˗ˏˋ𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋'ˎ˗ ▂▂▂▂ 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚚𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗
˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰did you 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘𝖑𝖞 just 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖜 up a 𝖋𝖚𝖗𝖇𝖆𝖑𝖑? ꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | ❛ MORNING JOURNAL ❜
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THE SUNLIGHT SHONE through the window, leaving a soft glow on your skin. A smooth melody of pencil writing down on paper filled the air as you wrote your thoughts, your eyes focused on the notes of the journal book.
You were a writer. An author. A journalist. Well, those last two might've been white lies. You wanted to be an author, you wanted to be a journalist - but instead you were a writer. Not a special writer or an important one, just a simple writer. You write your thoughts and ideas down in your journal book so that one day you could come up with a 'book' to publish, and hopefully sell.
Being a journalist was easy (kinda), but being an author was slightly harder. You liked challenges, good challenges. You liked solving things - writing things and finding an easier route to go along with it.
You lived alone in a small house, located somewhere in Jasper. Jasper was an unnoticeable and quiet town smack down near the middle of Nevada. It was small, and somewhat peaceful. The neighborhood you lived in didn't have loud children or noisy neighbors, which meant you could get a lot of writing time.
For all you know, you didn't have friends. And you were fine with that. You didn't see the need to have friends, seeing how obnoxious they could be at times. You grew up with the knowledge to be nice and caring to everyone but always stay alert for backstabbers. However, you saw it in a different way. If you had no friends, no acquaintances, and no 'tag-alongs', then you would have no backstabbers, surely?
Finishing another brilliant idea you had for a book, you laid down your pencil and stretched out your sore writing hand. Cracks from the said hand were heard, making you wince, letting out a satisfied sigh. Sometimes, you wrote too much - but as a writer, you said that nobody could ever write too little as well.
You glanced sideways, down at your watch on your left wrist. Currently, you were sitting in the kitchen, seated at a chair scooted up to the dining table. Your tensed leg muscles told you you had been sitting there for awhile, making you wonder what time it was.
2:10 P.M already!? Your brain screamed in shocked, eyes widening to express your surprise. I swore I'd only been writing for ten minutes! It was just 11' P.M a moment ago.
Sighing, you got up from your chair and walked further into the kitchen, opening up your fridge. You hadn't had a satisfying meal to properly eat today, unless people counted two granola bars in the afternoon as a 'satisfying meal'. Much to your displeasure, your fridge was practically empty, the only decoration being that of two water jugs and a row of apple-sauce containers.
Welp, I needed to go grocery shopping anyways, you thought, your mind easily going numb and off-track as you slipped on a jacket and grabbed your wallet, phone, and purse. It was a sunny day outside with a perfect breeze, the clouds overhead scattered and fluffy as they dotted the light blue sky.
You didn't have a car, which was a major problem, so you began walking down the sidewalk towards the nearest grocery store. Deep in your thoughts, you were oblivious to the empty but small alley you had passed by. You wouldn't know when you retraced your steps, that the same empty alley would have a box in it.
A box that would overtake the self-journalist's curiosity.
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