Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
He found the journal on the train.
It was beautiful, leather bound, and made of thick, heavy pages. It smelled like a library; old and musty and wonderful. How strange that a gorgeous journal like that would be lying in a place just as insignificant as an AmTrak train.
For a moment, he pondered opening the book. On one hand, it would just be taking a peek into the life of a total stranger. On the other hand, it would be totally wrong to invade the privacy of some poor person he didn't even know. Then again, maybe there'd be an address in it so he could return the journal...
Trees whooshed past the window, blurring into a mass of green. Evan tugged down on the sleeves of his sweater so that the ends covered his hands. It was chilly this time of year, and he absolutely adored it.
The journal sat in the seat next to him, and it felt like it was burning a hole in his brain. Against his better judgement, he grabbed it gingerly to appease the curiosity in his mind. Once he opened its cover, there was no going back. The words were written in deep black ink. At the top of the page was a date: November 30, 2016. Not too long ago.
He continued down the page.
I guess the one important thing to say right off the bat is that I think I'm going to kill myself.
Evan did a double-take and read the sentence again. He didn't read it wrong; the writer really had written that.
My name is Alexandra Slate. I'd very much like it if you would stop reading now if your name isn't Alexandra Slate, but hey, it's a free country. Do as you please. Just know that life is not a walk in the park, and neither will the contents of this journal be one. Sorry.
Alexandra Slate. He pulled out his phone and typed the name into Google, but after some quick browsing, he realized that he had no clue who to look for. In a slight moment of defeat, he shut off his phone and slid it back into his pocket.
Now, if you're not me, then I suppose that my first question is how in the hell did you get your hands on this thing? My second question is more of a request: would you mind mailing it back to me?
Below the passage was a PO box in New York. Funnily enough, Evan was heading to New York for winter break. He ought to bring it to the PO box while he was up there.
Anyway, I guess I should explain why I think I'm going to kill myself.
A vibration in his pocket snapped him out of his reading. He sighed quietly and grabbed his phone. It was a text message from his girlfriend in Manhattan:
What do you want for dinner?
He quickly typed out a response:
Anything's fine but I gotta drop something off on my way to ur place so I might be a little late
