28October 2025
Dear Diary,
I bought a secondhand car and, while giving the interior a good clean, I felt something hard under the front seat. It was a battered notebook, the previous owner’s diary.
Are you kidding me, Alex? Seriously? The whole department spent three months on this project, and now youre saying the brief has changed?
I stood in the managers office, fists clenched until my knuckles turned white. Oliver Blake, a burly man with a perpetually sour expression, didnt even glance up from his paperwork.
Alex, calm down. The brief changed. The client can have a new idea, and we have to adapt. This is business, not a hobby club.
Adapt? Thats not adaptation, thats starting from scratch! All the calculations, all the paperworkthrow it in the bin? People have been losing sleep over this!
They were paid for the overtime. If anyones unhappy, HR is open nine to six. Youre free to go.
I turned on my heel, slammed the door so hard the glass in the frame rang, and walked past a few colleagues who gave me sympathetic looks. I grabbed my jacket from the desk and stepped out into the damp October air. Enough, thumped my temples. Enough. I walked without looking where I was going, angry at the boss, the client, the whole system. I was tired of being at the mercy of other peoples whims, of the timetable of the overcrowded bus, of everything. I needed something of my own. Small, but mine. A sliver of space where no one could thrust in a new concept.
That thought led me to the huge car market on the edge of town. I drifted between rows of used vehicles, not really knowing what I was after. Gleaming foreign hatchbacks, battered veterans of the British motor trade. Then I saw her: a modest, cherryred Kia, spotless on the outside, about seven or eight years old, but clearly wellloved.
Interested? a smiling sales lad, about thirty, called out. Great car. One previous owner, driven carefully, used mainly for commuting. Low mileage, no smoking inside.
I walked around the car, opened the door. The interior was clean but not sterile; you could tell someone lived in it, not just used it as a metal box to get from A to B. I settled into the drivers seat, rested my hands on the cool plastic, and for the first time that day I felt the tension begin to ease.
Ill take it, I said, surprising myself with the confidence.
The paperwork took a couple of hours. Soon I was cruising through the evening streets in my very own car. The word my warmed my chest. I turned on the radio, cracked a window to let the chilly air in, and life suddenly looked a little less bleak.
I parked the car in the driveway of my ageing council flat, sat there for a long while, soaking in the new feeling. Then I decided the interior needed a proper clean, so I bought some car polish, rags and a vacuum from the 24hour shop and got to work.
Everything gleamed: the dash, the door panels, the windows. When I reached the space under the front seat, my hand brushed against something hard. I pulled out a small notebook in a dark blue cover. A diary.
I turned it over hesitantly. It felt like handling a strangers secrets. I almost tossed it onto the back seat and walked away, but a fine, neat script on the first page stopped me. Rosie. Just a name. I opened to the first entry.
12March.
Victor shouted again today. Id forgotten his favourite yoghurt. Sometimes I feel Im living on a powder kegone wrong step, one wrong word, and it explodes. Then he comes over, hugs me, says he loves me, says it was just a hard day. I believe him, or at least I pretend to. This cherryred little car is my only escape. I turned on some music and drove wherever my eyes could see. Just me and the road, and no one yelling.
I put the diary down, feeling uneasy. I could almost picture Rosie 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 pies. I love my work, the numbers, the reports. I like feeling useful beyond the kitchen. He doesnt get it. He threatened to go to my boss if I dont quit. Humiliating. I spent the evening at The Old Orchard Café, alone, sipping coffee and watching the rain. It was peaceful, the cakes were lovely.
The café was not far from my flata small, cosy place with big windows. I imagined Rosie sitting there, staring at the raindrops racing down the glass.
The days that followed drifted in a fog. Work, endless arguments with Oliver, and evenings spent with the diary. I learned Rosie loved autumn, jazz, and Remarques novels. She dreamed of learning to paint, though Victor dismissed it as childish doodling. Her best friend, Megan, could talk to her for hours on the phone.
18May.
Victor was away on business. The silence was bliss. Megan called; we bought wine and fruit and stayed up till midnight, laughing like we were twenty again. She said I should leave Victor. Emma, hell chew you up, youre fading fast. She was right, but where would I go? No parents, his flat was my home. I was thirtyfive. Megan told me age wasnt a barrier, it was a fresh start. Easy for her to sayshes married to a banker.
I sighed. At fortytwo, the thought of a radical change made my bones shiver. Id been living on a familiar track: workhome, occasional meetups with my mate Sam. Now I had this car and this diary.
