The Little Black Book of Hope

The little black book is a thing of urban legend, often talked about in movies of a certain generation. It’s an idea that sparked excitement and anticipation in my young-blooded body, one now ready to explore a new world of possibility, filled with love, romance and sex. The little black book of sex held an entirely different meaning for my hopeless romantic self. Within that book lies all my romantic truths of love, passion, heartbreak, and hope.

This book would be my torch to carry my hope of love (for my future self). No matter how dark it might get, this book would forever be a beacon of hope. It would remind me of two essential truths; I have lived, and I have loved.

Over the years, I kept note of all the women who touched my life in a meaningful way. Single nights filled with passion and pleasure, the early beginnings of a blossoming romance, those unfortunate missed opportunities and of course, the one who got away. No life of love is complete without it. An encounter so meaningful it ignites your soul with the flame of determination to never let the same become again. But time can be cruel on a vulnerable soul of love.

Over recent years the book had become a distant memory; there had been no entry for a while. As my insecurities resurfaced, my mind clouded with darkness, and the memory of the book of love and hope began to fade. All the women and the stories within, now covered in dust and forgotten time.

A life unlived.

On a dark night of loneliness, I searched my brain for a glimmer of hope, the slightest twinkle I could focus on and then I remembered—the little black book. I frantically searched my apartment, looking everywhere, praying I’d kept it. I believed deep down it would bring me comfort. The memories would wrap me up in a warmth that fills my heart with hope once more.

There, in the corner of an old box hidden away at the back of the closet, under a stack of dusty books, the little black one teases its tales. There’s a glint in my eye and newfound energy urging me to reach for it and open it up.

As I flick through the pages of the book, I’m reminded of all the memories I’d created. They all feel so real, the sights, the sounds, the smells. I can feel all the blood rushing around my body, not knowing where to go. My brain is flooded with memories it wants to explore. My heart is racing with excitement and imagination. Life is beginning to return.

Each new name I read reminds me fondly of a time well spent, and I enjoy each one with no bitter taste. Having dealt with the aftermath and accepted its fate, it feels good to reminisce, if only for a moment. I’m alone now, but I wasn’t always, and that comforts me. The book is beginning to help. And then fate turns the page.

Sofia.

…The one that got away. Just reading her name and all the emotions come rushing back like they never left me. I can still remember the smell of her perfume, an intoxicating scent, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, electricity runs through my veins, my heart begins to race, and my soul begins to sing. Then I hear it; “message her”. It’s the voice of my younger self, the one who carefully placed the book away, anticipating this very moment. He has not forgotten, he still believes in love, and he’ll never give up on it, or me for that matter. “Call her, message her. You never know; maybe she’s thinking about you too,” he continues. Maybe he’s right, I thought. But the dark clouds begin to gather once more; “she’s moved on, you’ll get hurt. It’s been too long, it would be weird to message her now after all this time”. “To hell with convention,” my younger self says, “life is for living, and these are the choices that create the moments to live”. I pause for a second, trying to gather my thoughts. I’m shaking, the reality is sinking in now, and I’m not sure my heart can take it. The fear of rejection feels all too real, all too familiar.

So many times, I’ve allowed that fear to conquer and rule my life of love into a baron wasteland of heartache and loneliness. But no more. It will not win again, not tonight. I am far too lost; I’m devoid of fear; I have nothing left to lose. It’s time to gamble on love.

So I typed the words I’d been longing to speak for too long, “Sofia”. I stop myself momentarily before I let my heart fall from my chest into words. I compose myself, ridding my voice of all emotion. “Keep it casual. You don’t want to scare her off”. I told her that I’d been reminded of her recently, and I wanted to see how she was; it had been too long. Of course, I wanted to tell her that I’d never gotten over her, that I’d wished we’d had another chance, but I kept it simple, and then I waited.

For three days, I waited, and with each day that passed, the last of my hope began to break. My inner light was fading. I began to reason, too much time had passed, and too many opportunities missed. Perhaps it’s time for me to move on, move on from the idea of lasting love and settle into my life without love. Acceptance is the bosom of peace, after all.

At that moment, I feel a vibration on my leg, and it immediately sends conflicting messages coursing through my veins. “It’s Sofia!”. “No, don’t be a fool. It’s a notification or perhaps more spam emails”. I take a deep breath and try to compose myself once more as I search for the courage to look.

“It is her”, I gasp! Too scared to read any more, I think to myself, “what if…”. But before I can finish the thought, a glimmer of hope flutters from my heart like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. The voice of my younger self echoes around my mind, “It’s time”.

I look at her message, and the words leap from the screen “I’ve been thinking of you too”. The excitement is too much to hold. A smile breaks out across my face like water breaching a dam. I feel a wave of positive energy flooding over me, and my soul begins to swim back towards the light.

Hope has returned.