Can You Feel My Heart?

Soul

Jake loved poetry. It was his heart, his soul. If he wasn't busy healing or crying, he would be writing. He had a journal, filled with all the poems he had ever written. He stuffed papers inside, because all the original pages in the journal were already filled.

Jake wanted to publish his journal, and if you really knew him, you could easily observe this.

•••
Eleven Days Before
Jake walked in the halls, holding his head down, thinking. Maybe I should invite her over, maybe I was too harsh, maybe I should give up.

The guilt Jake felt after leaving class the previous day continued to pick at his brain. In truth, he was just a little nervous, and a lot scared. He had never met anyone who cared, or anyone who might have the same problem as him. So, he did what he would do if anyone came up to him and asked why he carried his heavy book bag on one shoulder instead of both: he pushed them away.

Not the smartest reflex, but a somewhat useful one. Well, not that he knew. It just so happened that Florence was the only one to confront him about his injuries, and the only one who, coincidentally, actually understood what he was going through. Maybe.

At the end of classes, Jake caught up with Florence just as she was about to get in her car.

"Hey," he bit his lip.

"What? You tell me to leave you alone, and then you come up to me, trying to start a conversation? What the hell?!"

Jake was silent after her sudden outburst, thinking of the right words to say.

"I didn't mean what I said...er wrote. It's just...I'm not used to having people in my life, and I didn't know what to say or do. I'm sorry," he rushed.

Florence blinked, and then she nodded ever so slightly. She turned toward her car and got in. Jake backed away, feeling as if he lost something. Florence groaned.

"Jeez, Jake. Are you getting in or not?"

•••

"Please," Florence begged.

"I don't know." Jake's face grew hot, and he wondered why he had told Florence about his journal. They sat in his room, him at his desk and Florence on his bed.
Her eyebrows were raised excitedly as she held out her hand. Finally, Jake sighed, and handed his precious journal over to Florence.
After an hour, she finished reading.

She sniffled.

"Jake. These are amazing. And so...so...sad!"

Jake smiled sheepishly as he reached for his journal, and then felt slightly anxious as she held it against her chest, keeping it from getting back to its box, where it belonged.

"How," asked Florence.

"What," Jake's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"How is it possible that someone like you can have such a shitty life and be treated like dirt, and not deserve it?"

"Because life is unfair."

It wasn't until Florence handed his journal back that he noticed her question was meant to be rhetorical.

•••

Well, it all goes downhill from here.
Yours Truly,
Quiet Observer.