Chapter 3 — Threads of Vulnerability
Dual (Isla and Elliot)
Isla
My phone buzzes just as I’m finishing the last sip of my chamomile tea. The mug is warm in my hands, the chipped rim pressing against my thumb. The faint hum of distant cars filters through the open window, mingling with the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. I glance at the screen, my heart giving that now-familiar flutter.
*unknown stranger: ever feel like you’re standing on a bridge that might collapse under your weight? like the idea of moving forward feels impossible, but staying still is its own kind of failure?*
The words hit me, sharp and unrelenting. They’re heavy, the kind of heavy that makes my chest ache in a way I don’t fully understand. My fingers brush the spine of my leather notebook on the table, its weathered cover a familiar comfort. Outside, a car door slams, the sound jolting me back to the present. I set the mug down gently, trying to craft a reply that feels as honest as his message deserves.
*me: bridges are meant to hold, right? even the shaky ones. maybe if you squint, you’ll see the reinforcement beams you didn’t notice before... or maybe that’s just me being overly poetic.*
I hit send before second-guessing myself, my fingers lingering over the screen. His responses are never immediate, but tonight, for some reason, I hope this time will be different. When the three little dots appear, I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
*unknown stranger: poetic is good. it’s better than what I’ve got right now. my blueprints are full of cracks. I’m starting to think I’m not great at building anything that lasts.*
His words are a mirror I didn’t ask for. The cracks, the weight—they’re all too familiar. My fingers hover as I try to decide whether to deflect with humor or meet his vulnerability head-on. I glance at the notebook again, flipping it open to a page filled with scribbled half-thoughts and fragmented metaphors. *Cracks let the light in,* one line reads, underlined twice. I take a breath and choose honesty.
*me: maybe cracks aren’t a bad thing. they let the light in. or so a certain overly poetic stranger once told me.*
The dots appear again, hesitating, disappearing, then returning. I imagine him sitting there, debating, and the thought makes me smile despite myself.
*unknown stranger: touche. your turn—what’s your bridge like?*
It’s a simple question, but it throws me. I don’t talk about my bridges. I write about them, disguise them in fiction, tuck them away where they can’t be seen. But this—this feels raw. My thumb hovers over the keyboard as I wrestle with the temptation to keep my guard up. The notebook lies open beside me, its pages daring me to be braver than I feel.
*me: honestly? mine’s still under construction. i’ve got the beams, but i’m afraid if I try to cross it, i’ll fall right through.*
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable; it’s weighty, contemplative. When his response finally comes, it feels like a small gift.
*unknown stranger: maybe we’re both just learning as we go. no shame in that.*
I smile, a small, private thing that feels like it could pull me out of myself, just a little.
*me: no shame at all.*
---
Elliot
I set my phone down, the soft glow of the screen fading as I lean back in my chair. The model of the community center sits on my desk, half-assembled. The tiny wooden frames and glass panels mock me with their perfection—clean, precise, lifeless. I’ve spent hours trying to make the design feel human, to let the flaws in, but I’m stuck.
Her message lingers in my head: *Cracks let the light in.* It’s the kind of thing Clara might have said once, back when she believed in words like that. Before her silences grew sharp and her presence became suffocating.
I shake my head, banishing the thought. This isn’t about Clara. It’s about… her. The one on the other side of these messages. The one who doesn’t even know my name.
The anonymity is freeing in a way I can’t explain. I don’t have to be Elliot Grayson, the architect who peaked too early and has been trying to live up to that ever since. I don’t have to be the man left standing at the altar, surrounded by pitying stares. With her, I can just be.
I pick up my architect’s scale, its edges worn smooth from years of use, and run my thumb along its surface. The tool feels steady in my hand, a sharp contrast to the chaos in my head. I set it down and grab my phone, typing slowly.
*me: do you ever wish you could just… vanish for a while? escape everything and start over somewhere new?*
I set the phone down before I can overthink it and turn back to the model. My hands move on autopilot, rearranging the tiny pieces without purpose. The desk lamp casts long shadows over the workspace, its warm light barely reaching the corners of the room.
When my phone buzzes, I nearly knock over a section of the model in my haste to grab it.
*unknown stranger: all the time. but I think if I did, i’d just end up missing the mess I left behind.*
I laugh softly, startled by how much her words feel like my own.
*me: the mess feels safer, doesn’t it? at least it’s familiar.*
*unknown stranger: exactly. which is probably why I never go anywhere without my notebook. it’s like carrying my own little piece of chaos wherever I go.*
I pause, imagining her with a notebook. What’s in it? Stories? Sketches of a life she’s too afraid to live? I picture her scribbling under lamplight, pouring herself into the pages.
*me: sounds like my kind of chaos. tell me about it.*
Her response doesn’t come right away, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But then my phone lights up again.
*unknown stranger: it’s nothing special. just a bunch of half-finished thoughts and bad metaphors. i could never let anyone read it… it’s too personal. like, embarrassingly so.*
Her vulnerability startles me, though I’m not sure why. Maybe because I know exactly what it feels like to keep pieces of yourself locked away.
*me: sounds like it’s more special than you think. if it’s that personal, it probably means it matters.*
The pause this time stretches longer, and I imagine her sitting with her phone, debating. The thought makes me ache in a way I hadn’t expected.
When her message finally appears, it’s short but meaningful.
*unknown stranger: maybe. thanks for saying that.*
I smile to myself, a quiet thing that feels like it belongs only to me.
*me: anytime.*
---
Isla
The city outside my window is quiet, the streets washed in amber light from the old-fashioned streetlamps. My phone feels warm in my hand as I tuck it under my pillow, but sleep doesn’t come easily. His words echo in my mind. *If it’s that personal, it probably means it matters.*
I glance at my leather notebook on the bedside table, its weathered cover catching the light. My fingers trace the worn edges as if daring myself to open it. The pages inside are still blank in some places, mocking me every time I try to fill them. But tonight, the mocking feels softer, like maybe it’s daring me instead of taunting me. Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I’ll try again.
For now, though, I let myself drift, the sound of his words lulling me into something close to peace.
---
Elliot
The model on my desk is still unfinished, its clean lines and faultless symmetry staring back at me. But tonight, I feel lighter. Her words linger, soft and steady, like an echo I don’t want to end.
I pick up my architect’s scale again, running my thumb along its edges. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. Just like the bridge I’m trying to build—both on paper and in my life.
For the first time in weeks, I feel like I might be able to finish something. Maybe not tonight, but soon.
When I finally close my eyes, her words follow me into sleep. *Cracks let the light in.*
Maybe she’s right. Maybe they do.
