The Lives We Didn't Choose (AJS Roleplaying x Kita-san)

[AJS Roleplaying]

The Lives We Didn't Choose A Roleplay Brought to You By: ​

Adrian 'AJ' Carlson Jr. written by AJS Roleplaying ​

Verena "Rena" Bristol written by Kita-san ​

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[AJS Roleplaying]

The city never slept, but AJ Carlson had become very good at pretending he didn't hear it.

From the twenty-fourth floor of their glass-and-steel apartment building, the noise filtered in like fog - soft, constant, uninvited. Even at this hour, sirens howled like wounded wolves in the distance, muffled by thick windows and thicker silence. AJ sat alone at the dining table, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a half-drunk glass of Scotch sweating into a ring on the oak surface. The table had been imported from Denmark. Serena had insisted. Everything in their home had a price tag that spoke louder than the people who lived inside it.

He tapped his pencil against the edge of a sketchbook, eyes fixed on the half-formed lines of a tower that didn't exist. Not yet, anyway. The page showed only a rough outline - soft arches where modern buildings now refused to bend, ivy tracing up brickwork that hadn't been laid. A bell tower without a bell. A home without a door. AJ pressed the lead harder until it snapped. He didn't flinch. Just leaned back, ran a hand through his hair, and exhaled slowly. The pencil landed in the tray beside others just like it. Broken. Quiet. Waiting to be sharpened again.

It wasn't always like this. Once, there was joy in the work. In college, he'd stay up until three in the morning with graphite smudged across his cheekbones, drunk on possibility. His professors used to say he built with feeling. Not just logic, not just ratios or lines of best fit - but heart. That was what set him apart. Now he restored history like a surgeon stitches flesh - technically precise, emotionally detached. It paid well. He made partner three years ago. Carlson & Denton was known for breathing new life into structures others had written off as too far gone. Churches turned into libraries. Row homes reborn as boutique hotels. AJ had a knack for honouring what a building was, even as he transformed it into what it could be. Clients praised him for his vision, his steadiness, his professionalism. None of them knew he spent more time walking half-demolished buildings at night than he did sleeping. He rubbed his eyes. The Scotch was burning now. Good. At least it made him feel something. Across the room, the clock ticked like it was mocking him.

2:12 a.m.

He stood, chair legs whispering across the hardwood, and moved toward the window. The city sprawled below - dark silhouettes of buildings against a sky not quite black. Lights flickered in the distance, dancing between steel and smoke. Somewhere, a train screamed its way across the bridge. Somewhere, someone was being born, someone was dying, someone was falling in love. AJ pressed his forehead to the cool glass. Watched his breath fog and fade. In the reflection, he looked like a man on the outside of his own life.

Thirty-six.

He was thirty-six years old and already felt ancient. Not in body - he still jogged every morning, still took the stairs instead of the elevator - but in spirit. Like some essential part of him had gone still. He didn't know when it happened. Probably slowly. Quietly. Like rot beneath paint. Sometimes, when he was walking through yet another crumbling cathedral or gutted theatre, he'd feel it - an ache, low and dull, like he was standing inside a metaphor too obvious to ignore. These places had once held light, laughter, wonder. Now they held dust and echoes. But he restored them, didn't he? Gave them back their purpose. Their grace. So why couldn't he do the same for himself?

A light flipped on in the building across the street. A woman in a robe moved through her kitchen, slow and unhurried, pouring something into a mug. She didn't look rushed. Didn't look haunted. AJ found himself wondering what it was like to move through your own space like you belonged in it. He blinked and turned away. The bedroom was dark when he slipped inside. The bed was still made perfectly on one side, covers undisturbed. Serena hadn't come home. Again. He didn't check his phone. Didn't need to. There'd be a message somewhere - "Late deposition," or "Staying at the office tonight" - but the details didn't matter. The outcome was the same. Another night alone in a marriage that looked like success from the outside and felt like abandonment from within.

