment, she says yes, thinking, what’s the worst that could happen?

He picks her up from the train station, getting out and opening the car door for her. The ride is tentative - small talk filling the spaces where silence would say too much.

She begins to judge. Not out of malice, but more so human nature. His jeans are a little too skinny, and he's sporting ugly hiking boots. She’s in a button-up shirt and loafers, her eyebrows freshly done, makeup applied a few hours before so it has time to settle. The kind of effort that says I tried, but not too hard. Following him into the restaurant, she mentally rehearses how she’ll turn him down nicely after dinner.

They sit down, both confident yet cautious, characters playing personalities. He’s polite; she’s composed. Then the universe intervenes. A hair in her food. The surface tension between them breaks. Life’s way of saying imperfect can still be good.

She laughs harder than she has in months. He chuckles too, admiring how she remains poised, even through belly-aching laughter. Suddenly, the hiking boots aren’t so bad, and his smile is contagious.

Fast forward a month. They know each other’s coffee orders. They eat Indian food with their hands, sharing from the same plate. Occasionally she reaches over to feed him - in the same way she has seen her mother and grandmother do. It’s a gesture of care that runs in her blood, transcending generations.

They seldom talk about the past; they don’t want to look back. But sometimes they talk about the future. Not in the grandiose, cinematic way people do when they’re trying to prove something, but in fragments. Plans for the summer. A flat with a good kitchen.

He’s humorous and carefree, but never careless. The kind of person people take seriously. She’s driven and strong, but secretly kind at heart. To everyone else, she’s ‘girl boss’. These days, she comes home to be called love - a word that still startles her in its gentleness.

He gets home early. She walks in later, tired but glowing with eagerness to see him. They meet in the middle, always. She sits on his lap, recounting her day in a disarrayed chronology, and he listens. There’s something grounding about the peace she feels with him. It provides for her more than money ever could.

They both come with their own manifestos and ambitions that spill over - individual visions of what life should be. Yet here they are, in this small apartment, finding something bigger than both of them, something that doesn’t fit into their ‘life plan’.

Everything he does is intentional, even when he knows it scares her. He likes her and shows it through the little things: picking her up after a long day, grabbing her favourite snack on the way home, and making sure she doesn’t have to lift a finger. Her safety and her comfort have been added to his list of priorities.

He dreams ahead: of travel, a home, a future where they grow together. But he never says it too loudly. Hope, he’s learned, is fragile. A thing to never be rushed.

She doesn’t like making plans. To plan means to have something to lose. But slowly, she starts leaving things at his flat - a toothbrush, hair ties, her traditional nightgown. Everyone says it screams ‘auntie’, but he understands her: the way she feels graceful and reconnected to her roots. These little traces of herself aren’t accidents. They’re a quiet declaration: I belong somewhere.

When she talks about the future, it sounds like she’s trying to make peace with it. She craves control and is scared of uncertainty. But when she’s with him, uncertainty feels softer. Almost bearable.

They have their off days. He wants to explain his reasoning because he cares; she worries he’s misunderstanding her. He fears she’s not who she seems to be. She fears he’ll change for the worse.

Some evenings they sit in a restaurant, not laughing this time but tenderly bickering over silly things that somehow reveal everything - values, boundaries, pride. Yet it’s never the kind of fight that breaks them. Just small reminders that they are two people learning how to fit, how to stay.

There are nights she goes home wondering if he belongs in her future. And some nights they speak on the phone for hours, envisioning something unbreakable, if only they get it right.

That’s the thing about love - it always starts easy. Then come the questions: Will it last? Is it going to work out? They think about it too much. Everyone does. The fear of a broken home before it’s even been built.

But maybe there’s no finish line, no safety net. Maybe love isn’t something you can ever be certain about; it’s a series of choices strung together. It’s holding your breath when you realise how much you care. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She voices her fears about it. “We can wait together for the rest of our lives,” he tells her one evening. She smiles, almost believing him - as if his words could quiet the noise inside her.

There’s some kind of relief in knowing not everything has to be decided. The unknown isn’t to be feared; it’s something to look forward to. They are just two people trying to understand one another - raw, hopeful, a little awkward at times - choosing to accept what is, not what could be.

There’s no crystal ball, no blueprint. All he can do is keep picking her up from the train station, a different one this time - one that’s better for them both. The car rides are no longer tentative; they now know when to laugh and when the silences speak comfort. Together, they sit back, hold on - not for dear life, but onto each other - and go along for the ride.