She doesn’t find a book to read. Only journals I carry around to remind myself to write something. Anything. I’ve started all of them. I
intended to fill each with its own project, but I’ve barely made it more
than a dozen or so pages into one. Another is further along, but there
are days or even weeks between me filling each page. “I’m not reading a book right now. I like to write my own. We have that in common.” Still. “Really? What’s your book about?”
She looks up at me, and I can’t meet her eyes for long. Hers are so... clear and bright. I’m afraid she’ll see we don’t share that feature. We haven’t in...well since we were one and the same.
“I’m working on a few right now, but they all have magic. And some
things about the real world.” As I trail off, I realize my leg is bouncing
restlessly. I’m struggling to summarize even one out of the many I have. When had my inner world become such a labyrinth?
She pats my knee and stands. Then tugs at my arms. “Let’s walk!” I’m relieved to follow her. “Do you know how your story will end?” She half walks, half skips along the dirt path slicing through the woods.
“Nope! Do you?”
“Always.” I don’t think before I say it. And as I look down to avoid being
tripped by roots or stones, I add, “I have to know everything before I start.” “Okay! Is that fun?” It used to be. “Sometimes.”
“You should only do it when it’s fun.” The command comes so easily to her.
I let my guard down at once. I respond too honestly to her childish confidence. “I don’t write for fun.”
