Chaos thrives on the feeling that no one is in charge, that every move is a gamble. But at that bare, unsignposted T-junction, the world is not as wild as it seems. Beneath the panic, a single rule governs everything: the car already moving along the main road goes first. No matter who is late, no matter who is desperate, the flow decides. Everyone else waits, breath held, hands tense, stories paused at the curb.
Then, slowly, space appears. The main road loosens its grip, and the waiting drivers come back to life. They edge forward, searching for gaps, reading each other’s faces through glass. A nod. A raised hand. A tiny, almost invisible agreement: “You now, me next.” In that quiet exchange, fear gives way to rhythm. What felt like danger becomes coordination. What looked like chaos reveals itself as a rough, fragile kind of trust.