On Saturday I couldnt hold it in any longer. I went to The Old Orchard, took a seat by the window, ordered a coffee and a slice of cakethe one I imagined Rosie would have loved. I stared at the empty chair opposite me, picturing her either as a tall blonde or a petite brunette, but always with those sad eyes.
9July.
Victor raised his hand to me for the first time, slapped me because Id spoken to Megan instead of him. It felt like hed broken something inside me, not on my face but in my soul. I spent the night in the car outside my block, unable to go back inside. The lights in his flat flickered on and off; he was probably looking for me. If it hadnt been for my cherryred Kia, I think I would have gone mad.
Sam rang later that evening.
Alex, where have you vanished to? Fishing weekend?
Not much time, mate. Too many things at work.
No holiday? Whats the story? Bought a hideaway and vanished?
I chuckled.
Almost. Listen, theres something
I told him about the car, the diary, Rosie. He listened in silence.
Youre diving deep into someone elses life, Alex. Why?
I dont know. I just feel sorry for her.
Feel sorry for him. Its old news, Alex. She might have married a millionaire by now and forgotten Victor. Stop clutching that notebook.
I cant, I admitted.
Then keep it safe. Dont let it drive you mad. Call if you need me.
Sams words didnt calm me, but they pushed me to finish the diary.
The entries grew shorter, sharper. Rosie was nearing a breaking point.
1September.
Summer ended, and so did my patience. He smashed a vase my mother had given methe last thing I owned from her. He called it tasteless, said it clashed with his designer décor. I collected the shards and realised this was the end. I had to go.
15September.
Planning my escape like a spy thriller. Megan will let me stay at her place temporarily. Im slowly moving my books, a couple of sweaters, my cosmetics. Victor is oblivious, too wrapped up in himself. I found a beginners watercolour course starting in October. Maybe thats a sign.
28September.
Tomorrow I leave. Hes off to a twoday conference, giving me a window to take the remaining things and disappear. Ive handed in my resignation. Ill buy an easel, paints, and start painting autumnyellow leaves, grey skies, and my cherryred car in the rain. Its terrifying, but staying would be even scarier.
The last entry was a blank page. I turned it, and the next page was blank as well. The diary simply stopped.
I sat in the quiet of my tiny kitchen, wondering what had become of Rosie. Did she manage to leave? Did Megan find a flat for her? Had she started painting? Dozens of questions swirled. It felt like Id finished a series and the final episode had been cut.
I read the last pages again and finally noticed a tiny, folded receipt tucked between them. A receipt from Art Supplies on High Street, dated 29September. It listed: watercolour set, brushes, paper, a small tabletop easel.
She had bought them. She was preparing.
The diary was a year old. Exactly a year had passed.
What now? I could try to find her, but with just a first name and a friends name, it seemed pointless. I didnt want to disturb whatever new life she might have built. I set the diary aside.
The week went onwork, arguments with Oliver, evenings at home. Yet the world seemed larger, brighter. I noticed how sunlight danced on puddles, how the maple leaves turned golden, how the barista at the local coffee shop smiled. I was seeing things through Rosies eyes, the simple life she craved.
One evening, aimlessly scrolling online, I stumbled on an announcement: Autumn OpenAir Exhibition Emerging Artists. Among the participants was an Emma Watson. My heart skipped. I clicked, and a modest gallery of works opened. Among portraits, stilllives, and cityscapes, there was one that stopped me cold: a watercolour of a cherryred Kia parked under an autumn drizzle on a quiet lane. It was alive, a touch melancholy, but full of hope.
I smiled. She had made it. She had left. She was painting, she was living.
I found Emmas social profile. Her picture showed a thirtyfiveyearold woman with short hair, a bright smile, standing beside her canvases. No Victor, no painjust exhibitions, photos of her cat, sketches of city streets. Her life was quiet, creative, content.
Relief washed over me like a weight lifted. I didnt write to her, didnt add her as a friend. Her story was finished, and it was a happy one. I closed the page.
The next day, after work, I went back to the Art Supplies shop. I wandered the aisles and bought a small canvas and a set of oil paints. Id never painted before, but something inside me demanded a try.
Back home, I set the canvas on the kitchen table, squeezed bright colours onto the palette, and lifted a brush. I didnt know what would emergeperhaps a mess, perhaps the start of my own story, inspired by a strangers voice from a dusty diary hidden under a car seat.
Rain began to patter against the window. Everyone has their own road and their own autumn. Sometimes you have to stumble upon someone elses path to discover yours.
Lesson learned: the most unexpected discoveries can give us the courage to carve our own destiny.
