13October2025
I bought a secondhand hatchback and, while cleaning the interior, found a slim notebook tucked under the passenger seat.
Are you kidding me, Alex? Seriously? The whole department spent three months on that project and youre suddenly saying the brief has changed?
I stood in the bosss office, fists clenched until my knuckles whitened. MrOliverGrant, the heavyset manager with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, no tantrums, please. The brief changed. Clients can rethink things and we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adapting, thats starting from scratch! All the calculations, the whole dossiertrash? People have been pulling allnighters!
We paid for the overtime. If anyones unhappy, HRs doors are open from nine to six. You can go. Im not holding you.
I turned and left, slamming the door so hard the glass in the frame chimed. Colleagues watched me go with sympathetic looks. I snatched my jacket, burst out into the damp October air and let the mantra enough, enough throb in my temples. I walked without caring about the route, angry at the boss, the client, the whole system. I was tired of being at the mercy of other peoples whims, of the cramped bus timetable, of everything. I needed something of my ownsmall, but mine. A little slice of personal space where no one could shove in their new concept.
That thought led me to the sprawling car market on the edge of London. I wandered between rows of used vehicles, not even sure what I was looking for. Shiny foreign sedans, battered veterans of the British motor trade. Then I saw it: a modest cherryred Kia, about seveneight years old, immaculate on the outside, as if loved.
Interested? a cheerful salesman in his thirties called out. Great car. One previous owner, kept it carefully, used only for commuting. Low mileage, never smoked inside.
I walked around it, opened the door. The cabin was clean but not sterile; you could feel someone had lived there, not just driven from pointA to pointB. I settled into the drivers seat, rested my hands on the cool plastic and, for the first time that day, felt the tension ease.
Ill take it, I said, surprised at my own resolve.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon I was cruising through the evening streets in a car that was, for the first time in a long while, truly mine. The word rang warm in my chest. I turned on the radio, rolled down the window, letting the cool breeze rush in. Life suddenly seemed a little less bleak.
I parked the car in the courtyard of my old council flat and sat there for ages, getting used to the new feeling. Then I decided the interior needed a proper clean, so I popped into the 24hour convenience store, bought car cleaner, cloths and a vacuum, and returned to the vehicle.
I polished everything until it gleamed: the dashboard, the door panels, the windows. When I reached the space under the front seat, my hand brushed something hard. I pulled out a small notebook bound in dark blue leather.
A diary.
I turned it over, feeling oddly intrusive. A strangers life, secrets not meant for me. I almost tossed it onto the rear seat and walked away, but something stopped me. The first page bore a neat, slightly cramped script: Ellen. Just a name. I opened to the first entry.
12March.
Victor shouted at me again. It was over a trivial thingId forgotten his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel like Im living under a powder keg; one wrong step, one misplaced word and everything blows. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, that it was just a hard day. I want to believe him, or at least act like I do. This cherryred little car is my only escape. I turned the music up and drove wherever the road led, just me and the highway, no one yelling.
I set the diary down, unsettled. I could almost picture Ellen behind the wheel, sad eyes, fleeing the storms at home. I kept reading.
2April.
We fought 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. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I want to feel useful beyond the kitchen. He doesnt get it. He threatened to go to my boss if I didnt quit. Humiliating. That evening I slipped into The Old Park Café, sat alone, sipped coffee and watched the rain. It was peaceful, and the cakes were delicious.
The Old Park Café was a small, cosy spot not far from my flat, large windows, a perfect refuge. I imagined Ellen there, staring at the rain racing down the glass.
The following days were a haze: work, endless rows with Oliver, evenings with the diary. I learned Ellen loved autumn, jazz, and Remarque. She dreamed of painting, but Victor dismissed it as childish dabbling. Her closest friend was Sarah, who could talk for hours on the phone.
18May.
Victor was away on businesssilence, at last. Sarah called; we bought wine, fruit, and stayed up till midnight, laughing like teenagers. She told me I should leave Victor. Ellen, hell eat you alive, youre fading away. She was right, but where would I go? No parents, his flat, Im thirtyfive. Starting over is terrifying. Sarah said age isnt a barrier, its just the beginning. Easy for her to say; shes married to a banker.
I sighed. The fear mirrored my ownI’m fortytwo, and the thought of a radical change makes me shiver. My life was a predictable loop: work, home, occasional meetups with my mate Sam. Now this car and this diary were pushing me toward something else.
On Saturday I could no longer hold back; I went to The Old Park, took a seat by the window, ordered coffee and a slice of cakethe one I imagined Ellen liked. I stared at it, trying to picture her: sometimes a tall blonde, sometimes a petite brunette, but always with sad eyes.