He peeled off his shirt, folded it neatly over the back of a chair, and crawled beneath the cold sheets. Sleep didn't come easy anymore. Not because of nightmares, but because of the quiet. The quiet reminded him of what he used to want. Of a life that felt lived-in, not curated. Of love that didn't feel like a performance. He remembered Sunday mornings in the little coastal town where he grew up—bare feet on weathered floorboards, the smell of coffee and sea air mixing in the kitchen. His dad humming Sinatra as he fixed the porch railing. His mom dancing barefoot with a paintbrush between her fingers.

That house had long since been sold. His father, gone six years now. His mother had moved inland, closer to his sister and the grandchildren she doted on. AJ didn't call enough. He told himself it was the hours. The deadlines. But really, it was harder to pretend everything was fine when someone who loved you was listening. He stared at the ceiling. He'd designed this apartment himself. Sleek lines, open spaces, everything in its place. But it didn't feel like home. It never had. The walls didn't know his laughter. The rooms didn't remember his joy. He'd built it like he built everything lately—with clinical detachment and an eye for resale value. His hand found the edge of the nightstand, fingers brushing over a half-finished sketch tucked beneath a book. A lighthouse. Crumbling, wind-battered, standing alone on a cliff. He hadn't drawn it on purpose. It had just… happened.

He wondered if that meant anything. Probably not. He closed his eyes. And dreamed of salt in the air, wood beneath his feet, and a light—flickering faintly—calling out across the dark.​

 

[Kita-san]

Life used to be good—at least, it felt that way once. But for Verena, the color had drained from everything she once loved. The things that used to spark her joy—her art, her city, her relationship—had dulled to a lifeless gray. The descent had begun the moment cracks formed in her relationship with James. And now, it felt like she was living inside those cracks.

7:30 PM

Verena locked the doors to the art gallery earlier than usual. Her heels echoed across the polished hardwood floors as she rushed down the corridor, the rhythmic taps beating out her nervous anticipation. Tonight was supposed to matter. James had asked her to dinner—a rare invitation these days—and for the first time in what felt like months, a fragile thread of hope had stitched itself into her chest. Maybe this is the turning point, she thought, clutching her coat tighter as she stepped into the crisp evening air. Maybe he realizes he still loves me. That he misses me. Her lips curled into a cautious smile as she spotted her ride pulling up—a sleek black car that looked like it belonged in a CEO's driveway.

She opened the door—and her heart plummeted. "Earl?" she said, blinking in confusion. James's assistant offered her a sympathetic smile. "Good evening, Verena. I'm afraid James had to work late. He sends his apologies. He asked me to take you to dinner and then home." Verena stood frozen, her hand still on the car door. The warmth drained from her face as Earl continued, offering some hollow assurance that James would make it up to her.

Again.

The word echoed in her mind like a dull bell. Her smile vanished. Her throat tightened. Anger didn't even rise up this time—it was buried under too many layers of disappointment, layered so thick they'd hardened into numbness. She closed the door without a word and turned away, walking briskly in the opposite direction. Earl's voice called after her, distant and unnecessary.

Why would he even think this was okay? she thought bitterly. Why send his assistant—like I'm just another meeting on his schedule?

She disappeared into the crowd, her steps quickening with each heartbeat. The night had grown colder, and the city lights blurred behind a sheen of unshed tears. The air felt heavy with the kind of sadness that couldn't be cried out—only carried.

She kept walking.

The elevator hummed quietly as it carried her to the top floor of an old industrial building converted into studios. She stepped into her sanctuary—her art studio—a vast, open space flooded with soft light and the smell of clay, paint, and solitude. The moment the door clicked shut, she dropped her purse. Then her coat. She moved through the room like a ghost with a purpose, pulling a slab of brown clay from a nearby shelf, her hands finding tools and shapes without conscious thought. The familiar texture grounded her, but it did little to silence the ache inside.

