One Touch | Charlie Gillespie

F I V E

I look at him and see the pain fill his eyes.

C H A R L I E

The crumbled pages are full of words that form sentences. Some of them are sloppy, as if she was in a hurry when she wrote them down. Other sentences are neatly arranged, word for word and every sentence is written below the other.

Most of the pages are decorated with little doodles- flowers, music notes, smiley faces and random drawings.

Sloppy or not, her handwriting is beautiful. It's very ornate and it reminds me of the handwriting that most people had in the nineteenth century.

I flip through some pages and notice I was right— she really is talented. Each and every word I read has a strong meaning behind it. She describes her feelings as if I'm in her mind, as if she pulls me into her body and I could feel all the things she felt when she wrote those words.

"Wow," I gasp after a while. "You really are a good writer."

She scoffs as if she already knew. Can't blame her on that part, though. "Thanks."

I'm quite honored that she let me read this, it seems like it's something private— something for only her to read. She didn't really had a choice to let me read it, though. Maybe I forced her a little, but it was totally worth it.

My eye falls on a small text which is on one of the last pages.

He picks my heart like it's a pocket.
He brings out the worst I can be.

Before I could read any further, she grabs the book out of my hands and slams it shut.

"You've seen enough, Gillespie. Now I want to see yours," she demands as her finger points to my notebook.

"Sure, but I do have to warn you. My handwriting's nothing compared to yours."

"Yeah, that's no surprise," she laughs, receiving the navy blue book I hand her. She opens it carefully, not wanting to crumple the pages. Her eyes fly over the words, attentive and focused.

The thick, full eyelashes she owned spring open and closed as soon as she blinks. The nail of her finger rests between her tooth and she gnaws at it a little. I can't stop looking at her, I can't stop watching the way she reads peacefully and with concentration.

It's really hard to stop myself from kissing her.

J U N E

His lyrics are impressive. Not that I hadn't expect that already, but it was even more beautiful than I imagined. I admire his way of writing, his way of expressing his feelings. Although, not every song was about his
feelings— some were about his family, others were inspiring songs about life.

But I did read a song that, apparently, was about a girl. The song wasn't finished, instead it ended in the middle of a sentence. There were dried stains in the paper. It seemed like he had been crying while writing it.

He notices me staring at the unfinished song and clears his throat. "Oh, don't worry. That was years ago."

I look at him and see the pain fill his eyes. This girl clearly seemed to have done something that broke his heart.