14October2025
I recently bought a secondhand Vauxhall Corsa. While giving the interior a good onceover I felt something hard under the front passenger seat. Pulling it out, I discovered a small, darkblue notebook a diary.
The first page read, 12March Victor shouted again because I forgot his favourite yoghurt. I feel like Im living on a powder keg; one misstep and it blows up. He then embraces me, says he loves me, that the day was hard, and I try to believe him. This cherryred little Corsa is my only escape.
The words were in a tidy, almost childish hand, signed simply Emily. I turned the page, and the writers life unfolded before me.
Earlier that week, at work, my boss, Simon Clarke, had been in a fury. James, stop the theatrics. The client has changed the brief; we must adapt. Its business, not a hobby club, he barked, never looking up from his paperwork. Id spent months on the project, and suddenly everyone was told to scrap the calculations and start from scratch. People have been losing sleep over this, I snapped. He shrugged, If youre not happy, the HR line is open from nine to six. Youre free to leave.
I walked out of the office, the door slamming shut with a sharp clang that rattled the glass. The October drizzle was cold, and a knot of anger settled deep in my temples. I was fed up with being at the mercy of others whims, the inflexible bus timetable, the endless chain of demands. I wanted something of my own, however smalla speck of personal space untouched by new concepts.
I drifted to the sprawling usedcar market on the outskirts of Sheffield. Rows of battered hatchbacks and gleaming foreign sedans stretched before me. My eyes finally landed on a modest, cherryred Corsa, about seven or eight years old but polished as if it had been loved. A young salesman, about thirty, smiled and said, Only one previous owner, driven carefully, never smoked inside, mileage genuine.
I slipped into the drivers seat, rested my hands on the cool plastic, and for the first time that day felt the tension ease from my shoulders. Ill take it, I said, surprised by my own resolve.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon I was cruising the twilight streets of my neighbourhood in a car that felt like mine. I turned on the radio, cracked the window, and let the chilly air wash over me. Life suddenly seemed a little less bleak.
Back at my council flat, I parked the Corsa in the narrow drive and sat there for a long while, adjusting to the new feeling. Determined to erase any trace of Emilys life, I stopped at the 24hour Tesco, buying cleaning fluid, cloths and a portable vacuum. I scrubbed the dashboard, the door cards, the windows until they shone. When I reached the area beneath the seats, my hand brushed against something hard. I pulled out the same blue notebook Id found earlier, now clutched in my grip.
I flipped through it again, each entry a glimpse into Emilys troubled world.
12March Victor yelled because I forgot his yoghurt. I walk away feeling like a powder keg ready to explode
2April Victor says normal women stay home and bake pies. He threatened to go to my boss if I dont quit. I left the café The Old Orchard alone, watching the rain, feeling the calm of a quiet cup of coffee.
I could almost picture her, sitting at that table, eyes distant, trying to escape the storm at home.
The diary continued: she loved autumn, jazz, and the novels of Remarque; she dreamed of painting, though Victor dismissed it as childish; her close friend Claire was a constant voice on the phone.
18May Victor is away on a business trip. Claire came over, we drank wine, ate fruit, laughed like we were teenagers. Claire says I must leave Victor. Im thirtyfive, scared to start over, but maybe its not too late.
I remembered my own fear at fortytwo, the dread of making a radical change. The diarys pain echoed my own frustrations with Simon and the endless office battles.
On a Saturday, I went back to The Old Orchard, ordered a coffee and a slice of cake that the diary mentioned, and let my mind wander through Emilys imagined versionsblonde, brunette, always with sad eyes.
9July He raised his hand at me for the first time because I was on the phone with Claire. It felt like a bruise inside my soul. I spent the night in the car, unable to go home. The lights flickered, I thought he was looking for me. If it werent for my little Corsa, I might have lost my mind.
The entries grew darker, the tone more desperate.
1September He broke the vase my mother gave me, called it tasteless, said it ruined his designer décor. I gathered the shards and decided it was the end. I have to leave.
15September Planning my escape like a spy film. Claire will let me stay at her flat for a while. Im moving books, sweaters, cosmetics. I found a watercolour class starting in October. Maybe thats a sign.
28September Tomorrow Im gone. Hes away for a conference, Ill take the chance to collect the rest of my things and quit my job. Ill buy a easel, paints, and paint the autumnyellow leaves, grey sky, and my cherry Corsa in the rain. It terrifies me, but staying is scarier.
The last page was blank, and the following one empty as well.
I stared at the diary, at the silent kitchen, and wondered what had become of Emily. Had she managed to leave? Did Claire find her a flat? Had she started painting? My thoughts swirled like a series finale that had been cut short.
Between the final entries I noticed a crumpled receipt, dated 29September, from Artists Supplies on High Street. It listed watercolour paints, brushes, paper, a small tabletop easel. Emily had indeed bought them. The diary was a year old.
A week passed. I kept arguing with Simon at work, commuting, returning home, but everything seemed a little larger, as if the world had gained depth. I began to notice how sunlight reflected in puddles, how the leaves on the sycamores turned amber, how the barista at the local coffee shop smiled warmly. It felt as though I was seeing the world through Emilys eyesher yearning for a simple, ordinary life.
One evening, while scrolling through the news, I stumbled upon an announcement: Autumn Artists Exhibition Emerging Local Talent. Among the listed names was Emily Watson. My heart quickened. I clicked, and a modest gallery page opened, displaying her watercolour of a cherryred Corsa parked under a rainy autumn sky. The painting was vivid, tinged with melancholy yet brimming with hope.
I searched for Emily Watson online. Her profile showed a thirtyfiveyearold woman with a short haircut, bright eyes, smiling beside her canvases, a fluffy cat curled on her lap. No Victor, no painjust a quiet, creative life.
Relief washed over me like a tide. I closed the tab, feeling the heavy weight Id carried lift. I didnt message her, didnt add her as a friend. Her story had found its own ending, and that was enough.
I took the diary off the table, turned its pages one last time. It was no longer a collection of someone elses secrets but a testament to courage: the courage to change, no matter the age or circumstance.
The next day I visited the very shop on High Street where the receipt had been issued. I walked the aisles, picked up a small canvas and a set of oil paintssomething I had never tried before.
Back home I set the canvas on my kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto a palette, and, with a trembling hand, brushed the first stroke. I didnt know what would emergemaybe a mess, maybe a beginning.
Rain began to patter against the window. Every person has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes you must stumble upon anothers story to discover the path thats truly yours.
Lesson learned: it is never too late to start anew; the smallest sparkbe it a diary, a car, or a brushcan illuminate the way forward.
