Chapter 3 — Return to Sender

Evelyn Hart

The sharp rattle of the intercom jarred Evelyn from her thoughts. She had been staring at the blank page on her laptop screen for the better part of an hour, the cursor blinking like a metronome for her doubt. The small desk lamp cast a pool of light over the chaos of her workspace—half-filled coffee mugs, crumpled drafts, and a scattering of pens that seemed to mock her inability to create. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath her chair.

She pushed back from the desk, the chair’s legs scraping against the worn hardwood floors of her studio apartment. Who would be buzzing at this hour? Her eyes darted to the fire escape plants visible through the smudged glass of her window, their leaves curling softly in the golden evening light. The faint scent of coffee and ink clung to the air, grounding her for a moment before she stood, her heart thudding.

Dragging herself to the door, Evelyn pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

“Uh…” The male voice, hesitant and crackling through the speaker, struck a faint chord of recognition. “I think this belongs to you.”

She frowned, leaning closer to the intercom. “Who is this?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended.

“Adrian,” the voice said after a beat. “Russo. I’m the cab driver. You left something behind last night.”

Her heart plummeted, then shot into her throat. The journal. A wave of panic flared, hot and immediate, as though her entire world had been exposed to the harsh city lights. Did he open it? Did he read anything? She pressed her palm flat against the doorframe, grounding herself against the sudden rush of anxiety. Her hand faltered on the intercom button, her pulse hammering in her ears. “One second,” she said quickly, her voice tight, before buzzing him in.

The faint creak of the stairs echoed through the building as he ascended, each step amplifying her worry. What if he’d read even a single page? Her mind flashed to a recent entry—half-poetry, half-confession, laced with raw vulnerability she’d never admit to anyone, let alone a stranger. She wrapped her arms around herself as if that could shield her from what was coming. The apartment felt smaller now, the clutter of books, coffee mugs, and scattered papers closing in. She paced in a tight circle before finally stopping, taking a shallow breath, then a deeper one.

The knock was deliberate, unhurried. Evelyn hesitated for a fraction of a second before opening the door. Standing in the dim hallway was Adrian, her leather journal in hand. He was taller than she remembered, his lean frame clad in a dark jacket zipped just over a worn T-shirt. His tousled dark hair fell over his brow, and his piercing blue eyes held hers for a moment before flickering down to the journal.

“You—” she began, but her words faltered as her gaze landed on the journal. Her voice dropped to something between incredulity and accusation. “How did you—?”

“You left it in my cab,” Adrian said simply, holding it out to her. His voice was calm, undercut by a faint rasp, but there was something in his tone—curiosity, maybe—that made her chest twist.

Evelyn reached for the journal and clutched it to her chest, the worn leather cool beneath her fingers. Relief mixed with unease as she tightened her grip on the frayed edges. Her voice came out clipped, brimming with tension. “Thank you.”

She studied him carefully, her mind racing with questions she didn’t dare ask. Had he skimmed through the pages? Did he know what this journal held—the raw pieces of her, scattered in ink and margins? Her fingers curled protectively around its spine.

Adrian seemed to sense the storm behind her silence. “I didn’t read it,” he said, as though preempting her thoughts. His voice was steady, but his expression softened slightly, betraying an undertone of sincerity.

Her eyes shot up to meet his. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head slowly, his gaze steady but guarded. “Didn’t seem like my business.”

Relief washed over her in an uneven wave, loosening the tight coil in her chest, though doubt lingered at the edges. Her voice softened but still carried a wary edge. “Oh. Well, good.”

Adrian tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her continued skepticism. “Look, I can’t prove it,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “but trust me—I didn’t.”

Her cheeks warmed, embarrassment threading through her. Here was a man—a stranger—who had gone out of his way to return something precious, yet she stood here treating him like a trespasser. She bit her lip, trying to steady herself. “Thank you,” she said again, quieter this time. “For bringing it back. I… I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost it.”

Adrian shrugged, his posture relaxed but not indifferent. “Figured it was important. The way the cover’s all worn, the pages stuffed with—” He stopped himself, his gaze flickering to the journal as though realizing he’d said too much. “I mean, it looked like it mattered.”

“It does,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “More than I can explain.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quite awkward but was charged with too many unspoken things. Evelyn shifted her weight, the journal still pressed to her chest. “Do you… want to come in for a minute? I—I mean, if you’re not in a rush or anything.”

Adrian seemed taken aback by the offer, his brows lifting slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, hesitating just long enough to make her regret asking. Then, finally, he said, “Sure.”

She stepped aside, letting him into the small apartment. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Evelyn regretted it. The clutter—the books stacked precariously on every surface, the coffee mugs crowding the sink, the jungle of mismatched potted plants on the fire escape—felt overwhelming to her now in his presence. She flitted around nervously, clearing a stack of papers from the only chair that wasn’t part of her desk.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Adrian waved a hand dismissively as he moved to the chair. “Trust me, I’ve seen worse,” he said with a faint smirk, lowering himself into the seat with an ease that somehow made the space feel less chaotic.

Evelyn perched on the edge of her bed, which doubled as her couch, unsure how to fill the silence. Adrian seemed content to take in the room—his gaze pausing briefly on the fire escape outside the window before returning to her.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat. “You’re a cab driver.”

Adrian chuckled, low and dry. “That’s what the license says.”

“Do you like it?” she asked, genuinely curious.

He shrugged, leaning back slightly in his seat. “It’s a job. Pays the bills, keeps me moving. Though sometimes…” He trailed off, his expression flickering with something she couldn’t quite place. “Sometimes it’s more interesting than you’d expect.”

“Interesting how?”

“People,” he said simply. “They get in, they talk, they leave. Strangers telling you things they probably wouldn’t admit to anyone else. Guess the anonymity makes it easier.”

Evelyn’s writer’s mind latched onto the thought, spinning it into something larger. “Strangers in transit,” she murmured. “There’s something poetic about that.”

Adrian’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “If you’re into that kind of thing.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “And you’re not?”

“Never said that.”

Their banter, light and easy, settled over the room like a warm quilt, and for a moment, Evelyn forgot the journal in her lap. She studied him more openly now—the guarded way he carried himself, the sharp humor that deflected personal questions. He reminded her of one of her characters, a man haunted by his past but too proud to admit it.

Adrian caught her staring and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, looking away. “Just… thinking.”

He didn’t press her, but something about the way he regarded her made her feel as though he could see straight through her defenses. She wasn’t sure if that unnerved her or intrigued her more.

“Well,” Adrian said after a pause, rising to his feet. “I should probably let you get back to…” He gestured vaguely at the desk piled with papers. “…whatever you were working on.”

Evelyn stood too, suddenly reluctant to let the moment end. “Right. Of course.”

Adrian moved toward the door but stopped just short of opening it. He turned back to her, his expression softer now, almost thoughtful. “You know,” he said slowly, “whatever’s in that journal—it’s worth something. Even if no one else sees it.”

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, striking a chord she hadn’t realized was there. She opened her mouth to respond, but he had already stepped into the hallway.

“Take care, Evelyn,” he said, his voice low but warm.

“You too,” she replied, the door closing behind him.

She lingered there for a moment, clutching the journal to her chest. His parting words echoed in her mind, unearthing something in her—something gentle, yet persistent. Finally, she returned to her desk, flipping open the journal to a blank page. For the first time in weeks, the words came, flowing like an unbroken current.