She wanted to be someone who spun sentences from stardust, pulled eloquent phrases out of midair, polished words into shimmering smooth stones that formed a yellow brick road through the pages. Someone who could conjure up crisp fall days just by touching pen to paper, who could transport people to the wildest places in their imagination just by turning a page, who could make emotions hidden in inked words feel as real as one's own heart thumping in their chest. But she was never going to be like that. At least, not yet.
So, day after day, she plugged in her earbuds, put on a playlist in Youtube, and continued to chip away tirelessly at her story. Kept creating, editing, deleting, so that, slowly, inch by inch, brick by brick, she built a whole world springing from the pages. Molded characters from nothing until they breathed, lived, triumphed and broke, until they felt as real as the friends she might have had. And every night, as she looked at her bedroom ceiling peppered with glow-in-the-dark stars, she reminded herself to keep on dreaming, working. Reminding herself that one day, her story would be finished, and then published, shared with the world. Because her real dream, the one deepest in her heart, was to have something to be proud of, have something that was hers, that she could say, with pride in her voice and not a hint of shame, "That's mine."
Her characters became flat shadows of themselves. The places that used to be stunningly real in her imagination fell into disrepair. She stopped writing daily, forgot to scribble down ideas when they came to her, set aside more time for homework, tests, the friends who had slowly been coming into her life, started forgetting her dream, until it'd stolen away through her fingers like sparkling gold sand. Day after day, her writing became paler, more transparent, until the words seemed like ghosts of themselves and the sentences lost their meaning. She stopped living through her stories and started to step into the real world, where she was meant to be, leaving her intangible story hanging, unfinished.
High school passed, then college. She got a job at a biotech company, researching how viruses could be used to attack cancer cells, trying to cure a disease that seemed invincible. She started dating, visiting her boyfriend's apartment more than her own. Made new acquaintances, went out on Friday nights and after work to bars, restaurants, someone's house, to relax, laugh, complain about the new boss and all his strict work standards.
And finally, the day he proposed, the day she said yes, the happiest day of their lives, was the day she found her stories again.
She had told him she was going back to her parents' house to clear out her things, since she'd be leaving soon, living alone with him in a house they planned to buy. But he'd insisted on going with her, so in the end, she told him to wait outside with his car, that she'd be back out in a couple minutes.
She walks in, thinking about how sweet his persistence had been, and smiling a little. Her parents aren't home yet; she'd left work early that day, and the house is still and silent, nothing moving except for the squeaking of the floorboards beneath her feet. She climbs up the stairs, noticing her old childhood pictures still hanging on the walls, faded a little from the sunlight. Her bedroom still looks the same, with the empty dresser and dusty bookshelves right where she had left them when she moved out to college, all those years ago. The only thing that's changed is that now, the floor is more cluttered, with boxes and piles of unused items stacked haphazardly around the room. Her parents must have started using her room as a storage closet, for all the things they bought but never used, the things they thought would be a waste to throw away.
She starts sorting through it all, kneeling on the floor among all the mess, rearranging, organizing. She's almost overwhelmed: some of the things seem so useless, and at the same time, she can't bear to throw them away. So she makes two piles, slowly and reluctantly, of things to keep and things that she'd decide what to do with later. She finds the things she'd once thought she lost: the small fuzzy keychain, a waterproof watch, the small salt crystal she found on the pavement that had been so special. She finds all the trinkets, the small toys, the stuffed animals, left behind in her childhood, things of which she only has lingering memories.
And in the corner, in a box she barely remembers, she finds her stories.
The cardboard box is small, dusty, and covered in spiderwebs, and at first she mistakes it for a misplaced crate of her school things: old projects that she kept, notes on biology and algebra and how to write analysis paragraphs. She opens it, sees page after page of writing, and knows instinctively it'll be a long time before she'll get anything sorted out.
At first she starts quickly skimming over the pages, wanting to get everything over with, knowing her fiancé must be wondering what is taking so long, nearly positive this is her last item to go through. But she starts slowing down, once she starts really taking in the writing, really reading the words that sat on paper for so long and never saw daylight.
She revisits the pages where her hand used to move across, taking in her younger self's handwriting, still the same messy scrawl it is now. The characters come back to her, the places feel real again, and as she flips to the last page, reads the last line, she finally appreciates how well she used to write. And to think that she used to think it was all rubbish, just a silly game she made up that nobody would understand.
She smiles, but it doesn't make the longing go away. The yearning feeling that has suddenly risen in her chest, that prods her to go finish the story, to take up writing again, to pour her emotions into the paper again. So she replaces the whole bundle of papers, scribbles, and journals gently in the box, clears the lid and all around of the dust of years, and lugs it back outside. He is waiting, patiently, in the car, and half-smiles when she gets in.
"Only one box? I thought you'd bring more than that."
"This is the most important thing right now."
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