We were about thirty miles past nowhere.

I was just minding my own business,

sitting in the passenger seat like a proper wife—

translation: eating snacks and offering unsolicited navigation advice—

when I saw it.

The Road.

Not just a road—the road.

That long stretch of dirt that looked like it had a memory longer than my own.

A road that looked like it had a story worth flirtin’ with.

The kind of road that made me suck in my breath, pat my chest, and shout,

“STOP THE TRUCK!”

He sighed—long, deep, familiar.

One of those sighs that says, I love you, but not again.

But he stopped anyway.

Because he always does.

I stepped out,

boots hittin’ gravel like they had somethin’ to prove.

My hair doing its own thing,

my knees crackling like bubble wrap,

and my heart absolutely wrecked by the view in front of me.

The wind was blowing steady, not hard.

Just enough to let you know the land was still breathin’.

I stood there for a minute.

Didn’t take a picture right away.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked.

That road stretched out in front of me—

unpolished.

Unapologetic.

Honest.

Didn’t need signs or streetlights.

Just presence.

And as I stood there, wind tugging at my blouse,

I thought about all the places I’ve gone,

all the people I’ve left,

and all the moments I almost missed

because I thought I had somewhere better to be.

Not this time.

This time,

I stopped.

I looked.

I lingered.

And then I finally raised the camera

and got the shot.

I walked back to the truck,

climbed in, crossed my legs,

adjusted my lipstick in the mirror,

and said,

“That road was handsome.

You’re lucky I didn’t kiss it.”

Because sometimes, the road doesn’t need to go anywhere fancy.

It just needs to be real.

And that’s enough.

But I swear—

as we started to pull away,

that road gave me a little wave.

A wink.

A whisper

that only I know.

— Still growing

Photography & Words: Teresa Reyes Cruz