Hours passed. The city outside dimmed, but Verena didn't notice. The world faded as her hands shaped and molded—an automatic rhythm born of muscle memory and years of practice. She didn't stop until her stomach growled at midnight, reminding her she hadn't eaten. She looked down at the finished sculpture. Elegant. Intricate. But hollow. Just another pretty thing without meaning. Without love. With a sharp breath, Verena pressed her palms into it, flattening the piece in one decisive movement. Her breath hitched in her throat as she forced herself not to cry. Slowly her attention turned to feeding herself and getting some rest. The other side of the studio resembled a minimalist loft: a small kitchen, a private bathroom, and a full-sized bed she had added for nights just like this. Nights when she couldn't go home. When her heart was too heavy to sleep in the same space as its disappointment.

She reheated a small container of leftover pasta and ate it in silence, staring at nothing. Eventually, she crawled into bed, pulling the blanket over her with a weight she couldn't explain. Maybe tomorrow will be different, she thought, though her heart already knew better.
Still, hope—fragile, stubborn, and foolish—clung to her in the dark.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

The first thing AJ noticed when he woke up was the silence. Not the comfortable kind, like Sunday mornings with fresh coffee and a breeze through an open window - but the hollow kind. The kind that made every sound too loud, every breath too conscious. The hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The soft creak of the building settling. His own heartbeat, slow but persistent, like it was asking him a question he couldn't answer.

He rolled onto his side and blinked at the ceiling. 6:41 a.m. The city hadn't started moving yet. But he had.

He didn't linger in bed - not because he was eager to start the day, but because staying there meant thinking, and thinking usually led him to places he didn't want to go. So, he moved through his routine like clockwork. Brushed his teeth. Shaved. Pulled on dark jeans and a grey Henley. Poured himself black coffee in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he sipped it slowly, eyes fixed on the skyline beyond the glass.

It was a grey morning. Not stormy, not bright. Just… quiet. He took his coffee to the small desk by the window, flipping open his laptop with a practiced touch. Emails waited in his inbox - clients, contractors, permits needing approval. None of it urgent. None of it interesting. His mouse hovered for a moment before he let the lid fall shut again. Instead, he reached for his sketchbook.

Half a page was filled with a lighthouse. The lines had grown darker since last night - bolder, angrier. He'd added weather-worn cliffs, waves battering the rocks beneath. It was like his pencil had known what his words couldn't say. AJ let out a slow breath and ran a hand through his hair. A few more greys had shown up near his temples. They didn't bother him. If anything, they suited him. Proof that time was passing, even when everything else felt stuck.

The city felt too tight this morning. Too tall. Too close. He grabbed his phone, thumb scrolling without intention until he landed on a community events page he'd bookmarked but never really read. Farmer's markets, pottery classes, film screenings—he kept scrolling. Then he saw it.

"Trail & Timberline: A local hiking collective for city souls seeking quiet paths."

Below it was a simple photo—sunlight breaking through pine trees, boots on damp earth, smiles caught mid-laughter. AJ clicked the link. Weekly group hikes, open to all experience levels. Every Saturday. Meet just outside the city at the base of Oldpine Ridge. Bring water, good shoes, and curiosity. There was something about the phrasing that caught him. Not the marketing kind of charm, but something… real. Unpolished. Like someone who meant it had written it. His cursor hovered again. He thought of the blueprint still waiting on his office desk. Of Serena's side of the bed - still made, still cold. Of the clock ticking through hours that never seemed to matter.

Then he clicked Join.
​

---

By noon, AJ was standing at the edge of a gravel parking lot at Oldpine Ridge, lacing up his boots under a pale sun. The city had disappeared behind him about twenty minutes ago - its noise, its pace, its weight. Here, the air smelled of damp bark and wild things. Pine and moss. Soil and silence. A few cars were parked nearby, and a small group had begun to gather around a wooden signpost that marked the trailhead. AJ spotted flannel shirts, backpacks, thermoses. Most of them were chatting in easy, informal clusters - friends who had clearly done this before. He stood a little apart, adjusting the strap on his bag, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

This was out of character for him. He didn't usually do groups. Didn't go looking for strangers to spend his Saturdays with. But there was something about the idea of getting lost in the woods with people who didn't know his name, didn't know his marriage or his job or how put-together he was supposed to be - it appealed to something raw and restless in him.

