Hey love, so picture this: I bought a secondhand car and, while giving the interior a good onceover, I found a diary tucked under the front seat.
Are you kidding me, Alex? Seriously? The whole team spent three months on this project and now youre saying the concept has changed?
Alex Harper stood in his bosss office, fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. Oliver Irving, a burly bloke with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even look up from his paperwork.
Alex, cut the drama. Concepts shift. Clients can change their minds and we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adaptation, thats starting from scratch! All the calculations, every document tossed into the bin? People were pulling allnighters!
They got paid for the overtime. If anyones unhappy, HRs open from nine to six. You can go. Im not holding you up.
Alex turned on his heel, slammed the door and the glass in the frame sang. He walked past colleagues who gave him sympathetic looks, snatched his jacket from the desk and stepped out into a damp October morning. Enough, echoed in his head. Enough. He walked without looking where he was, angry at his boss, the client, the whole world. He was fed up being at the mercy of other peoples whims, the timetable of the cramped bus, everything. He needed something of his ownsmall, but his. Even a tiny slice of personal space where no one could stick their nose in with a new concept.
That thought led him to the massive car market on the edge of town. He drifted between rows of used cars, not really knowing what he was looking for, just staring. Flashy foreign hatchbacks, battered veterans from the local auto industry. And then he saw her: a little cherryred Kia, spotless on the outside. Not brand newabout seven or eight years oldbut it looked like someone had cared for it.
Interested? a friendly sales lad, about thirty, said with a grin. Great pick. One previous owner, driven gently, used for work and home. Low mileage, never smoked inside.
Alex walked around, peered into the cabin. It was clean but not sterile; you could feel livedin, not just a metal box shuttling you from A to B. He slid into the drivers seat, hands on the cool plastic, and for the first time that day the tension started to melt away.
Ill take it, he said, halfamazed at his own boldness.
Paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon he was cruising through the evening streets in his very own car. The word own felt warm in his chest. He turned on the radio, cracked a window and let the chilly air in. Life suddenly didnt look so bleak.
He parked the car in the yard of his old council flat, sat there for ages, just soaking in the new feeling. Then he decided to give the interior a proper clean, to erase any trace of the previous owner. He hit a 24hour offlicence, bought car shampoo, rags, a vacuum and went back to the Kia.
He polished everything to a shine: dashboard, door panels, windows. When he got down to the space under the seats, his hand brushed something hard. He pulled out a small notebook with a dark blue cover. A diary.
Alex turned it over, feeling a little uneasy. Someone elses life, someone elses secrets. He almost tossed it onto the back seat and walked away, but something stopped him. The first page bore a petite, tidy script: Poppy. Just a name. He opened it.
12March.
Mike shouted again today. I forgot his favourite yoghurt again. Feels like Im living on a powder kegone misstep, one wrong word and everything blows up. Then he hugs me, says he loves me, that his day was just tough. I believe him, or at least I pretend to. This little cherryred Kia is my only escape. I turned the music up and drove wherever my eyes could see. Just me and the road, no one yelling.
Alex put the diary down. Something about it unsettled him; he could almost see Poppy behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing the storm at home. He kept reading.
2April.
Another fight. This time about my job. He hates that I stay late. Proper women stay at home and bake pies, he said. I dont want to bake pies. I love my work, numbers, reports. I want to feel useful beyond the kitchen. He cant see that. He warned hed go to my boss if I didnt quit. Humiliating. In the evening I went to Old Orchard Café. Sat alone, sipping coffee, watching the rain. It was peaceful. The cakes were lovely.
Alex noted the café; he knew it, just a short walk from his flat, cosy with big windows. He imagined Poppy at a small table, watching raindrops race down the glass.
The days that followed blurred. Daytime: work, endless rows with Oliver, nighttime: diary. He learned Poppy liked autumn, jazz, and Remarque. Shed dreamed of learning to paint, but Mike dismissed it as childish dabbling. She had a close friend, Sophie, with whom she could chat for hours.
18May.
Mike was off on a business trip. Sweet silence. Sophie dropped by, we cracked open a bottle of wine, ate fruit, laughed till midnight like we were teenagers again. She told me I should leave Mike. Lena, hell swallow you whole, youre fading away. Shes right, but where would I go? No parents, his flat is mine. Im 35, she says its not too late, its just the start. Easy for her to sayshes got a husband and a goldfilled life.
Alex sighed. He felt that fear too. He was 42, and the thought of a radical change made his knees wobble. Hed been stuck in the same groovework, home, occasional catchups with his mate Sam. And now, this car and this diary.
On Saturday he couldnt resist and went back to Old Orchard. Sat by the window, ordered a coffee and a slice of cakeexactly the one Poppy loved, he guessed. He let his mind wander: was she a tall blonde or a petite brunette? Her eyes were always sad.
