Josie spent the rest of the afternoon sitting at the edge of her bed, holding the note Adrian had left on the apartment door. She reread it three times before setting it carefully inside the drawer of her bedside table, as though it were something fragile.
Don't overthink it, she told herself. Maybe he leaves notes for everyone.
But that didn't seem right. Adrian didn't look like the type of man who wasted ink on unnecessary words.
Her roommate — Lila, she had finally remembered from the original owner's messages — poked her head in.
"You ready to head out soon?"
Josie blinked. "Already?"
"It's nearly six," Lila said. "And you know the group meeting starts at six-thirty. If you come in late again, Mrs. Pearl will glare you into dust."
Josie winced. "Right. Mrs. Pearl."
Whoever that was.
Lila tossed a sweater her way. "Wear this. It looks cute on you."
Josie caught it. Soft knit, pale blue, a little oversized — simple but warm. Unlike anything she owned in her old life. She pulled it on, paired it with dark jeans, and followed Lila out into the early evening air.
---
The community center was only a ten-minute walk. It was small, the kind of place where local hobbyists and retirees gathered, with flyers taped to walls advertising pottery classes, yoga, and book swaps. Lila peeled away with a cheerful wave — she had her own dance club meeting — leaving Josie to navigate alone.
Inside the writing group room, a semicircle of chairs waited, half filled with faces she didn't recognize. An elderly woman with sharp glasses and an even sharper expression looked up first.
"Josie," she said, adjusting her spectacles. "You're on time today."
So that was Mrs. Pearl.
"I'm… trying," Josie replied.
Mrs. Pearl hummed, as if reserving judgment.
A man with messy hair and a warm grin waved her over. "Sit here! Your seat from last week."
Josie sat tentatively. He leaned close.
"I've been curious all day," he whispered. "Did you finish the short story you were working on?"
Her stomach dropped.
"Um… remind me which one that was?"
He chuckled. "The one with the girl who forgets everything every morning. You said it was inspired by your own life."
Josie nodded slowly. "Right. That one."
She had no idea what "that one" was.
Before anyone could question her further, Mrs. Pearl clapped her hands.
"Everyone, phones off, notebooks out. Today we're sharing whatever we wrote this week." Her gaze swept the circle. "And yes, that includes you, Josie."
Josie froze.
She had written nothing.
She wasn't even the original Josie.
She flipped open her notebook — the one she used at the café — and stared at the blank pages. On instinct, her hand moved, and words poured out faster than she expected. Not perfect. Not elegant. But honest.
She wrote about waking up in a life that wasn't hers.
About fear disguised as confusion.
About lavender-scented rooms and strangers who knew her name.
When Mrs. Pearl called on her, Josie swallowed her nerves and read it aloud.
Silence followed.
Then Mrs. Pearl nodded — slowly, but approvingly.
"That," she said, "is the most genuine thing you've written in months."
Heat rose to Josie's cheeks. The others nodded, offering small smiles of encouragement. Relief washed over her like warm sunlight.
Maybe she could do this.
Maybe she could belong here.
---
The meeting ended an hour later. People trickled out, chatting about novels and busy schedules. Josie slung her bag over her shoulder and stepped into the cool evening.
Then she froze.
Adrian stood at the corner of the street.
Leaning against a lamppost. Arms crossed. Eyes already fixed on her.
Her pulse skipped.
He pushed off the post and walked toward her. "You're out late."
"It's barely seven-thirty," she said before thinking.
He raised an eyebrow. "For you, that's late."
Right. The original Josie must've kept an early schedule.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
He seemed to hesitate — a rare moment of uncertainty cracking his calm exterior — before answering.
"I was passing by."
She didn't buy it for a second.
But she didn't say so.
He looked at the community center door behind her. "You went to your writing group."
She blinked. "How do you know about that?"
"You mentioned it once," he replied.
He remembered? The old Josie must've told him. But… why had she? Were they closer than she thought? Acquaintances? Friends? Something more?
He held out a small paper bag. "You didn't come to the café after your shift to grab lunch. So I brought you something."
Josie stared at him.
"…Why?"
Adrian looked at her like the answer was obvious. "Because you forget to eat when you're stressed."
"I—" She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. "I'm really not that forgetful."
"Yes. You are."
The certainty in his voice shut her up instantly.
She took the bag gently. "Thank you."
He nodded and stepped aside, ready to leave — but stopped, as though changing his mind.
"Josie."
She looked up.
He studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing just slightly, as if noticing the differences she tried so hard to hide.
"You seem… different lately."
Her breath caught.
"Is something wrong?" he asked quietly.
The kind of question only someone who cared would ask.
"No," she managed. "Nothing's wrong."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push either. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the street.
"Walk home with me."
It wasn't a request.
But it wasn't a command either.
It was an offer — steady and warm in its own quiet way.
Josie nodded.
They walked side by side through the dimly lit streets. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. If anything, it felt strangely grounding. She caught him glancing at her once or twice, almost as if trying to memorize her.
When they reached her building, he stopped.
"Good night," he said.
"Good night," she whispered.
He took one step back — and paused again.
"Josie?"
"Yes?"
"If you need anything," he said softly, "tell me."
Her chest tightened.
"Okay."
He walked away, disappearing around the corner with quiet, measured steps.
Josie stood there long after he was gone, clutching the warm paper bag she didn't remember earning, wondering why a man she barely knew felt more familiar than her own reflection.