By her bed it rested, asleep and waiting to be stirred, much like the owner herself. A gift from her closest friend, a way for her to articulate her most private thoughts. The pages smelled musty, of old library books, a smell that instantly comforted her. She ran her finger down the spine of the notebook, feeling its hard edge, imagining pages that would come to life with the touch of her pen to the paper.

She sat at her desk, staring intently into the cherry leather bound cover. This was her first grown up journal, no pictures of fairies or purple flowers on the cover, just a simple leather bound book for her to fill her imagination with. She sat a bit longer, taking in the sound of the morning silence around her, only the faint hum of the heater hissing, creating a pillowy ostinato for her first entry.

The blank pages stared at her and stared at her. The cream colored pages were becoming blurry the longer she stared, the navy inked lines on the page doubling under the intent of her stare. She stared and they stared. The pages stared.

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