I lingered by the curb. Arms crossed. Coffee forgotten. The car just sat there. Not moving. Fully charged. Smug, probably. It didn’t need me. And I didn’t need it anymore. But saying goodbye? That’s harder than describing blockchain to your dad.
Selling a Tesla isn’t like getting rid of a minivan with duct-taped doors. onlyusedtesla.com This thing knows your commute. Maps your moods. Silently shames your speed. It’s not a car. It’s a robotic partner with memory.
First move? Tesla’s official trade-in page. Felt clean. Professional. Type in VIN, upload photos, wait for digital handshake. Got offer. Stared. Blinked. Checked my eyesight. Offer was smaller than a pawn shop TV deal. And that thing barely runs.
So I went rogue. Listed it on Reddit threads full of EV nerds. Buyers who argue about regen braking. One guy even tried to pay me in NFTs. Title: “Tesla Model 3 Performance – Fast, Clean, Slightly Addicted to Speed.” Added pictures. One of the car under rain. Looked moody. Or like it was thinking bad thoughts.
Messages flooded in.
“Can I test drive with my dog?”
“Does it come with free charging forever?” (Spoiler: no. Forever ended during a software update.)
“My psychic says it’s haunted by Elon’s ego. Is that extra?”
One guy drove two hours. Wore aviator shades indoors… during the test drive. Said he wanted to “feel the silence without distraction.” Drove around the corner. Nodded. Offered far below market. “Market’s soft,” he said. “Too many Teslas competing for attention.” Left without removing the headphones. Weird? Yes. But also kinda zen.
Then came Lina. Calm. No-nonsense. Brought her mechanic. Not a buddy with a wrench. A real pro with tools. They scanned the battery logs. Mumbled things like “Ah, 7.9% degradation… acceptable decay.” Felt like watching someone evaluate my firstborn.
We talked price. Straightforward. No drama. She asked if I’d leave the floor mats. “They’re not mine,” I said. “They came with the car.” She smiled. “Exactly.”
Signed paperwork in a coffee shop. She paid faster than my bank app. I revoked my phone key. Car beeped once. Soft. Silent. Like a robotic goodbye.
Walked home. Took the bus next day. Chaotic. Full of humans. Miss the autopilot? Sometimes. Mostly miss the instant torque. And the fact that it never needed gas.
But hey—now I’ve got money. Enough for a motorbike. Either works.
Turns out, selling a Tesla isn’t about profit. It’s about admitting the dream you invested in doesn’t match your present. And that’s okay. Some dreams are meant to be driven — then passed on.