He shifted his weight as a few more people arrived. Laughter carried across the clearing - light and unforced. Someone cracked open a thermos and offered a cup of coffee to another hiker. A woman was checking her camera lens. A man in his sixties adjusted his hiking poles with practiced ease. The group was varied - young, old, alone, coupled. No one seemed out of place. Which meant maybe he wasn't either.

A clipboard was passed around for sign-ins. When it reached AJ, he scribbled:

Adrian Carlson Jr. – First timer.

He passed it on and took a long look at the forest ahead. The trail disappeared between tall pines, their branches filtering the sun into long, slanted shafts of gold. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called. Wind rustled the leaves like a whispered invitation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in the woods. Not since his twenties. Not since that camping trip with his sister's family, where they roasted marshmallows and told ghost stories until the kids fell asleep by the fire. He remembered the way the stars looked that night—how impossibly close they felt when nothing stood between him and the sky. That memory tugged at something inside him. Something he'd been missing without realizing it.

"Alright, folks," called a voice from the front—a woman with a whistle around her neck and a trail map in her hand. "Let's get started. We've got about seven miles round trip, moderate incline, and plenty of time to take it slow. Stick together, look out for one another, and breathe it in. This is the easy part of the week."

A few cheers and scattered applause. Then boots began to crunch gravel. AJ adjusted the strap on his bag and stepped forward. As the group filtered onto the trail, he found himself walking near the middle—close enough to feel part of it, far enough to stay in his thoughts. The ground was soft beneath his feet. The forest opened around him. And for the first time in a long time, the quiet didn't feel empty. It felt like space. It felt like something beginning.​

 

[Kita-san]

Early the next morning, Verena awoke to a familiar kind of emptiness—cold, detached, and dull. It wasn't the fiery pain of yesterday, but a strange numbness that crept beneath her skin like ice water in her veins. Maybe this was better. Anything was better than drowning in the sorrow that had swallowed her whole the day before.

As she smoothed out the creased sheets of her studio bed, her thoughts drifted— unwillingly—to James. Was he even home? And if he was, would he care enough to ask where she'd been all night? Doubtful. Long gone were the passionate arguments, the fights that meant someone still gave a damn. These days, James was more ghost than man—silent, cold, unbothered. It was as if nothing ever touched him, while everything shattered Verena into pieces.

After tidying the minimalist space, she wrapped herself in her trench coat, grabbed her purse, and stepped out of the industrial building. Maybe he messaged me, she thought with a flicker of foolish hope, her fingers hesitating over her phone. But her gut already knew. She unlocked the screen.

Nothing. No calls. No texts. No James.

"Of course," she muttered bitterly, shoving the phone deep into her coat pocket like it had insulted her. She should've known better.

By the time she returned home, the sun was barely up—6:30 a.m. The streets were quiet, blanketed in the soft glow of early morning light. It was Saturday, which meant James was probably still asleep. She slipped inside the condo, careful to remove her heels at the door. Each step now felt like tiptoeing through the ruins of a dream.

Her hazel eyes scanned the space. She remembered when they first bought this place—how they'd laughed and toasted with cheap champagne, full of plans and promises. This was supposed to be their forever. Now, it just felt like a stranger's home. Cold. Hollow. Haunted by what could've been.

Falling into autopilot, Verena began her morning routine. Coffee for James. Jasmine green tea for herself. Toast with butter and jelly—simple, comfort food she could stomach without effort. Every so often, her eyes flicked up toward the spiral staircase, listening. Hoping. Maybe he'll come down. But nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Not even the sound of movement from above. And yet, despite the ache he caused, despite the thousand ways he'd grown distant, she still wanted him to care. Still looked for signs he might fight for them again. Still loved him, even if he had stopped loving her.

After her quiet breakfast, Verena padded into the downstairs bathroom. A splash of icy water to the face jolted her nerves. As she patted her skin dry, her phone buzzed—an update from the community event page. She tapped the notification absently, expecting nothing. But one title caught her attention:

"Trail & Timberline: A local hiking collective for city souls seeking quiet paths."

