Traffic Jam
Horns blared like a choir without a conductor. Cars stood completely still under the afternoon sun that seemed reluctant to set. The clock on the dashboard read 5:45 p.m., and Arga knew one thing for certain: he was late again.
He let out a long sigh and rolled down the window. Hot air mixed with dust slipped inside, carrying the smell of asphalt and the frustration of people trapped on the same road. Beside him, an online motorcycle taxi driver slapped his handlebar in anger. Ahead, a mother shouted at her crying child. Everyone had somewhere to go, but the road refused to let anyone move.
Arga’s phone vibrated.
Maya: “Where are you? The event is about to start.”
He stared at the screen for a moment. He wanted to answer honestly: I’m stuck. But the words felt like a tired excuse. He typed briefly, “On the road. Traffic jam.”
Traffic jam. A simple phrase, yet lately it felt like a summary of his life.
For the past two years, Arga’s life had felt like a highway during rush hour — crowded, slow, and uncertain when it would ever move again. The job he once dreamed of had turned into routine. His relationship with Maya was often stalled too, filled with awkward pauses like red lights that lasted too long.
The traffic light in the distance finally turned green. But nothing moved. Arga laughed softly, bitterly. Green didn’t always mean go.
He turned off the engine. For the first time that afternoon, the moment felt quieter. The horns were still there, but he no longer cared. He opened the car door and stepped out, standing among frozen vehicles. People looked at him strangely, as if he had broken an unwritten rule: stay still and wait.
Arga looked up at the sky, now painted orange. He thought about Maya, about promises constantly postponed, about a life he kept living without ever truly choosing.
Then he got back into the car, started the engine, and made a small but real decision. He turned the steering wheel left, taking the first open exit, leaving the main flow behind.
His phone vibrated again.
Maya: “If you’re tired, it’s okay not to come. I just want you to be honest.”
Arga smiled. His car was finally moving — slowly, but surely.
For the first time, he didn’t feel stuck in traffic. He was simply choosing a different road.
