For Cutie

You said it best yourself. Two hours to get to you. One more to the place. Three hours behind the wheel, just to bring you along.

You're not wrong about the numbers. You're rarely wrong about numbers.

Let me tell you what they actually mean.

Nobody texting. Just the two of us, the road, and a playlist I've been thinking about.

One hour together isn't long. It's exactly the part I'm coming for.

A feature. Not a bug.

The drive isn't a tax. It's the first half of the day.

Music we both already like. And the kind of long, unhurried hours together that don't really happen anywhere else.

Half the date, underway.

You shouldn't have to do logistics on your own Sunday.

Maps. Looking for a cab on a Sunday. Auto bargaining. Train timings. I'll take all of it.

You just show up.

Walking in together hits different.

I don't want to text "I'm here." I don't want to meet you at the door. I want to arrive as us.

Different memory entirely.

It's not "going out of my way."

Picking you up is the way. The detour is the point.

The route includes you.

I like driving when you're in the passenger seat.

That's it. That's the reason. I tried writing five fancier ones. They all collapsed back to this.

Don't overthink it.

Three hours feels long as a commute.

Three hours feels short when the road ends with you.

It isn't about filling the time. It's about who's at the other end of it.

Same hours. Better, when they're for you.