I’m Always the One Still Standing
Rebel in the Garage, Building a Bike, While Everyone Else Disappears…
The garage smells like old gas, hot metal, and bad decisions.
Perfect.
I’m halfway under the frame with a wrench in my hand when I hear it again , that familiar sound of people leaving.
Not footsteps, exactly. More like energy. The vibe drains out of the room like someone pulled a plug. Conversations fade. Eyes slide away. Plans evaporate. Everybody suddenly “has to do something real quick.” Classic.
I don’t even look up. I just keep turning the bolt because the bike doesn’t care who’s dramatic today. The bike doesn’t need a pep talk. It doesn’t need reassurance. It needs torque and truth.
That’s why I like machines. They don’t lie. They don’t hint. They don’t passive-aggressively “circle back.”
They either run… or they don’t.
And me?
I’m always still here when the smoke clears.
I didn’t start building this bike because it’s cute. I’m not doing this for a “project aesthetic.” I’m not making content about it with soft lighting and a little inspirational quote about “the journey.”
No.
I’m building it because I want something that answers me when I speak to it.
You twist the throttle, it responds.
You neglect it, it punishes you.
You build it right, it carries you through hell.
That’s the kind of relationship I trust.
So there I am, hunched over, sleeves stained, hair tied back , and Lawless is supposed to be here “helping.” That’s what she said. Helping. Big word for someone who treats plans like suggestions.
She came in loud earlier, hopped up on chaos, acted like the garage was a stage.
“Rebel! I’m here. What do you need? I’m ready.”
Ready for what? A photo shoot?
Ten minutes later she’s climbing on a stack of tires like a raccoon with a caffeine problem, yelling about how she wants a motorcycle but not the boring parts. You know. The building. The work. The time.
Then her phone buzzed and she made that face people make when they suddenly remember they have another life they’re pretending to manage.
“Okay I’ll be back,” she says.
Sure. Back like a boomerang with commitment issues.
Rage showed up too, of course. She always shows up like a storm cloud with eyeliner. Walked in, scanned the garage, and immediately found something to be mad at.
“This place smells like somebody’s unfinished potential.”
I didn’t even argue. I just pointed at the frame.
“Hold that.”
She held it for exactly twelve seconds before her match went out.
I swear Rage takes it personal when fire doesn’t obey her. Like the flame is disrespecting her lineage.
She flicked it again. Nothing.
“Are you kidding me?” she said, offended, like the match owed her rent.
She flicked again. Still nothing.
Then she did what Rage always does when life refuses to cooperate , she stared at the match like she was about to fight it in the yard.
I told her, “It’s a match. It doesn’t fear you.”
She looked at me like I’d betrayed her.
Then she stormed out to find a new pack like the fate of the Realm depended on it. Which, in her mind, it does.
And Vex… Vex was here technically. She was sitting on an upside-down bucket like a little gremlin oracle, muttering to herself and drawing symbols on a trash can with a marker that definitely wasn’t supposed to be used for that.
I asked her if she could hand me the socket set.
She blinked twice like she just woke up in a different dimension.
Then she handed me a screwdriver.
Not even close.
But you know what? Vex is the only one who didn’t leave. She just drifted. Same area. Different planet.
So it’s not that I didn’t have company.
It’s that I still ended up doing the work alone.
Like always.
Here’s what nobody tells you about being the one who “handles it.”
People love you when things are hard.
They love your steadiness.
They love your calm.
They love that you don’t fall apart publicly.
They love it the way people love a generator in a blackout.
Useful. Necessary. Taken for granted.
Then when things get quiet, when the crisis is over, when the room isn’t on fire, when the adrenaline fades, they wander off.
Because you were never the event.
You were the infrastructure.
And infrastructure doesn’t get applause. It just gets used.
I used to wonder if I was doing something wrong. If I was too intense. Too blunt. Too… me.
But the older I get, the more I realize: people don’t leave because you’re too much.
They leave because they were only here for the moment, not the maintenance.
They wanted the spark, not the build.
The hype, not the bolts.
The story, not the sweat.
They wanted the “we should do this” feeling without the “we are doing this” discipline.
And me?
I don’t collect “we should.”
I build “we did.”
I tighten the last bolt and slide out from under the frame. My shoulders pop like they’ve been holding the world up since birth. Which… yeah. Accurate.
I wipe my hands on a rag and look at what I’ve got so far.
It’s not pretty yet.
It’s not polished. Not finished. Not ready for anybody to clap or comment “so proud of you!”
But it’s real.
And real is my favorite kind of progress.
The garage is quiet now.
No Lawless on a tire stack.
No Rage yelling at fire.
No Vex whispering spells into trash.
Just me, the bike, and the hum of a world that keeps moving whether anyone shows up or not.
I should feel lonely.
I don’t.
I feel… familiar.
Because this is the part I always end up in: the after. The cleanup. The building.
The part most people don’t post.
The part that actually creates something.
And honestly? I’m good here.
Sometimes I think people assume I don’t need anyone because I’m always still standing.
That’s cute.
I need people. I just don’t need people who vanish when the work starts.
I don’t need a crowd.
I don’t need hype.
I don’t need loud promises.
I need presence.
I need the kind of loyalty that looks like:
“Hand me the wrench.”
“I got it.”
“I’m still here.”
Until then?
I’ll keep building.
Because even if everybody disappears , even if the room empties out, even if the vibe drains, even if the plans die in someone else’s mouth ,
I’m still here.
And the bike’s going to run either way.
That’s the difference between being a moment…
and being the one who makes the moment possible.