Sam caught her the third time. Not the writing—she was fast at hiding the notebook—but the exit. “You keep leaving,” he said. “Are you texting someone?”
October 3. 9:16 AM. I am loved. I am not annotating this. I am just saying it.
“I write about everything.”
“Everyone observes everyone,” she said.
“I’m scared of being forgotten.”
Her closet didn’t contain shoes. It contained forty-seven leather-bound journals, each spine cracked in a specific place—the night she lost her virginity, the morning her father left, the three a.m. she decided to quit law school. She dated entries like scripture: September 12th. 11:14 PM. He used the wrong fork.
“That’s passive-aggressive,” Elena said.
ThePornDude -