The entries grew darker.
9July.
He raised his hand on me for the first time. Just because I was on the phone with Sarah, not him, when he called. A slap, but it cracked something inside menot my face, my soul. I spent the whole night in the car in the courtyard, unable to go back inside. The lights in his flat flickered on and off. He was probably looking for me, or not. I was terrified and alone. If it werent for my cherryred Kia, I think I would have lost my mind.
I closed the diary; a knot of injustice tightened in my chest. I wanted to find Victor and I didnt know what, just protect her. A woman I had never met.
That evening Sam rang.
Alex, where have you vanished to? Gone fishing for the weekend?
Hey, Sam. Too much work.
What work? You havent even taken a holiday. Whats with the mystery? Bought a fancy van and disappeared?
I chuckled. Almost. Listen, its. I told him about the car, the diary, Ellen. He listened in silence.
Bloody hell, he finally said. Youve stuck your nose into someone elses life. Whats the point?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for Victor. This was ages ago. She might already be married to a millionaire and forgotten about that Victor. And youre just wallowing.
Cant throw it away, I admitted.
Dont let it eat you, mate. Just dont lose your head.
Sams words didnt sober me up; they only made me determined to finish the diary, to see where it ended.
The entries grew shorter, fragmented. Ellens world seemed on the brink.
1September.
Summer ended, and so did my patience. He smashed the vase my mother had given me the last thing I owned of her. He said it was tasteless and ruined his designer décor. I gathered the shards and realised that was it. It was over. I had to leave.
15September.
Planning my escape, like a spy thriller. Its both funny and frightening. Sarah will let me stay at her flat for a while. Im quietly moving my books, a couple of sweaters, cosmetics the most valuable bits. Victor doesnt notice; hes too wrapped up in himself. Ive signed up for an evening watercolour class that starts in October. Maybe its a sign.
28September.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow Im gone. Hes off on a conference for two days. Ill have time to collect the rest of my things and disappear. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill buy an easel, paints, and paint the autumn yellow leaves, grey sky, and my cherryred Kia in the rain. Its terrifying, but staying is scarier.
The last entry sits there, the page blank, the next one blank too. The diary ends abruptly.
I sat in the quiet of my tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of Ellen. Had she managed to leave? Did Sarah find her a flat? Had she started painting? A swarm of questions filled my mind. It felt like Id watched a TV series to the very end, only for the final scene to be cut.
I reread the final pages and finally noticed a tiny folded receipt tucked between them. A shop named The Artist on Mile Road, dated29September. It listed a set of watercolour paints, brushes, paper, and a small tabletop easel.
So she had bought them. She was preparing.
The diary was from last yearexactly a year ago.
What now? I could try to find her, but with only the name Ellen and a friend called Sarah, there was little to go on. And why? To disrupt her new life, if she had managed to build one? Or simply to remind her of the past?
I put the diary aside. A week passed. I argued with Oliver, returned home, but everything felt different. The world seemed richer: the way sunlight bounced off puddles, the amber leaves on the maples, the baristas smile in the local café. I was seeing the world through Ellens eyes, the simple life she had craved.
One evening I was scrolling through the news feed and stumbled upon an announcement: Autumn Vernissage Emerging Artists of London. Among the participants was an EllenWalsh. My heart quickened. I clicked, and a modest online gallery opened. Among landscapes, stilllives and portraits was a small watercolour of a cherryred Kia parked under an autumn drizzle on a quiet street. It was vivid, a touch melancholy, yet full of hope.
I stared at the painting and smiled. She had made it. She had left. She was painting. She was alive.
I found EllenWalshs profile. The avatar showed a thirtyfiveyearold woman with a short haircut, bright eyes, standing beside her canvases. No Victor, no painjust exhibitions, photos of her cat, sketches of city streets. A quiet, content life.
Relief washed over me, as if a heavy load had been lifted. I didnt message her, didnt add her as a friend. Her story had closed, and she seemed happy. I simply closed the tab.
I lifted the diary again. It was no longer a collection of strangers secrets but a testament to courageproof that its never too late to change everything.
The next day, after work, I went back to The Artist shop from the receipt. I lingered among the aisles and bought a small canvas and a set of oil paints. Id never painted before, but an urgent urge made me want to try.
Back home I set the canvas on my kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette and picked up a brush. I had no idea what would emergeperhaps a ruined canvas, perhaps the start of my own new story, inspired by the voice of a stranger Id found under the seat of a cherryred Kia.
Rain began to patter against the window. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes, to find yours, you have to stumble upon someone elses.
