I stood in the driveway at dawn. Cup empty. Pajamas still on. Just looking. The car stared at me. Smug, probably. 100% charged. Zero notifications. Not a single “Trip planned” whisper from the app. It didn’t need me anymore. And honestly? I didn’t need it either. But letting go? That’s another story.
Unloading a Tesla is not like ditching a Civic. Only Used Tesla This thing remembers you. Keeps your playlists. Burns your retinas with its glowing screen. You don’t just offload it. You sever ties. With official docs. And lingering feelings.
First move: Tesla’s trade-in portal. Felt easy. Simple. Type in VIN, add pictures, wait for digital hug. Got offer. Snorted. Then looked twice. Nope. They insulted me like I was selling junk at a flea market. Offer was less than my brother paid for his used dirt bike. And that thing has no brakes.
So I took matters into my own hands. Listed it on every platform that wouldn’t ask for my firstborn. Facebook Marketplace. EV forums full of people who speak fluent kWh. A classified site that still uses 90s web design. Title: “Tesla Model 3 LR – Fast, Clean, Slightly Haunted.” Posted inside shots. One of the car under wet streets. Looked like a movie scene. Or like it was depressed.
Messages flooded in.
“Can I pay in Fortnite skins?”
“Does it come with free Supercharging forever?” (Spoiler: not a chance. Especially not free charging.)
“My psychic says it’s haunted by Elon’s ego. Confirm?”
One guy came a long way to see it. Wore giant headphones… to the test drive. Said he wanted to “truly hear nothing.” Drove a short loop. Nodded. Offered way below market. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas on the road.” Left without removing the headphones. Weird? Yes. But also expected.
Then came Marta. Cool. Straightforward. Brought her pro. Not a friend who likes cars. An actual certified tech with opinions about charging behavior. They checked the data. Mumbled things like “Ah, 8.2% degradation… within tolerance.” Felt like an inquest into my ego.
Negotiation was civil. Almost gentle. Like grown-ups still walk the earth. We landed close to my number. She asked if I’d leave the floor mats. “They’re not mine,” I said. “They came with the car.” She smiled. “Exactly.”
Paperwork finished over coffee. E-signed. Payment cleared instantly. Faster than my breakfast. I removed the key from my app. Car beeped once. Its last word.
Walked home. Took the public transport next day. Felt jarring. Human. Missed the silence? Sometimes. Mostly miss the lane-keeping in gridlock. But hey—no more $1,400 tire replacements. No more showing newbies how to pop the frunk.
Turns out, selling a Tesla isn’t about numbers. It’s about accepting that dreams change. And that’s okay. Some ghosts deserve a new home.