The Never-Ending Road

I took the detour without thinking much. The highway was packed, and the alternate route seemed faster. I was directed to turn onto a twisting, narrow route by my GPS. On both sides were trees with low-hanging branches. The sun disappeared behind them.

The road stretched on. It twisted and curved but didn’t seem to lead anywhere. I passed an old gas station with rusted pumps. Its sign was strange, covered in symbols I couldn’t read. The lights above flickered weakly.

I thought it was just an odd stop. But an hour later, I passed it again. The same rusted pumps. The same flickering lights. The same unreadable sign.

My stomach sank. I checked the GPS. It showed the same road looping back on itself. I reset it, but nothing changed. “Recalculating,” it said, over and over again.

I kept driving.

The landmarks started repeating. A broken-down van with smashed windows. A billboard with peeling paint and unreadable words. An empty diner with a buzzing neon sign. I passed them again and again. They felt wrong, like they shouldn’t be there.

I stopped at the diner. There was nobody in the parking lot. The air inside smelt stale, like oil and mold. Dust covered the booths. The counter was cracked. But one table had a steaming cup of coffee, black, untouched.

I backed out of the diner and returned to my car. My heart pounded. The road ahead looked the same.

By the third day, I stopped trying to explain it. My phone had no signal. The GPS was blank. The landmarks were my only markers. But they weren’t comforting. They mocked me, reminding me I was stuck.

Then I saw another car.

It passed me going the opposite way. A pale blue sedan with its headlights off. The driver stared straight ahead. I waved, but they didn’t respond. Ten minutes later, I saw the same car again. Then again. The fourth time, I noticed something. The driver looked exactly like me.

The fifth time, it wasn’t just the driver. The passengers in the back seat were me, too. Every seat had my face. They all stared forward, emotionless.

I pulled over and stared at my hands. They didn’t look right. My skin was pale, almost translucent. Dark veins spread under the surface. I touched my face in the mirror. It rippled, like the reflection in a pool of water.

That night, the whispers started. I parked and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. Voices came from outside, soft and low. They spoke in the same strange symbols as the gas station sign. I looked out the window. The trees were full of shadows. Figures watched me from the branches.

I started the car and drove. The whispers followed. They filled the engine, the tires, and my head. I couldn’t escape them.

I have no idea how long I have been a driver. Even as the light rises, it appears the same. I passed the gas station again. This time, a man stood by the pumps, waving at me. His face was blank, smooth like polished stone.

I didn’t stop.

The road feels alive now. It shifts beneath my tires, breathing in and out. The trees lean closer, their branches scraping the car. Once, I tried turning around. The road looped back to the diner. The coffee was still steaming.

I don’t think there’s a way out.

In the glove box, I discovered a journal. It wasn’t mine, but I recognized the handwriting. It described everything—every landmark, every loop, every whisper. The last page had one line:

"When you realize you’re part of the road, it’s already too late."

My hands don’t look like my hands anymore. My face doesn’t feel like my face. I think I understand now. The road doesn’t want me to leave.

I am the road.

If you find this, don’t take the detour. Don’t trust the GPS.

And whatever you do, don’t stop driving.