Chapter 3 — Echoes of Uncertainty
Chris Evans
Chris Evans sat cross-legged on his worn leather couch, a cheap sketchpad balanced on his knee, the tip of his pencil hovering just above the page. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a mismatched floor lamp in the corner, its light pooling over the cluttered coffee table in front of him. Stacks of books on design, art, and philosophy towered precariously, and scattered across their surfaces were half-empty coffee mugs and a few crumpled sketches. He tapped the pencil against the pad, his mind far from the half-drawn figure on the page.
The ticking of the clock on the wall filled the quiet. It was a sound he usually found soothing, a metronome to his thoughts. Tonight, though, it felt oppressive, as though every second it tracked was another one wasted. The drawing in front of him—a line sketch of a bridge he’d seen on one of his walks through the park—was uninspired, its strokes lacking the vitality he craved. He sighed and dropped the pencil onto the pad with a soft thud, leaning back against the couch cushions.
His gaze drifted to the bay window across the room, where the faint glow of streetlights crept through the curtains. The window’s ledge was cluttered with a pile of unfinished sketches, their edges curling slightly from evenings when he’d forgotten to close the window after a late-night burst of inspiration. Among them, half-hidden under a coffee-stained notebook, was an old sketchbook—one his mother had given him years ago. The worn cover bore the faint outline of her handwritten inscription on the inside: “For when the world overwhelms you, create your own.”
Chris felt the familiar pang of loss, sharp and sudden. He hadn’t opened that sketchbook in years, unable to face the memories tied to it. His mother had always been his greatest supporter, encouraging his art even when it felt like no one else believed in it. The thought of her brought both comfort and pain, a bittersweet reminder of what he’d lost and what he feared he’d never live up to.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, breaking through the stillness. Chris glanced at the screen, his father’s name flashing across it like a warning. For a long moment, he debated letting it go to voicemail, but his thumb betrayed him, and he answered with a neutral, “Hey.”
“Chris.” His father’s voice was clipped, the way it always was when he was trying not to sound annoyed. “I was going through some old papers today and came across your grad school transcripts. Thought you might want them back.”
Chris stared at the beer bottle on the table, his throat tightening. “Can’t imagine I need those for anything,” he said, forcing a lightness into his tone. “They’re not exactly useful these days.”
“You don’t know that,” his father pressed. “Could still go back, finish what you started. You had a promising future there.”
“Had being the key word.” Chris set the beer down with a soft clink. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever. “Look, I’m just...” He trailed off, searching for an excuse. “I’m working on something right now. Can we talk later?”
“I don’t mean to nag, son,” his father replied, but the resignation in his voice cut worse than frustration would have. “I just want you to be happy. To do something worthwhile.”
The call ended shortly after, leaving Chris staring at his phone, the weight of his father’s words settling like a stone in his chest. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake the guilt and frustration coiled there, but it lingered, as it always did.
He pushed himself off the couch and wandered to the kitchen. It wasn’t far—nothing in the small apartment was. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, cracking it open as he leaned against the counter. His eyes fell to the fridge door, where a handful of magnets pinned random postcards and notes from Jake, his best friend and fellow coworker, who had apparently made it his life’s mission to keep Chris laughing. One postcard, sent from some forgettable corporate conference Jake had attended, read: “You’re not missing much except the free mini bottles of vodka. I’m stealing a few for you. XO, Jake.”
Chris smiled faintly and took a sip of beer. Jake would probably drag him out for a drink soon enough, if only to berate him for being too much of a hermit. He was grateful for that in a way he rarely voiced. Jake had a knack for knowing when Chris needed someone to shake him out of his introspection.
Still, Chris couldn’t shake the tension in his chest. His father’s criticism clung to him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. It wasn’t that Chris didn’t want to do something worthwhile. He just hadn’t figured out what “worthwhile” meant to him yet. And every time his father brought it up, the pressure to define it felt suffocating.
With a groan, Chris grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, the cool night air hitting him like a reset button. The walk to The Rusty Anchor wasn’t long, and by the time he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the warm, salty scent of fried food and beer enveloped him, a welcome contrast to the chill outside.
Jake was already there, stationed at their usual booth in the back corner. He greeted Chris with a grin, raising his pint glass in mock salute. “Look who decided to join the land of the living.”
Chris slid into the booth with a faint smile. “Needed a break from staring at my own failures.”
Jake snorted. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Nothing like overpriced beer and questionable nachos to put life in perspective.”
Chris ordered a drink, letting Jake’s humor chip away at some of the tension in his shoulders. For a while, he even forgot the weight of his father’s words, caught up in Jake’s animated retelling of an argument between two colleagues over the correct font size for a presentation. But as the night wore on and the bar buzzed with chatter, Chris found himself staring into his glass again, Jake’s voice fading into the background. The questions he’d been avoiding all evening pressed against his mind once more. What was he doing? What did he want, really want, out of life? And, more importantly, why couldn’t he seem to figure it out?
Jake nudged his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Hey. You okay? You’ve been quiet.”
Chris offered a faint smile, though it felt hollow. “Just thinking. You know me, always overthinking everything.”
Jake leaned back in his seat, studying him with a rare seriousness. “You’ve gotta stop beating yourself up, man. You’re not as lost as you think you are. You’ve just got to pick something and go for it. Even if it’s not perfect.”
Chris nodded, though the advice felt easier said than done. Jake might have meant it casually, but his words echoed uncomfortably close to something Chris’s mother had once told him. “Just take the next step, Chris. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just one step.”
As Chris walked home later, the city felt quieter. He glanced at the park as he passed, its empty benches illuminated by streetlights. The memory of his mother’s voice lingered in his mind, soft but firm, urging him forward. He looked up at the skyline, the stars barely visible against the glow of the city lights, and wondered what his next step would be.
