Letters from a Stranger
Story of a man who struggles with connection yet keeps searching for belonging, one season at a time.
Glimpses into the life of Eli Cross — a guitar playing seasonal worker drifting from orchards to fairs to winter lots, carrying a pocket full of keepsakes from the people he meets. Eli lives with autism and ADHD (AuDHD), so his days run on intense bursts of focus, sensory overwhelm, and awkward exchanges. He notices details most people miss, but loses track of time and relationships.
Each vignette is a “letter” from his journey: a moment you can step into, read in any order, and slowly piece together into the larger story of his search for belonging.
Before You Read
For years, I’ve written articles about life with autism, ADHD, and the messy business of being human. But stories are where my heart’s been nudging me. They let me slip under the surface of ideas instead of just explaining them.
This is the first glimpse of a new experiment: following a recurring character — a restless traveler named Eli Cross — through short stories capturing moments. You’ll see his AuDHD show up in sensory stress, awkward moments, a scattered brain, his collection of keepsakes, and moments of connection.
Each vignette stands alone, but together they sketch out a larger journey about belonging, identity, relationships, and what it means to be human with AuDHD in a world with relentless expectations.
Story # 1: Play Something Happy
The bus hissed as Eli eased it into the gravel lot of the town’s only diner. The paint on the sign had peeled to a wordless gray, like the place had stopped trying to advertise. He shut off the engine, sat back, and felt the quiet land on his shoulders like a weight. He pressed his fingers against the steering wheel three times, a ritual he used to steady the rush of noise still clanging in his head.
A single coin rolled across the dashboard. He caught it, flipped it once, and dropped it into the side pocket of his duffel with the rest of his little trophies. His bag was a sensory scrapbook — pressed clover from Missouri, a token from a girl in Nebraska who’d asked him to “play something happy,” the stub of a bus ticket with his mother’s name scribbled on the back. Collecting these memories was how he stayed connected to his life.
He climbed down from the driver’s seat, guitar case in hand, and pushed through the diner door. A bell jingled. The air smelled of burnt coffee and fried hope. He smiled at the waitress, who was young enough to still believe strangers might be good news.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Yeah. Whatever’s been sitting longest,” Eli said.
She laughed, which felt like a small victory.
He slid into a booth by the window. Outside, a man was patching a tire on a rust-bitten pickup. Inside, the jukebox coughed out an old Hank Williams song. The echo of twang and clatter made his chest tight, but he scribbled anyway. Eli took out his notebook and wrote a single line:
“A man collects pieces of the road so he won’t forget where he’s been — or who he’s been.”
He stared at it. Crossed it out. Wrote it again. Words didn’t always come out the way they sounded in his head. But trying to calm the noise.
The waitress brought his coffee.
“You’re the new bus driver?” she asked.
“For now,” he said. “But I’ll be gone before the salt washes off the roads.”
“That a promise or a threat?”
“Just how it goes.”
Her nametag read Anna. She set down a slice of pie he hadn’t ordered.
“On the house,” she said. “You look like somebody who could use something sweet.”
“Thank you,” he said, a real smile this time.
He thought about leaving the coin on the table, giving it back to the universe. Instead, he palmed it like a secret. In a week, this town would be a dot in his rearview mirror. But tonight, with pie crumbs on his plate, a sunburst coin in his pocket, and a brain buzzing with too much and too little at once, it almost felt like staying.
After You Read
If Eli felt real to you, then mission accomplished. I’m trying to write small, honest slices of a wandering life — moments where the masks come off and the heart shows. His AuDHD isn’t a label here so much as a lens: it shapes what he notices, what he carries, how he moves, and why belonging feels like both a magnet and a maze.
Your feedback helps me more of what you want. Did a line land with you? Did a detail spark a memory? Drop me a comment and share this story. This project will grow week by week, and you’re welcome to ride along.