The Last Ride. When freedom comes with a warning.
Story: S A Spencer
Maya held up her new driver’s license like a trophy. Her
smile stretched ear to ear, and her parents tried to match it—but theirs was
thinner, tighter, weighed down by something heavier than pride.
Her mother glanced at the group chat pinging on Maya’s
phone. One name stood out: Zane. Loud, impulsive, the kind of friend who
thought speed limits were suggestions and seatbelts were optional.
“You’re not just driving a car,” her father said, handing
her the keys. “You’re carrying lives.”
Maya rolled her eyes. “Relax, Dad. I’ve got this.”
The next morning, Maya met her friends at a petrol station
just outside town. The sun was bright, the playlist was loud, and the air
smelled like freedom.
Zane said. “Let’s see what this baby can do.”
Maya hesitated. She’d promised her parents she’d be careful.
But her friends were already piling in, laughing, filming TikToks. She didn’t
want to be the buzzkill.
She slid into the driver’s seat. The engine purred. Her
heart raced.
The road stretched ahead like a ribbon of possibility. Music
thumped through the speakers. Zane leaned forward from the back seat.
“Push it, Maya! You’re not a grandma!”
She laughed nervously and pressed the accelerator. The car
surged forward. Her hands gripped the wheel tighter. Her smile faded.
They passed signs, trees, curves. The speedometer climbed.
80. 90. 100.
A bend appeared. Too sharp. Too fast.
Headlights. Screeching tires. A scream.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Maya opened her eyes to white walls and fluorescent lights.
Tubes in her arms. Bandages on her forehead. A nurse leaned over her.
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
She tried to speak, but her throat was dry. Her parents
entered the room—eyes red, faces pale. Her mother clutched her hand. Her father
couldn’t look at her.
She didn’t need to ask. She knew.
Her friends didn’t make it.
Days passed in a fog. Maya stared at the ceiling, replaying
every moment. The laughter. The curve. The scream.
She remembered her dad’s words. Her mom’s worried eyes.
“I should’ve listened,” she whispered.
She looked at her reflection in the hospital mirror. Pale.
Hollow. Changed.
“I killed them.”
The Rewind
One night, the hospital monitor beeped backward. The IV
dripped in reverse. The nurse walked out of the room—backwards.
Maya sat up, confused. The walls shimmered. The scene
rewound like a video game glitching in reverse.
She saw the crash again—only this time, it unravelled. The
car backed up. The speedometer dropped. The laughter reversed. The petrol
station reappeared.
She was holding her learner’s license. Her parents were
smiling. Her phone pinged.
Zane: “Road trip after you pass?”
She screamed. “Stop!”
Maya jolted awake. Her room was dark. Her driving test was
tomorrow.
She sat up, heart pounding. Her phone buzzed again.
Same message. Same name.
She stared at it. Then deleted it.
She walked into the kitchen. Her parents were there, sipping
coffee.
“I’m taking the test tomorrow,” she said. “But I’m not going
anywhere fast.”
Her mother looked up, surprised. Her father raised an
eyebrow.
“I had a dream,” Maya said. “A bad one. But maybe it was a
good thing.”
Her parents didn’t ask for details. They didn’t need to.
Final Thoughts
We all chase freedom. The open road. The thrill of
independence.
But sometimes, the most important journey is the one we
don’t take.
Maya’s dream wasn’t just a warning—it was a gift. A second
chance. A glimpse into the cost of ignoring the quiet wisdom of those who love
us most.
Because the last ride doesn’t have to be the final one.
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