Stars // Thomas Sangster

1: Eleanor

There was something about the artificial lighting of the underground that made all time feel like night. This time it truly was night, around 2am last time I checked.

I quite enjoyed late night journeys home. There weren't many people, if any, in each train car and everyone was quiet, trying to keep their eyes open until they got home to their flat or wherever they were going. I didn't care to ask.

The train squeaked to a stop in front of me, opening its doors to me and letting a few souls trickle off into the station I was abandoning.

Setting my bag down on my new found seat, I smiled at my small victory of getting a carriage with no other people.
After I pulled out my book, I spotted something sitting on the floor near my feet. A dark leather bound notebook, it's pages folded and marked.

My novel lay abandoned on the seat next to me as I picked it up. If anyone would have been there to ask me what I was doing, I would have said looking for identification, so I could find whoever owned the notebook. But no one was here, so I can tell you that I picked it up with every intention to read it

My hands flipped the papery and worn cover to the left, I saw scribbles across the lined paper:

TBS; something to think about

How intriguing. It was probably someone's initials or maybe an acronym for a saying.

The next pages weren't dull diary entries like I would expect. No mention of childish crushes and teen angst.

Instead the author had written in their old enchanting penmanship thoughts. Nothing was fully complete, but each quote, observation or story felt like it had made its home.

This is when I should have stopped. I should have left it there, on the seat. However I read ten more pages, missing my stop in the process.

Now I can say I had to walk ten blocks to my apartment complex, because I'd fallen in love with a notebook. A notebook that wasn't mine.

Glancing over at the clock I now saw it was 4am. A good time to go to bed, or to keep reading.

4/12

...there is a quote from a song I don't like, it goes "a girl without freckles is like a night without the stars." I've been looking for a quote to describe my love for freckles, and i think this one words alright. It's a bloody shame I can't stand that song....

The next morning rained today. That good kind of spring rain where everything look gray and almost like the night. The kind that once it's night the world seems darker than its normal midnight black.

I stopped quick to look in the mirror before heading out into the stormy weather.

My eyes still had the dark circles from never getting enough sleep. Star-like dots still dusting my much too pale checks. I watched myself blush, thinking back to an entry I had read last night. Something about it settled with me, more than the usual sayings comparing my freckles to angel kisses.

It seemed silly. That every time I passed this certain mirror I checked. Yep, I still look the same. Just checking.

I sighed, reaching for the journal from my nightstand, tucking it into my backpack, and heading for the front door.

My train ride home later that night was quiet as usual, the rain slowing to a drizzle and giving way to fog and dew.

Some part of me had hoped I would find whoever owned the book. That they'd step onto the train and sit down next to me. They'd take me to the star gazing spots they'd mapped out and talk to me like they did their diary. The other part of me knew that was highly unlikely.

Night after night, I climbed aboard the late night train, clutching onto the words I had begun to reread hundreds of times.

The thoughts had become a sort of comforting escape.

Some nights I felt the urge to continue they're work, leave my own thoughts where they left off.

6/24

I've never missed a person as much as I miss the stars during the day

6/27

#1
And if you're ever
feeling lonely
Just look at the
moon
someone,
somewhere
is looking right at it too

#2
It's not the same moon
that you and I see
the moon is the moon
that we want it to be.

the moon is a picture
of our own thoughts
the moon will be
what we want it to be

I wrote two conflicting poems today. I'm not sure how this makes me feel.

My hands clutched the notebook as I made my way to the train stop.

Recently, I had caved into my urge to write back, leave small quotes and additions scattered between pages.

Glancing up at the clock above the staircase down to the station, I saw that it read just past midnight. A little early for me, a little late for the world. Perfect time to ride the train.

When I stopped to wait for the train to take me home, I made myself busy with calculating how much sleep I was going to get once I reached my apartment. Probably around five hours, give or take.

Tonight was different as I stood there in the dead of night, counting minutes. It was different because the station wasn't empty.

There was a boy, probably a university student like me, standing a couple meters away.

The unspoken rules of late night train riding where that you where to be just that, unspoken.

May I mention that if I had abided by those guidelines I wouldn't be telling you this. Something about him struck me. Then it hit me. It was the stars. The white stars he had seen all over his black combat jacket. They were the kind of star you drew when you weren't able to do just the outline.

They where all over his sleeve, back, and collar. The messy white string caught my eye and I could help my self.

"They say when you can't see the stars to make your own."

He glanced down at his jacket, blushing, "to make enough to create your own universe."

My eyes locked with his. I swore those word had been said to me before.

"So that when reality's universe is destroyed, you have another to catch you," I finished, reciting words I had given my heart to for weeks. Our eyes still searching each others faces as if we'd lost our own names among their features.

"You-" I started, hesitating, but regaining my certainty, to hold out the notebook to him. "Something you lost."

"Something you found," he responded, softly taking the leather bonded paper into his hands.

After a short pause I asked, "TBS, those are your initials?"

"Thomas Brodie-Sangster," he replied while running his fingers along the page ends. "And you?"

"El," I said sheepishly, "Eleanor Rose."

He nodded, the name sending gears spinning in his head. I'd like to think they were the good kind.

//
Chapter One of a story I've been working on forever.

Tell me what you think! I'd love some feedback and helpful criticism.

Love,
Jenna Rose

P.S.
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