I could see the cab driver staring at me, worry etched across his face, but what he had said still lingered in my mind.
"What did you say?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I… I'm sorry if it was sudden, but I recognized you," he said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "You're Aubrey Everhart—the author. I'm a big fan."
"What?!" I leaned back in my seat, eyes wide. "Are you sure that's really what you said? Because I don't like fans lying to me."
"I'm being sincere," he replied, honesty vivid in every word. "I said nothing else. Is… everything alright?" He kept his eyes on me through the rearview mirror.
"Ye… yes. Everything's fine. Can you just drive and focus on the road, please?" I forced a smile.
"Sure," he said, turning his attention forward, though I could see him stealing glances at me every few seconds. I knew he had a question brewing—fans never run out of them.
"Fine, go ahead. Ask at least one," I said, half teasing.
"What? No… no, I don't have any questions," he stammered, though I knew he was lying.
"Wait, really?" I raised an eyebrow.
"Fine," he admitted reluctantly. "I have just one. Aren't you a big author… why are you paying for a cab when you could have a flashy car and bodyguards to take you around?"
I chuckled softly. "You're really sharp for a cab driver. Other fans would've asked for spoilers from my trilogy, but you… you asked an honest question." I leaned back, a small smile on my lips. "I'm not like others. I'm unique. And besides, I prefer old-fashioned cabs to flashy cars."
"Oh… that's actually very charming," he said with a smile. "May I say, I'm deeply drawn to the way you write. You write as if you are the characters. Your stories don't offer false hope or pretend that suffering always ends beautifully—because in reality, it doesn't. When I read your books, I feel seen."
As a writer, praise wasn't new to me. I should've been used to it by now. But this wasn't empty flattery or casual admiration. There was something deeper in his words, something honest—and it filled me with a quiet, genuine happiness.
"I have a question for you," I said after a moment. "Which of my stories do you connect with the most?"
"I love all your books," he replied, "but Priceless stays with me the most." His expression turned bittersweet. "Joanna's journey—from chasing money to finding peace after losing everything—meant a lot to me. Ending up back at stage one, yet finally understanding happiness… it reminded me of my own life."
Emotion tightened my chest. "Wow," I said softly. "I can tell things didn't turn out the way you imagined. But I'm glad my characters showed you that you're not alone."
The ride, once quiet, had turned into an emotional whirlwind. Thankfully, we had arrived at my apartment. I thanked him, said my goodbye, and stepped out of the cab.
Sometimes, a writer's happiness isn't found in loud praise or exaggerated compliments. It lives in the quiet moments—in the thoughtful questions, in knowing someone truly connected with the characters. That man was a perfect example of that.
Yet as I walked upstairs, a chill crept over me.
I remembered what I thought I'd heard him say earlier. Or had I imagined it? There was no way he could've seen my new book—it wasn't even finished, let alone released. And he'd looked genuinely confused when I asked him about it.
So what was that?
Maybe Ray was right.
Maybe I really did need a vacation.
Because it felt like all the constant writing was slowly leaking my imagination into reality.