I bought a secondhand car and, while cleaning the interior, I discovered a diary tucked under the passenger seat.
Are you kidding, Alex? Seriously? The whole department spent three months on this project, and youre telling me the concept has changed?
Alex stood in the managers office, fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. Oliver Harper, a heavyset man with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, cut the drama. It changed. The client can rethink. We have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adapting, thats starting from scratch! All the calculations, all the paperwork tossed in the trash? People have been losing sleep over this!
They were paid for those nights. If anyones unhappy, HR works from nine to six. You can go. Im not holding you.
Alex turned silently and walked out, slamming the door so hard the glass in the frame rang. He passed colleagues who gave him sympathetic looks, grabbed his jacket from the desk and stepped into the damp October air. Enough, thumped his temples. Enough. He walked without watching the road, angry at the boss, the client, the whole system. He was fed up with other peoples whims, with the bus schedule, with everything. He needed something his own, however smalla sliver of personal space where no one could push a new concept into him.
That thought led him to the sprawling usedcar market on the edge of town. He wandered among rows of battered vehicles, not even sure what he was looking for. Shiny foreign hatchbacks sat beside battered veterans of the British motor trade. Then he saw it: a modest, cherryred, impeccably clean Kia. Not brand newabout seven or eight years oldbut it looked as if someone had loved it.
Interested? a friendly salesman in his thirties said, flashing a grin. Great choice. One previous owner, driven carefully, used mainly for commuting. Mileage is genuine, no smoking inside.
Alex circled the car, slipped his hand onto the cool plastic dashboard. The cabin was tidy but not sterile; it felt livedin, not just a box for getting from point A to point B. He settled into the drivers seat, felt the tension ease for the first time all day.
Ill take it, he said, surprised at his own resolve.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon he was cruising through the evening streets in his very own car. The word my warmed his chest. He turned on the radio, cracked a window, let the chilly air rush in. Life suddenly seemed a little less bleak.
He parked in the driveway of his old terraced house, sat there for a long while, getting used to the new feeling. Then he decided the interior needed a thorough cleanno trace of the former owner. He bought cleaning supplies, cloths and a vacuum from a 24hour shop and went back to the car.
He polished everything until it gleamed: the dashboard, door panels, windows. When he reached 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 awkward. Someone elses secrets. He almost tossed it onto the back seat and walked away, but something stopped him. The first page bore a neat, tidy hand and the name Emily. He opened it.
12 March.
Today Vlad shouted again because I forgot his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel like Im living on a powder keg. One misstep, one wrong wordand it explodes. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, that it was just a rough day. I believe him, or at least I pretend to. This cherryred little car 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 set the diary down, uneasy. He could almost picture Emily behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing from domestic storms. He kept reading.
2 April.
We argued again. 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 like feeling useful beyond the kitchen. He cant understand that. He warned that if I dont quit, hell go straight to my boss. Humiliating. In the evening I went to the Old Park café, sat alone, sipped coffee and watched the rain. It was peaceful there, and the pastries were good.
Alex visualised the cafésmall, cosy, big windowsjust a short walk from his flat. He imagined Emily at a table, watching the rain streak down the glass.
The following days blurred. Daytime: work, endless spats with Oliver. Evening: diary pages. He learned Emily loved autumn, jazz and the novels of Remarque. She wanted to learn to paint, but Vlad dismissed it as childish dabbling. Her close friend, Sophie, could talk to her for hours on the phone.
18 May.
Today was a good day. Vlad went on a business trip. The silence was blissful. Sophie called, came over, we bought wine and fruit and stayed up talking until midnight, laughing like we were teenagers. She says I should leave him. Emily, hell eat you up, youre fading fast. I know shes right, but where would I go? No parents, his flat is my home. Im thirtyfive. Sophie says age doesnt matter, its just the start. Easy for her to sayher husbands a goldmine.
Alex sighed. He knew that fear. He was fortytwo, and the idea of a radical change made his knees shake. Hed lived in a comfortable groove: workhome, occasional meetups with his friend Sam. Now he had a car and a diary.
On Saturday he couldnt hold it in any longer and went to Old Park. He took a seat by the window, ordered coffee and a slice of cakethe same one Emily mentioned. He stared at the empty chair across from him, trying to picture her. Was she a tall blonde or a petite brunette? Her eyes were always sad.
The entries grew darker.
