the journal - h.s.

11

Warming some milk in a pot, while stirring in the white liquid my mind was spinning. My heart had gradually felt heavier, as my eyes eagerly had investigated the first couple of pages. This journal was so personal in a very simple way. It was meant to be used for all those kind of small things, this person wished to treasure. And now - since I was in the possession of it - there was the very likely possibility of the person forgetting these things. At least if I wouldn’t be able to return the journal to the rightful owner. My theory of this small book being left behind on purpose had completely vanished from my mind after the realization of the significant value. I was frowning in concentration as to how I could possibly find a way to return this journal. I had to.

Pouring the coffee and steaming milk into a mug with the childish letters forming ‘Amber’ on the side, I returned to my seat right in the trail of sunshine, which travelled through the slightly dirty window by my bed. Taking a sip before exchanging the mug in my hand with the journal, I once again let my eyes seek over the pages - this time with a true and more clear wish of finding the owner though.

Surprised to see the following pages were covered with either something that must be poetry or lyrics, I carefully read each word. They were beautiful. Some times it would fill entire pages - and there would be noted some musical terms in the side, that I couldn't understand. Other times it would simply be one sentence - maybe even just one word.

The small music sheets sketches with quickly scribbled music notes made me smile widely. Not only was this person filled with thoughts and words, which shouldn't be forgotten. He was filled with music as well. I could only imagine how beautiful the melodies would sound, how they would somehow magically fit with the special aura the journal possesed. With each word I read, the person became more intersting to me. Deeper. More beautiful. More pure and true.

A specific couple of lines especially caught my attention. They were scribbled softly with a red ink pen and I could almost imagine a younger guy sitting in the stream of sunshine with his journal in the lap at my window, while dust particles would travel lightly in the sun making them almost glitter. How he would sit very still in the silence and write the words and notes, that came as sounds from within. He would sit there with his head bowed over the pages and almost unnoticable write the words, while everything else than the sound of the pen travelling over the paper would be soundless. As if his surroundings were holding their breath waiting for him to be able to breath freely again after having emptied his heart across the pages.

Don't let me
Don't let me
Don't let me go
'Cause I'm tired of feeling alone

My eyes lingered over those words for a long amount of time, while the stream of sunshine slowly travelled across the wooden floor as time passed by. I sighed with a smile playing on my lips, as I turned to the next page certain I would never let go of those words again.

“I wouldn’t be where I am today without having fought hard for it, Harry. Don’t you realize you ignorant, stupid boy?”

The quotation marks around this first sentence were huge. Probably three times the size of the actual letters. The word ignorant had been underlined two times. Hard. An ink stain had splashed over the page, as the words had been written to rapidly. Too aggressively I reckoned. The form of the following text under the quote made my heart drop to the pitch of my stomach and I honestly felt like I shouldn’t be reading on. It was written with a regular lead pencil compared to the inked aggressive quote. If the first couple of pages had been lighthearted and beautiful - this was an entirely different category of writing. This was coming from a different part of the heart. From a dark and angry part. I gulped with chills running down my spine, suddenly the sunbeams didn’t feel all that warm and comfortable. The scent of coffee not so wonderful. And the dust particles had fallen to the ground. It was as if a cloud had suddenly rushed in before the sun and left the whole place a few degrees colder. It had happened in a snap second and my smile had faded just as quickly.

As my eyes focused on the very first word of the following text, which I made out to be 'Benjamin' a high alienated noise shocked me making me jump in the seat surprised. Frantically I looked around the empty room my mind completely elsewhere than aware of the fact, that I was at home and living the normal life of Amber Moore. I snapped back to reality and regonized the alien sound to be the sound of my phone ringing. What a timing. Placing the journal safely in my seat with annoyance, as I was dying to know what the angrily scribbled text said, I ran across the room. Quickly retrieving the phone from the pocket of my jacket, which still hadn't moved from its nice position on the floor. I pressed the green button, "what's up?" My eyes travelled back to the chair on which I had left it.

Harry. Was that the name of the writer? Or had it been someone entirely else the statement had been directed at? Maybe the writer had said that sentence out loud to someone named Harry?

"Amber! Thank God you picked up. Neither Erik nor Marc answered their phones and you were my very last option. Can you come in today? In 45 minutes or so? I know we got that appointment at 2, but I desperately need one of you baristas to teach our newly hired how to handle Artie," (Artie was the nickname for our espresso machine by the way), "and I got an urgent meeting today. If possible it could be great - and if it's too much at once you are allowed to close the shop, while teaching her. Please say yes darling?" It was Aria - or I called her Ari - the owner of Cafe du Acta and the mother of the kid I had to babysit at 2 o'clock.

I grinned as I walked around on my bare feet kicking my jacket into the corner, though the uneasy feeling after having read the quote was still present, "yeah of course I'll help. Marc told me Eric had had trouble with her, but I reckon I might give it a try. What was her name again?"

"Thank God! You just saved my ass Amber - and Jenny. Her name is Jenny," Ari nearly sang out of relief. I imagined her walking around with Daisy in her arms in her decently big, white modern apartment. Coffee brewing, fancy Macbook opened with the calendar displaying her busy schedule. It wasn’t easy being a single mother.

"Sure thing. I'll be down there in 45 minutes. Say hi to Daisy for me!"

Harry. Was that his name? Harry. Such an usual name. Yet suddenly it meant something entirely different to me.

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a/n: paper memories - a niall au story of mine written in the same kinda style as this one. maybe check it out if you got the time? xx