Still Here, Still Mine

I drive a 1998 Toyota Celica.
The exhaust is loud, the paintwork’s got some overspray, and most people would probably tell me it’s time to move on.

But I love that car.

Not in a flashy way. Not in a nostalgic way either.
In a real way.

Because she’s still here.
She’s still mine.
And she’s still carrying me, even when everything else feels uncertain.

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I only use her for short trips — quick runs here and there.
But when I’m behind the wheel, there’s this strange sense of… freedom.

Not because she’s perfect.
But because she’s unapologetically imperfect.

There’s no pretending. No mask. No performance.
Just an old engine, a loud exhaust, and a little bit of joy.

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She’ll go in for her MOT next month.
Maybe she’ll pass, maybe she won’t. But if she does — I’ve decided to fix up the clear coat.
Not to make her perfect. Just to say thank you.

Because this car — as old and loud and slightly rebellious as she is — has stayed.
And in a life where so many things have fallen away, that matters.

She doesn’t need to be impressive.
She just needs to be herself.

Kind of like me, really.

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Let me know if you’d like to add a photo, a quote, or a follow-up piece after the MOT. This post could live beautifully as a soft pause in your soul-year series.