The Stranger I Choose

Every morning at six, Emma Brooks woke up to the sound of the train passing behind her apartment building.

It wasn't loud enough to be annoying anymore.

After almost two years of living there, it had become her alarm clock.

She reached across the tiny bedside table, silenced her phone before it could ring, and stretched beneath the faded cream blanket. Morning sunlight slipped through the thin white curtains, painting warm stripes across the room.

The apartment was barely thirty square meters.

Small enough that she could stand in the middle and see almost everything at once.

A neatly made bed sat against one wall. Beside it was a white bookshelf overflowing with architecture books she bought secondhand.

The opposite wall was decorated with postcards, tiny sketches of buildings she'd drawn during boring lectures, and a corkboard covered with sticky notes reminding her of deadlines.

Near the window stood a tiny wooden table she'd rescued from a flea market and painted herself.

It wasn't luxurious.

The wallpaper peeled near the ceiling, the bathroom faucet squeaked, and the tiny kitchen barely fit one person.

But it was hers.

Every choice inside this room belonged to her.

Emma smiled to herself.

"I like it here."

She always whispered those words every morning.

As if reminding herself this life was real.

After washing up, she tied her long dark hair into a loose ponytail before opening the refrigerator.

Half a carton of milk.

Eggs.

Butter.

A bag of flour.

Nothing fancy.

She quickly toasted yesterday's leftover salt bread, spread a little butter over the warm crust, and poured herself a cup of instant coffee.

Breakfast cost less than two dollars.

She liked it that way.

Simple.

Predictable.

Safe.

Outside, bicycles rolled along the quiet street while elderly neighbors watered tiny gardens in front of their homes.

Emma slipped on her worn sneakers, grabbed her canvas tote bag, and locked the apartment behind her.

Her university was almost an hour away.

Most students rented apartments close to campus.

Emma couldn't afford that.

Instead, she chose the cheapest apartment she could find, even if it meant taking two buses every morning.

She didn't mind.

The ride gave her time to sketch.

Today, she spent the journey drawing the old train station she'd passed countless times.

Lines.

Shadows.

Perspective.

Architecture wasn't just her major.

It was the first dream she'd ever been allowed to have.

...

"Emma!"

She looked up as soon as she entered the design studio.

Her best friend, Lily, waved a ruler in the air.

"You're late."

"I have five minutes."

"Which is practically late."

Emma laughed, slipping into the empty seat beside her.

Large sheets of tracing paper already covered every table while students argued over structural calculations and façade designs.

Professor Harris walked in carrying a stack of portfolios.

"I hope everyone slept well," he announced.

"Because today..."

He smiled.

"...you're redesigning a public library."

A chorus of exhausted groans filled the classroom.

Emma quietly smiled.

Libraries were her favorite.

For the next three hours, she disappeared into floor plans, elevations, and tiny pencil lines that slowly transformed blank paper into a building she wished existed.

Sometimes...

When she drew beautiful spaces...

She imagined people finding peace inside them.

Maybe because she knew exactly how precious peace was.

...

Classes ended just after three.

Most of her friends headed to cafés.

Emma headed to work.

The little bakery sat three streets away from campus.

A small bell chimed as she pushed open the glass door.

"I'm here!"

The scent of butter welcomed her before anyone else did.

"Perfect timing."

Mrs. Alvarez, the bakery owner, peeked out from the kitchen.

"The second batch is waiting."

Emma immediately washed her hands and tied on her apron.

Making bread had become her favorite part of the day.

Especially salt bread.

She measured flour without needing a scale anymore.

Added softened butter.

Yeast.

Sugar.

Milk.

Then kneaded the dough patiently against the wooden table.

Push.

Fold.

Turn.

Repeat.

"It's like therapy," Lily always said after watching her once.

Emma thought so too.

The world always felt quieter while baking.

Especially when shaping her signature salt bread.

Each piece received the same careful attention.

A thin layer of butter.

A gentle roll.

A sprinkle of flaky sea salt.

Nothing rushed.

Nothing careless.

Mrs. Alvarez often joked that Emma treated bread the way architects treated buildings.

With patience.

Precision.

Love.

Forty minutes later...

The first tray came out of the oven.

Golden brown.

Crispy outside.

Soft inside.

The smell of butter filled the bakery.

A customer took one bite and smiled.

"This is the best salt bread I've ever had."

Mrs. Alvarez immediately pointed toward Emma.

"Tell her."

The elderly man turned.

"You made these?"

Emma nodded shyly.

"They're wonderful."

"Thank you."

"You'll make someone very happy one day."

Emma froze for the smallest moment.

Then smiled politely.

"I hope so."

...

By the time she finished her shift, the sky had turned orange.

She walked toward the bus stop carrying a paper bag with two unsold salt breads Mrs. Alvarez insisted she take home every evening.

"You need feeding more than my trash bin does," the older woman always said.

Emma never argued.

Back in her apartment, she showered, changed into an oversized sweater, and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the low table.

Architecture assignment.

One salt bread.

One cup of tea.

Rain tapping gently against the window.

It wasn't an exciting life.

There were no luxury.

Just lectures.

Bread.

Drawings.

And a tiny apartment that somehow felt more like home than anywhere she'd ever lived.

Her phone buzzed.

Lily

You seriously need a boyfriend.

Emma rolled her eyes before replying.

I need sleep.

Another message arrived immediately.

Same thing.

Emma laughed.

Then another.

D******d HeartMatch.

Just talk to people.

You don't have to fall in love.

Emma stared at the app icon Lily had just sent.

For a long moment...

She didn't move.

Maybe...

Talking to a stranger couldn't hurt.

Could it?