He kept reading; the entries grew darker.
9July.
He raised his hand at me for the first time. Because I was on the phone with Sophie instead of him. A slap, really, but it felt like hed broken something inside me, not on my face but in my soul. I spent the whole night in the car in the yard, couldnt go back inside. I watched his windows flicker on and off. He was probably looking for me. Or maybe not. I was terrified and alone. If it werent for my cherryred Kia, I think Id have gone mad.
Alex set the diary aside. A surge of injustice clenched his chest. He wanted to find Mike and He didnt even know what to do, just protect her. A woman hed never met.
That evening Sam rang.
Alex, mate! Where have you vanished to? Gone fishing for the weekend?
Hey, Sam. Cant say, got a lot on my plate.
What sort of plate? You havent even taken a proper break. Bought a caravan and vanished into it?
Alex laughed.
Almost. Listen, its a bit of a story
He told Sam about the car, the diary, Poppy. Sam listened, quiet.
Youre really deep in this, arent you?
I dont know. Just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. Its old news, Alex. She mightve married a millionaire a hundred times over by now and forgotten that Mike. And youre sitting here moping. Dump the diary.
Cant, Alex admitted honestly.
Fine, just dont lose your mind. Call if you need a pint.
Sams words didnt sober him up; they only made him want to finish the diary. He felt he had to see it through, to know how it ended.
The entries grew shorter, more fragmented. Poppy seemed pushed to the edge.
1September.
Summers over, and so is my patience. He smashed a vase my mum gave methe last thing I owned from her. Said it was tasteless and ruined his designer vibe. I gathered the shards and realised that was it. It was over. I had to leave.
15September.
Planning my escape like a spy thriller. Silly and scary. Sophiell let me crash at her flat for a bit. Im moving a few books, sweaters, makeupmy most precious things. Mike doesnt notice; hes too busy with himself. Ive signed up for an evening watercolor class starting in October. Maybe its a sign?
28September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow Im gone. Hes off on a twoday conference, so Ill have time to grab the rest of my stuff and bolt. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill buy an easel, paints, and start painting autumngolden leaves, grey skies, my cherryred Kia in the rain. Its my freedom symbol. Im terrified, but staying is scarier.
That was the last entry. Alex flipped the page; it was blank. The next page was blank too, and so on, right to the end. The diary just stopped.
He sat in his tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of Poppy. Did she manage to leave? Did Sophie get her a flat? Had she started painting? Dozens of questions swirled. It felt like finishing a TV series only to have the finale cut.
He reread the final pages and finally noticed a folded slip tucked in between. A receipt from The Artists Loft on Meadow Street, dated 29September. It listed a set of watercolours, brushes, paper, and a small tabletop easel.
So shed bought them after all. Shed been preparing.
Alex checked the datethis diary was from last year. Exactly a year ago.
What now? He could try to track her down, but all he had was a first name, no surname, and a friend called Sophie. Why bother? To disturb a new life shed built? To remind her of a past shed already left behind?
He put the diary aside. A week passed. He went to work, sparred with Oliver, trudged home. Yet everything felt different. He started noticing the little things: sunlight dancing on puddles, the way maple leaves turned amber, the baristas smile at the corner café. It was as if he were seeing the world through Poppys eyes, the simple, ordinary life shed craved.
One evening, scrolling aimlessly through the news feed, he spotted an advert: Autumn OpenAir Exhibition Emerging Artists. Among the participants was a name: Poppy Whitaker. His heart gave a tiny jump. He clicked. A modest gallery of her work opened. Amid landscapes, stilllives, and portraits, there was a small watercolor of a cherryred Kia parked under an autumn drizzle on a quiet lane. It was vibrant, a touch melancholy, but brimming with hope.
He smiled at the painting. Shed made it. Shed left. She was creating, living.
He found Poppys social profile. Her avatar was a beaming woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes. She stood in front of her canvases, no trace of the frightened woman from the diary. Her feed was full of exhibition photos, snapshots of her cat, sketches of city streets. No Mike. No drama. Just a quiet, artfilled life.
Alex felt a huge weight lift. He didnt message her or add her as a friend. There was no need. Her story had found its happy ending, and he could close the book.
He picked up the diary again. It was no longer just a collection of secrets; it was a story of courage, proof that its never too late to change.
The next day, after work, Alex stopped by The Artists Loft. He wandered the aisles, then bought a small canvas and a set of oil paints. Hed never painted before, but something in him suddenly wanted to try.
Back home, he set the canvas on his kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, grabbed a brush, and stared at the blank surface. He had no clue what would come outmaybe a mess, maybe the start of his own new story, inspired by the voice of a stranger hed found under the seat of a cherryred Kia.
He looked out the window; rain was beginning to fall. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, you have to stumble on someone elses story just to find your own path.
