Chapter 2 — The Stranger’s Solace

Dual (Isla and Elliot)

Isla

The Ivy Ink Coffeehouse smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, a warm hug in olfactory form. I cradle my mug of chai latte, the steam curling toward my face like an invitation to pause, to breathe. My phone sits on the table, screen up, glowing with the label “Unknown Stranger.”

His last words from last night linger like a half-finished melody: *“It’s strange—how you can feel so surrounded and still so… hollow. Anyway, thanks for listening. Or reading, I guess.”*

I reopen the thread for the third time in as many minutes, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Humor feels too flippant for what he said, but sincerity—true, unfiltered sincerity—feels like stepping onto a tightrope without a safety net.

The bell over the door jingles, and Lila swoops in like a gust of chaotic energy. Her pink hair gleams under the soft light, and her hoop earrings—one shaped like a crescent moon, the other a star—catch the glow of the afternoon sun. She’s wearing an oversized sweater adorned with a galaxy of stars and moons, as if she’s dressed for the sole purpose of being noticed.

“You’re brooding, Harper,” she declares, sliding into the seat across from me.

I flip my phone face down, but her sharp eyes catch the motion.

“I’m not brooding,” I lie, lifting the chai latte to my lips. Its warmth doesn’t reach the pit of my stomach.

“You’re brooding,” she repeats, her grin mischievous. “And hiding your phone like you’re texting your secret lover.”

I snort, nearly choking on the chai. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’s his name? Or is he just ‘Mysterious Stranger’?”

“‘Unknown Stranger,’ actually,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I groan, setting my mug down. “And it’s not what you think. He sent a text to the wrong number. I replied. That’s all.”

“That’s not ‘all.’” Lila leans in, her elbows on the table, her curiosity palpable. “You’re blushing. You don’t blush over random wrong numbers. Spill.”

I sigh, tracing the rim of my mug with my finger. “He’s... thoughtful. Vulnerable. He said some things last night that—” I hesitate, searching for the right words. “—that felt real, you know? Not the kind of polished, performative stuff people usually say when they’re trying to impress someone.”

Lila’s teasing expression softens, her gaze turning inquisitive. “And you like that?”

“I do,” I admit, the truth tasting bittersweet. “But it’s weird. I don’t even know his name.”

“That’s the charm of it,” she says, sitting back in her chair. “No baggage, no expectations. Just two souls connecting. It’s almost romantic.”

“It’s not romantic,” I argue, though my voice wavers. “It’s... refreshing. Safe.”

“Safe,” Lila echoes, her tone sharpening slightly. “You mean it’s easier to be vulnerable with someone who doesn’t really know you. Who can’t hurt you.”

Her words strike a nerve, and I flinch. “Maybe,” I say quietly, avoiding her gaze.

Lila reaches across the table, her hand warm over mine. “Look, I’m all for mysterious strangers who make you feel seen. But don’t let this turn into a hiding place, Isla. You’ve got to let people in eventually. Real people.”

Her voice is gentler than I expect, and for a moment, I can’t respond. I glance around the coffeehouse, at the shelves of second-hand books lining the walls and the soft murmur of conversation. Walt is in his usual corner, scribbling in his notebook, his pocket watch ticking softly beside him.

“I’ll think about it,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s all I ask.” She grins, the moment breaking like early sunlight through clouds. Snatching a biscotti from my plate, she winks. “Now, let’s talk about your contest submission. Have you started yet?”

I groan, the sound exaggerated but not entirely fake. “Lila, one existential crisis at a time, please.”

Her laughter follows me as I pick up my phone again. The screen glows with the ghost of his words—raw, unguarded, and unexpectedly brave. Lila’s advice lingers in my mind, and after a long breath, I type a message.

*“So… hollow is a heavy word. It sounds like you’re carrying something big. Want to share? Or do you prefer mysterious ellipses?”*

I hit send before I can overthink it.

---

Elliot

The office is quiet. Too quiet.

I sit at my drafting table, glaring at the incomplete design in front of me. It’s meant to be a community center, a space for connection and renewal, but the lines on the blueprint feel sterile. Lifeless. Like something essential is missing, though I can’t name what.

My hands toy with the architect’s scale resting on the table, the cool metal grounding me. I run my thumb along its worn edges, a tactile reminder of the control I once prided myself on. But today, even the simple act of holding it feels like a façade.

My phone buzzes beside me, breaking the oppressive silence. For a fleeting moment, I expect to see Clara’s name, but the thought is ridiculous—she hasn’t reached out in months. Instead, it’s her. The stranger.

*“So… hollow is a heavy word. It sounds like you’re carrying something big. Want to share? Or do you prefer mysterious ellipses?”*

A smile tugs at the corners of my lips before I can stop it. There’s something disarming about her humor, the way it cuts through the weight of my words without dismissing them.

*“Hollow’s the right word,”* I type back. *“It’s like… I’m a building, structurally sound from the outside, but crumbling on the inside. And no one notices unless they step too close.”*

My thumb hesitates over the send button. The metaphor feels raw, almost too revealing, but I press it anyway.

Her reply comes quickly, playful but warm. *“Wow. Someone’s been reading too much Architectural Digest.”*

I chuckle under my breath, the sound startling in the stillness. *“Guilty. Occupational hazard.”*

*“Seriously, though,”* she writes. *“That sounds lonely. And exhausting. Do you ever let anyone step close?”*

The question hits me harder than I expect, a direct blow to the walls I’ve spent years fortifying. My fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure how to answer.

*“Not often,”* I admit. *“It’s easier to keep people out. Safer.”*

Her response is slower this time, as if she’s weighing her words. *“Safe isn’t always better. Sometimes it’s just... empty.”*

I stare at her message, the truth of it settling like a stone in my chest. Memories of Clara flicker at the edges of my mind—how I let her in, how I believed in us, and how it all crumbled anyway.

*“Maybe,”* I reply, though the word feels hollow.

I set my phone aside and pick up my pencil, its weight familiar in my hand. I draw a new line on the blueprint, imperfect and slightly askew. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

---

Isla

I stare at his last message, my heart twisting. *“Maybe”* isn’t an answer, but it’s not a refusal either. It’s a crack in the armor, a glimpse of something real.

*“For what it’s worth,”* I type, my fingers trembling slightly, *“I think you’re braver than you give yourself credit for. Even sending that first text took courage. And you’re still here, still trying. That counts for something.”*

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, the words rushing out like an exhale I didn’t know I was holding.

A reply comes moments later.

*“Thank you. I think I needed to hear that.”*

I smile faintly, imagining his relief on the other side of the screen. It’s a strange kind of intimacy, this anonymous connection—a tether made of words and shared vulnerabilities.

But Lila’s voice echoes in my mind, a quiet warning beneath the warmth of this moment: *“Don’t let this turn into a hiding place, Isla. Let people in. Real people.”*

I glance around the coffeehouse again. The clatter of mugs and the hum of voices surround me, grounding me in the world outside the glow of my phone. And yet, it feels distant, like a painting I’m observing from behind glass.

For now, the thread of connection between me and the stranger feels like enough. But even as I think it, I wonder if that will always be true.