Leblouche's diary

1. And a beautiful day begins

"One of the luckiest things that can happen to you in life, I think, is to have a happy childhood."

— Agatha Christie

What I find fascinating about us humans is that we perceive life differently depending on our age. As children, the world is a vast adventure; as adults, it is sometimes nothing more than another day coming to an end. Of course, our vision also depends on our background, our personality, our gender, or even our religion...

But I prefer to focus on the factor of age, because it is the one I value the most.

When we were young, we believed there were monsters under our beds; we thought the moon we watched from a car window was following us; we even believed that clouds were made of cotton... In short, basic things that our childish brains recorded like a computer. Admit it—we all believed at least one of those things as kids. We were a bit dumb, to be honest.

But that was precisely what shaped our way of seeing the world: innocence. A bubble that protected us... but from what exactly? From the truth? Maybe. Or perhaps it preserved our imagination, our way of thinking—that ability that fades with time and whose workings we end up forgetting.

Unless we write down how we perceived the world somewhere, sprinkled with our secrets and feelings. And yes, you know exactly what object I'm talking about: the diary. Very popular among girls especially—if you had an older sister, you probably tried to steal it like a burglar more than once, just to read the "forbidden writings."

Well, I had a diary too when I was a teenager. I'm not a girl, though—I'm a boy. "And what exactly could a boy write in a diary?" you might ask. Normally, I should have kept that to myself. After all, the word "intimate" in "intimate diary" isn't there just for decoration. But since I'm generous, I'll give you all the details.

But first, I'd better tell you how I found this notebook again at a time when I had already left adolescence behind. My name is Thierry Leblouche, and this is my story.

Paris (15th arrondissement), Rue du Colonel, 8:29 a.m., a Thursday.

Beep beep! Beep beep! Beep beep!

My electric alarm clock rang, displaying 8:30. I was still asleep in my bed before being jolted awake by the irritating sound of the clock. After letting it sing for a few seconds, I shut it off by slamming the button that silenced it. I got up, still tired, stretching and groaning as I put on my glasses.

I looked at the closed window for a moment, contemplating the sun rising over the capital. Paris was a city I knew well—I was born there and lived there until I entered high school, when my family and I moved to Nice.

After finishing my higher education, I accepted a job offer at a software development company called Ectogen. Even though I had to leave my old small job and Nice for this position, I was excited about the opportunity.

I checked my phone to see if any messages had come in overnight, then looked once more at the window.

"Yawn And here begins a beautiful day..." I sighed.

I started the day with a nice hot shower (the weather has been freezing lately...). I had to hurry, because today I had a job interview at 10 a.m.—it was the only thing haunting my mind.

As I stepped out of the shower, I hit my foot against a moving box. I would have smashed my face on the floor if I hadn't grabbed onto a piece of furniture.

"Ouch... I really need to unpack those damn boxes!" I muttered in annoyance.

I had moved in three days earlier, and thanks to a combination of laziness and procrastination, I still hadn't dealt with them. As a result, my apartment was polluted by cardboard boxes.