9 July.
He raised his hand at me for the first time. Because I was on the phone with Sophie instead of him. Just a slap. It felt like something inside me broke, not my face but my soul. I spent the whole night in the car in the driveway, unable to go back inside. The lights in his flat flickered. He was probably looking for meor not. I was terrified and utterly alone. If it werent for my cherryred car, Id have gone mad.
Alex closed the diary, a knot of injustice tightening in his chest. He wanted to find Vlad and he didnt even know what to do. Just protect her. The woman hed never met.
That evening Sam called.
Alex, where have you vanished to? Fishing weekend?
Hey Sam, cant say. Too much work.
No holiday? Whats up? Got lost in some colima?
Alex chuckled.
Almost. Listen, something weird happened
He told Sam about the car, the diary, Emily. Sam listened in silence.
Wow, youve dived deep into someone elses life. What do you need it for?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. Its old news. Shes probably married a millionaire by now and has forgotten Vlad. And youre stuck mourning for a stranger. Dump the notebook.
I cant, Alex admitted.
Think about it. Youre not Romeo. Just dont go crazy. Call if you need anything.
Sams words didnt sober Alex up; they pushed him to finish the diary.
The entries became shorter, more frantic. Emily was reaching a breaking point.
1 September.
Summer ended, and so did my patience. He smashed the vase my mother gave methe last thing I had left from her. He said it was tasteless and ruined his designer décor. I collected the shards and realised this was it. The end. I cant stay.
15 September.
Planning my escape like a spy thriller. Silly and scary. Sophie will let me crash at her place for a while. Im moving books, a couple of sweaters, cosmeticsthe essentials. Vlad never notices; hes too busy with himself. I found an eveningwatercolour class starting in October. Maybe its a sign?
28 September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I leave. Hes off to a conference for two days. Ill have time to grab the rest of my things and go. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill buy an easel, paints, and start painting autumnyellow leaves, grey sky, and my cherryred car in the rain. Its my symbol of freedom. Terrifying, but staying is scarier.
The last entry was blank. Alex turned the page; it was empty, as were the following ones. The diary simply stopped.
He sat in the quiet of his tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of her. Had Sophie manage to find a flat? Did Emily ever start painting? Dozens of questions swirled. He felt like hed watched a series to the final episode, only to have the ending cut out.
He read the final pages again and noticed a small, folded slip tucked between thema receipt from The Artists Supply on Mira Street, dated 29 September. It listed a set of watercolour paints, brushes, paper and a small tabletop easel.
So she had bought them. She was preparing.
Alex looked at the date. The diary was exactly a year old.
What now? He could try to find her, but with only a first name and a friends name, there was little to go on. And why? To disturb a new life she might have built? To remind her of the past?
He set the diary aside. A week passed. He went to work, argued with Oliver, returned home. Yet everything felt different. The world seemed fuller. He began noticing little things: sunlight dancing on puddles, the way maple leaves turned golden, the baristas smile at the corner café. It was as if he were seeing through Emilys eyes, the woman who craved a simple, ordinary life.
One evening, scrolling through news feeds, he stumbled on an announcement: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists Exhibition. Among the participants was a name: Emily Clarke. He clicked, and a modest gallery of her work opened. Among landscapes, stilllives and portraits was a small watercolour of a cherryred Kia parked under an autumn rain on a quiet lane. It was vivid, a touch melancholy, yet full of hope.
He stared at the painting and smiled. She had made it. She had left. She was painting. She was alive.
He found Emily Clarkes social profile. Her avatar showed a smiling woman in her midthirties, short hair, bright eyes, standing beside her canvases. No sign of Vlad, no trace of the fear from the diaryjust exhibitions, photos of her cat, sketches of city streets. A tranquil, creative life.
Alex felt a huge weight lift. He didnt message her, didnt send a friend request. Her story was finished, and she was happy. He simply closed the page.
He lifted the diary from the table, turning it over once more. It was no longer just a collection of someone elses secrets; it was a testament to courage, proof that its never too late to change everything.
The next day, after work, Alex stopped by The Artists Supplythe shop from the receipt. He wandered the aisles, bought a small canvas and a set of oil paints. Hed never painted before, but an urgent urge sparked inside him.
Back home, he set the canvas on his kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, and picked up a brush. He had no idea what would come of itmaybe hed ruin the canvas, maybe a new story would begin. The rain started to fall outside. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, to find yours, you need to stumble upon someone elses.
