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Love Notes

Don't Turn The Page

By IngridPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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"Book."

It was an unremarkable morning. Beautiful— maybe some people would call it that, but we’ll just call it average, just like everything seemed to be in her life— average. Coffee was never particularly delicious, sex was never mind-blowing, and her hair never sat quite perfect. Everything she had straddled the line between too good and almost-not-good-enough.

Make no mistake, she was grateful— grateful that the worst thing she could say about her life was that it wasn’t extreme in either direction. She had fleeting moments of joy with a friend or a parent here and there, and she was grateful. But was it enough?

How lovely would it be to wake up and have a reason to elated?

From the edge of her bed she took in her apartment. It really was quite lovely. Subtle greenery draped over her velvety couch and sunlight drizzled over the hardwood floors. Lovely. But not lovely enough.

“Oh, poor little rich girl.” She scoffed at herself and rolled her eyes. She at least had the good sense to laugh at herself. She shuffled along to her quite-nice espresso maker, only to make a half-decent cup of coffee. What’s the point of this fancy machine if the coffee isn’t even good… She didn’t love her life, but she’d rather feel mundane and mediocre in a posh flat, than be miserable on the street. This much, at least, she knew.

On the wall of her apartment, next to her TV, she had a shelf of books she would never read. Several journals, as well. Leather-bound, paperback, hardback, red, green, black… She loved journals. But she hardly ever wrote in them. What on Earth do I say? What is there to say to something that never answers back? What’s the point of asking questions to the air when I’d just be convincing myself otherwise… Nevertheless, she pattered down the street to the corner of 2nd and 3rd— the local book store— her favorite hiding place.

“Back again?”

“Don’t patronize me.” She shook a head of curly hair at the fatherly owner. Somehow, he had come to be a dear friend.

“What are these?” She pointed a chipped toenail in the direction of a short stack of empty notebooks on the floor. Damnit, she thought, don’t do it.

“I don’t know actually. They just showed up at my door this morning. Help yourself— on me.”

On me… how can I resist?

The top one was eye-catchingly shiny, a deep emerald green, thick, gorgeous, with gold embossed filigree on the edges and filled with hundred of pages of genuine parchment pa—

No. She tossed it aside. Too ornate.

The one at the bottom of the stack, though… had a rough, black, wrinkled cover— tough, like suede— and soft, milky white pages with bright red edge painting, like someone had bled all over the outside. She loved it. It was a short notebook— a couple hundred pages. All the better— she never wrote in them anyways.

She left the store enamored and entranced. Somehow, she found herself seated at the local cafe overlooking 3rd Street. People were leaving the church. Is it Sunday? Waiter brought her a coffee as she broke open the spine. There was only one letter scrawled in the top left corner of the inside cover: -J.

She pulled up the book from it’s cover and let the pages all fall down, one by one. The edges shone bright and red in the sun. The shadow of her fingertips only partially shone through each page.

“Do you have a pen,” she asked Waiter without lifting her head. He had already brought her favorite desert tart— raspberries and grapes in a delectable custard— she often visited this spot. Another hiding place.

“I don’t. But I do have your cheque,” he said pointedly.

She ignored him. She traced the first page with the tip of her finger —gently— as though it were the lips of a lover. As if. But the page felt raised somehow, moving underneath the heartbeat in her skin. What? I must need to eat…

“Who are you?” She whispered silently to herself. Who was she asking? The book? Silly girl, you’re hungry, dig into that tart before you pass out.

She flipped through each page deliberately, gently, tenderly. It felt like everything was in this Book, although it held nothing at all.

She finished her tart and licked the tips of her left hand while flipping pages with her right— a mother behind her clicked her tongue at the sight of her eating with her hands. Preposterous, aren’t I? What did she think she’d find in there? Words that would materialize onto the page? She scoffed at herself. So desperate for adventure I’ll create it anywhere.

She paid her cheque and winked at Waiter before she left. They always stared at each other fondly but never exchanged more than pleasantries. I wish I had the balls… maybe one day.

When she arrived back to her flat, she made another warm cup of coffee. She lay the new Book on her Spot of Prestige— the corner of her kitchen countertop where she placed things she needed to remember to see.

Eight days passed, and she didn’t open Book. But she touched it, every day. She’d rest her hand on it, as though gaining energy from it somehow. I swear I thought I felt… no, no psychological crises today.

On the ninth day, she opened it again. It looked the same. But it felt heavier.

