Memories hammer my brain like little metal bullets.
Not again.
I can’t go through this a second time.
This is a sick joke.
I walk over slowly, staring at the journal wrapped up in a leather bow. My chest tightens with regret, love, sorrow, longing. I look around, but nobody’s nearby. Maybe someone ran to the bathroom and left it to save their spot. Maybe it’s an illusion. Maybe fucking aliens beamed it down from outer space. Yeah, that sounds likelier than the other possibility.
It belongs to Halston.
I should walk away.
I pick it up.
Open it.
Like the first time, the opening lines slam me in the chest, but for a different reason.
December 8th
I think I’ve met the one. Which is strange, because that was supposed to be Rich. I never had this feeling with him, though. This fluttering in my tummy. I’m glad to report (fiiiinally) that butterflies do exist.
I can’t do this. I can’t be reading this. I continue.
Okay, butterflies are a bad way to describe love. That sounds more like lust. That would be fine too. I’ve always wanted to know what true lust felt like. I can’t possibly love this man I just met one week ago. Oh—Finn. His name is Finn.
I skip ahead.
January 23rd
Rough
Sandpaper kisses as calloused as your hands, as domineering as your fuck, as excruciating as your goodbyes. When you say hello, I can’t wait to do it all over again.
February 14th
He’s the last Valentine I ever want.
With that entry, there’s a rough sketch of us at dinner. All that time, shewaswriting. Just not for anyone else but her, like it was in the beginning. The journal is filled to the last line of the very last page. It’s an entry she wrote a few days ago.
April 15th
I still love him. He should have this journal. He knows my heart is this, these pages, these words. And my heart belongs with him, not me.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
A woman waiting for her coffee looks at me.
“This is yours,” I tell her, hoping she’s also in love with some schmuck named Finn. “Right? This is yours.”
She shakes her head, inching away from me.
In the top corner of the last page is a drawing of two black and white coffee cups with a heart around them. They each have Lait Noir logos scribbled in. Where it all began.
She’s here, I know it. I scan the café until I spot her in line, waiting. She must’ve been here the whole time, because there are a lot of people behind her, and she’s next to order.
I don’t hesitate to walk right up behind her. “Is this for me?”