She stared at the name for a long moment. Hiking. It used to be one of her escapes before her move to the city. Before she stopped doing things that made her feel alive. The woods was a place where the chaos quieted, and the world made sense.

She tapped the RSVP link. "I better get ready," she whispered, almost surprised by the sudden flutter of anticipation.

Not long after, Verena stood at the base of Oldpine Ridge, where the group had gathered. Her boots crunched against the gravel path, the morning air crisp and biting. She spotted the others milling around—a mix of young professionals, older hikers, and a few curious newcomers like her. For the first time in what felt like forever, she didn't feel invisible.

The ride here had been miserable. James—still in bed when she got back—hadn't even bothered to acknowledge her. She had purposely knocked over a few items while gathering her hiking gear, just to see if he'd react. He didn't. Just fake snoring and silence. The message couldn't have been clearer. But now, standing at the trailhead, with the scent of pine and damp earth surrounding her, Verena felt something she hadn't in months: hope.

She smiled to herself as she signed in, whispering soft affirmations under her breath. "You got this. You look good. You are good."

Dressed in sleek black yoga pants and a matching sports bra beneath her light zip-up jacket, she looked effortlessly strong. Her black hiking boots hugged her feet like they belonged there. Her wavy chestnut hair was tied in a high ponytail, and for once, she wore no makeup—just her freckles, raw and real.

She shouldered her mini backpack, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the trail.

 

[AJS Roleplaying]

The trail began like a gentle exhale - soft, familiar, forgiving. Dirt packed firm underfoot, sunlight slanting through branches in ribbons of gold. It smelled like earth and old stories. The forest here was dense but not overbearing, just alive in a way the city never could be. AJ walked near the middle of the group, boots falling into rhythm with the crunch of gravel and the occasional murmur of conversation. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and smiled at the man walking beside him - grey bearded, stocky, with a well-worn hiking staff and an accent that hinted at the Midwest.

"First time?" the man asked, nodding toward AJ's still-pristine gear.

"Is it that obvious?" AJ chuckled, pushing a branch aside as they ducked beneath a low-hanging limb.

"Not a bad thing. We all looked shiny once," the man replied. "I'm Mark. Been hiking with this group for three years now. Keeps me sane."

"Adrian. AJ, actually."

"Nice to meet you, AJ. What pulled you out here?"

The question caught him. He hesitated before answering. "Needed air. Space, I guess."

Mark nodded with the wisdom of someone who'd heard it before—and had lived it.

"Good enough reason."

They walked in easy silence for a while, broken only by the sound of a bird overhead and the occasional laugh from the hikers ahead. Another woman - short, dark braids, and a Boston Red Sox cap - introduced herself as Jolene. She cracked jokes that made the uphill climb easier to bear. AJ liked her immediately.

"You hike much?" she asked, shooting him a look.

"Not since college. Used to go up near Seawatch Point, back where I'm from. Coastal trails. Lighthouses, sea fog, that kind of thing."

"Sounds like a goddamn postcard," she grinned. "You leave that behind for spreadsheets and concrete?"

"Architect," AJ said with a smirk. "So, yes. But at least I make the concrete prettier."

Jolene barked a laugh and slapped him on the shoulder. "Stick with us, Carlson. You've got a dry wit and city-soft legs. Both are entertaining."

They kept walking.

About an hour in, the group reached a natural overlook - trees opened up to reveal a distant ridge layered in deep blues and greens. The group naturally spread out, some pausing for water, others snapping photos or settling onto nearby boulders to rest. AJ sipped from his thermos and looked around, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

That's when he saw her.

She was standing a few feet ahead, just off the main path - back half-turned to the group, face tilted slightly to the sky. Her stance was casual, almost meditative, as if she belonged to the woods in a way the rest of them didn't. A high ponytail of chestnut hair caught the breeze, revealing the soft curve of her neck and the faint freckles across her cheeks.