Well… if Book can’t tell me anything, I’ll tell it. She affectionally called the notebook, Book. Rather inventive, she was. She grasped her fanciest pen.

When I was 7, I got a cut on my hand from falling down the stairs. It left a scar. I’ve always hated it.

She waited. For what? She scoffed. Stood up. Walked off. Ate a tart. Peed. Kicked off her shoes. Sat back down. She wrote again.

When I was 9, I wrote a story for school about a princess getting whisked away by a prince. My mother found it and read it without asking. She screamed at me all night about how stupid it was, and I was for writing it. I never showed her anything after that.

Her eyes teared over and a rather large lump formed in her throat. She hadn’t thought of that memory in a long time. She started again—

When I was 17 my father found out I wasn’t a virgin anymore. He told me I wasn’t his daughter anymore. He didn’t speak to me for a year.

Her tears flowed freely now— seven drops hit the page. Her writing smeared and formed lacy black, inky patterns below her hands. It almost looked like words materialized under the tears. Almost.

Book felt warm in her hands. I’m just emotional. Go eat something. She put it down. She made a tomato sandwich and came back— Book was cold.

She read back over what she wrote. She blinked no more than thirty-seven times before she realized the writing was faded somehow— she could barely read it. Did the ink seep into the pages somehow? They don’t seem that thick… She blinked again. The words looked normal.

She put Book back down on the Spot of Prestige. She rested her hand tenderly on the cover.

Maybe, if you can love me still, I can love me too. She smiled sadly at the notion that a book holding her fears might equate to human companionship. But, times were hard, and good friendships were sparse. We make do with what we have, she chuckled at herself.

On the tenth day, Book began to go with her everywhere. He stayed buried at the bottom of her satchel, only to be brought out when a moment of “inspiration” took her.

I wore a skirt made of lace flowers today. I kept stepping on the flowers at the bottom and tearing them off. How beautifully sad.

I curled my hair today. I look like Shirley Temple.

I remembered the day John left me at the airport. Someone looked just like him today. My heart still hurts.

Waiter winked at me again today. I think I may leave my number this time.

The more she wrote, the more she felt alive. Book was giving her energy, somehow.

After forty-one days, she arrived at the third-to-last page. Only three pages left. She cried.

How could I possibly write in another book again?

She set Book down on the Spot. Too afraid to finish the pages, she didn’t pick him up again.

Three-hundred-and-seventy-two days later, Book had since migrated to her shelf. He was rather thick now, though. Dusty and heavy. The pages had browned. She picked him up, curiously. He was so heavy.

What in hell's name?

In each page she’d written in, the words had faded in the middle. She held the pages up to the light just as she had one year ago.

Each page had $100 embedded in the center. She counted the pages, one-by-one. 200 pages in total. $20,000.

The last page had an inscription.

I will never know many things about you.


I will never know how your mouth turns when you smile,

I will never know the color of your eyes or how they crinkle in the sunlight,


I will never know how your eyebrow furrows when you read my passages.

I will never know what you’re wearing or how your home looks,

I will never know what sand looks like in your hair,

How you style your hair when you're tired or if you prefer jeans to dresses.

I’ll never even know how you identify— if you’re a strong minded woman, or a delicate bird,

If you’re a subtle masculine, or if you just play the part.

I’ll never know how your shirt smells when you’ve come in from the rain,

And I’ll never understand what it means to “touch."

But I know things about you that no one else will ever know.

I know how your fingers feel on my pages, and if it’s warm or cold where you are by the friction between the tips of your hands.

I know the size of your hands and how delicate they are, how softly they hold something so small.

I feel the flutter of your heartbeat and the blood rushing through your finger tips when you trace a line.

I’ll know if it’s wet — or you're crying— by the drops on my beige walls,

I’ll know if you're outside or inside by the moisture I feel.

I’ll know how angry you are by how roughly you turn my pages and clutch my spine,

I’ll feel how tenderly you hold my cover in your hands just before you bend me open.

You put me down every night, and somedays you don’t pick me up at all.

Those days are the hardest. All I feel is the cold hard surface pressed against my back.

There’s so much of you I will never feel - the beat of your heart on your chest, the warmth of your body asleep, the shape of your lips,

But there’s so much I don’t need to know to love you entirely.

Each turn closer to the end of my story fills me with dread.

I am so terrified, each time you put me down, that it will be the last time.





Please don’t turn the page.

I don’t want to die.

literature
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