Treehouse: He left his new car in the Midwest and never looked back

You know, I thought I'd miss the car more than I do.

Back home, it's still sitting in my parents' driveway. Brand new. Well, new to me—graduation gift, barely a year old. I didn't want to drive it all the way out here.

Didn't want to rack up the miles, deal with California traffic, risk something happening to it in some sketchy street parking situation. And honestly? Keeping a car out here is a whole different beast. Insurance, gas, parking—it's like they designed this place to bleed you dry. So I left it. Told myself I'd come back for it eventually, maybe next summer. But right now, I ride the bus.

And honestly? It's... different. Not good different, just—different. The 7:15 a.m. route smells like coffee and something sour I can't identify. There's this lady who gets on at the same stop as me every Tuesday and Thursday, always on her phone arguing with someone in Spanish. I don't understand a word, but I feel every ounce of her frustration. There's the guy who sits in the back and hums the same tune every single day—some old song I swear I've heard before but can't place. And then there are the conversations. God, the conversations. People just... talk. To strangers. About everything. Their jobs, their kids, the weather, politics, rent hikes, where to get the best tacos.

Back in the Midwest, you kept to yourself. You nodded, maybe. But you didn't just start talking to the person next to you about how your landlord's a slumlord or how your boss is screwing you on hours. Out here, it's like everyone's in this together, and the bus is where you process it all out loud.

It stresses me out sometimes, if I'm being honest. I'll have my headphones in—some playlist I've listened to a hundred times—eating chili cheese fries from the spot near campus, just trying to zone out between my shift and my 6 p.m. class. But I can still hear them, you know? Through the music. I can feel the weight of their words, the exhaustion, the hustle. It reminds me I'm not the only one grinding, but it also reminds me that I am grinding. That this is my life now. Deadlines stacking up, essays I haven't started, group projects with people who don't show up, trying to figure out financial aid forms that read like they're written in another language.

And then there's the apartment. Me and two guys I barely knew before we signed the lease. It's fine, mostly. Except when it's not. Like when someone doesn't pay their third of the utilities on time, or when the sink's been clogged for a week and nobody wants to call the landlord because we're all scared he'll find some excuse to raise the rent. Or when one of them eats my leftovers and I come home after an eight-hour shift and there's just... nothing. And I'm too tired to be mad, so I just grab a cheeseburger on the way home and eat it on the bus with my headphones in, watching the city blur past the window.

I could save up. Bring the car out here. Technically. If I really wanted to. Pick up more weekend shifts, budget harder, make it work. But honestly? I don't even know if I want to anymore. The bus is annoying, yeah. It's slow, it smells weird, it's crowded, and I'm always worried I'm gonna miss my stop. But there's something about it that feels... real. Like I'm actually in this place, not just passing through it in a bubble of glass and metal.

I don't know. Maybe I'm just trying to convince myself it's okay that I left it behind. Maybe I'm romanticizing the struggle. But when I'm sitting there, chili cheese fries in my lap, some random guy next to me talking about how he's been trying to get his GED for three years, and the bus driver yells back at someone to move to the rear... I feel like I'm part of something.

Even if I'm not sure what that something is yet.

-Just another guy on the bus