MON LIVRE

I’ve always wondered how my obsession with books began. Maybe it was just a fleeting phase, or so I thought, but here I am, years later, still unable to let go. It all started with poems, short stories, and soon enough, I was devouring novels. You know how people say, don’t judge a book by its cover? Well, they’re absolutely right. Some of the blandest covers hide the most soul-stirring stories.

Don't even ask me to name a favorite book—every genre has its own magic, and each book I read feels like stepping into a new world. And don’t get me started on tropes—like grumpy x sunshine, my personal weakness. There's something about opposites that captivates me every time.

Now here I am again, living the single life, standing in the middle of a newly opened bookstore, trying to pick out something fresh. The place has a reputation for getting new releases faster than even Amazon. No offense, Amazon. As I wander through the aisles, my fingers drift along the spines of countless romance novels. Thanks to Bookstagram, I’ve read almost all of them. It's a blessing and a curse, really.

After what feels like an eternity of browsing, I notice a book—alone in an empty aisle. Intrigued, I walk over. The spine is blank, something that’s rare around here. Dust clings to its cover as if it’s been forgotten for years. This is no shiny new release.

MON LIVRE.

French? My knowledge of French is limited, but I piece it together—My Book. Straightforward. Curious, I flip it open. The first page bears a signature in elegant, old-fashioned handwriting:

Marchel Lucas Lavigne

The name sounds like poetry itself. I imagine how it would roll off the tongue with that perfect French accent. But what really pulls me in is what I find when I turn the next page—beautiful, flowing penmanship fills every line. And as I skim through, I realize it’s not a typical book. It’s a journal. An actual handwritten journal. And in English! Now, this is something I didn’t expect. My heart races with excitement as I flip through, reading snippets of someone’s most intimate thoughts.

I rush to the counter, eager to make this treasure mine. An elderly woman with round glasses perched on her nose smiles as I approach. Her gentle, welcoming energy instantly puts me at ease.

"Hello! I'd like to purchase this book," I say, setting the journal on the counter while rummaging through my bag for my card.

"Hello, dear. Thank you for choosing a book from us. Let me see what you've picked up..." She trails off as she inspects the journal, her expression shifting into something more cautious. "Oh…this one? Could you give me a moment? I need to ask my daughter about the price—it isn’t marked." With that, she disappears into the back, leaving me standing there, clutching my card in hand.

I wait for a few minutes, glancing around the store, but my curiosity gets the better of me. It’s been longer than expected. I walk towards the aisle where the woman had gone, hearing faint murmurs ahead. I pause when I catch a snippet of the conversation.

"Are you sure you want to let it go, Jules? You might regret it once it’s gone," the older woman says in a low voice. Her daughter responds, equally hushed, "Yes, Mom. It's time. But we should at least warn her. It's… not like the others."

My heart skips a beat. Is this some kind of cursed book? I can’t afford a ghost following me around—life’s stressful enough without supernatural complications. Quickly, I retreat to the counter, pretending to browse some brochures as they return. The daughter, looking more serious now, approaches me.

"Thank you for your patience," she says, her voice laced with hesitation. "This is an old journal, and… well, it’s a bit unusual. We don’t typically keep it on the shelves."

"Oh, that’s fine!" I reply, hoping to sound nonchalant despite my growing excitement. "I love unique finds, and this one’s definitely special."

She studies me for a moment, then sighs. "Alright. Just… keep the journal safe. It’s not just a book; it’s someone's life, someone’s soul, captured on paper." She smiles, but it feels bittersweet.

I nod enthusiastically, reaching for my card. But she surprises me.

"You know what? You don’t have to pay for it. Consider it a gift." Her mother, now standing beside her, hands me a set of bookmarks, her smile warm and genuine. "Pick one, on the house."

"Wait, are you sure? It feels strange not to pay," I stammer, still holding my card out awkwardly.

"Positive," the daughter insists. "This journal deserves someone who'll cherish it, and you seem like just the right person. Take it, read it with your heart. That’s all we ask."

I choose a blue bookmark, still feeling a little dazed by the whole exchange. They pack up the journal, handing it over to me as if it’s some sacred relic.

"You’ve made my day," I tell them, grinning ear to ear as I turn to leave.

I can’t wait to get home and dive into this mysterious journal. Something tells me that this story—this life captured in ink—won’t just break my heart. It might just change it forever.

AN: Hey, Thank you for reading. If you find any mistakes please do let me know. Comment your thoughts.