There was something about her presence - unassuming, yet… still. Like a painting in a quiet gallery. Not loud, not trying. Just there.

AJ didn't realize he was staring until Mark's voice broke through behind him.

"Beautiful view," he said, nodding toward the mountains.

AJ blinked, then shifted his eyes away. "Yeah. Definitely."

He took another sip of water, but found himself glancing back at her. She had moved now - walking slowly toward a patch of sunlight that dappled the trail ahead. Her movements were deliberate. Grounded.

Something about her tugged at a place in him that had been asleep too long.

He hesitated, watching her unclip her water bottle and take a long drink. Then, as if pulled by instinct more than intent, he stepped off the main path and walked in her direction. Not close - just near enough to be heard.

"First hike with the group?"

She turned slightly, eyes meeting his.

AJ wasn't sure what he expected - politeness, maybe. Indifference, like most city strangers. But there was a stillness in her gaze that caught him off guard. Like she saw more than he was saying.

"I'm new too. AJ."

She didn't smile right away. But she didn't turn away either.

"I figured I'd try something different," he offered. "See if walking in one direction for a few hours might help clear the mess up top."

He tapped the side of his temple with a faint, rueful smile. The wind rustled the trees again, filling the pause between them.​

 

[Kita-san]

Hiking was exactly what Verena's soul had been aching for. For weeks, she'd felt a restless weight pressing down on her chest, a quiet storm brewing in her heart — invisible to the outside world but constant within. But now, with every step she took along the winding forest trail, she felt that storm slowly begin to still.

The crisp mountain air filled her lungs, cool and sharp, like a breath of clarity. Towering trees arched over the path, their emerald leaves whispering secrets in the wind. The world was hushed, except for the soft crunch of gravel beneath boots and the occasional call of a distant bird. This place, untouched and vast, offered her something that home never could — space to breathe, to be herself without explanation or apology.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Verena smiled without forcing it.

As she walked, she watched little groups form naturally — some familiar faces, easy to recognize as regulars by their relaxed gait and practiced small talk. Others, like her, wore the uncertain energy of newcomers, tentative and observant. It was beautiful in a quiet way — strangers becoming companions simply by sharing a trail.

Before long, Verena found herself in conversation with a woman named Sophia, whose warm laughter seemed to echo through the trees. They exchanged stories between breaths, winding through snippets of their lives. Verena spoke of her desert hometown. Sophia listened, wide-eyed and kind, and shared stories of her own. The time passed quickly, and soon the group paused for their first break.

They'd reached a hilltop clearing, where the view opened up. Verena pulled out her water bottle and drank deeply. The cold water soothed her throat and awakened her senses. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste. Sweat cooled off her skin. She walked a few steps to a patch where sunlight broke through the canopy, warm and golden on her skin. It sank into her shoulders like a blanket, and for a moment, the world — all its noise, its questions, its heartbreak — faded.

What if I made my own forest? she wondered suddenly, the idea sparking like flint against stone. A ceramic forest. A sanctuary in clay. The thought filled her with something she hadn't felt in a long time — inspiration. But before she could spiral too deeply into her own thoughts, a voice stirred the air beside her.

She turned, startled yet intrigued. Her hazel eyes met a stranger's — a man with windswept brown hair, a day's worth of scruff on his jaw, and eyes the color of the sky just before a storm. There was something raw and magnetic about him.

He said something — she barely heard it at first. Her brain stumbled over itself, too caught in surprise to form a reply. Am I… shy? she thought, a flush of amusement warming her cheeks. That was unexpected.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head at herself. "I hope this works for you then," she replied to his last comment. Her smile blooming with playful warmth. "I'm hoping for the same thing." She tapped a finger against her left temple. She then extended a hand. "I'm Verena — but you can call me Rena."

He took her hand, and there was a pause. Not awkward, but charged — the kind of moment that hints at possibility.

"I take it this is your first time with the group too?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips with a casual confidence she hadn't felt in a while. "How are you liking it so far?"