Hey! I found your notebook the other day. It was a close-bound golden blank book. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to read it; I was looking for a name, address, who I should contact. I read about you feeling sorry about that night, wondering if he might have taken it wrong. If only you hadn’t been so impulsive. Will life always like this?! You had just gotten this cute little notebook and wanted to write down your thoughts in an attempt to sort things out. You feel like if you only had a chance to get things out, spilled on the page things might start to make sense.
About that night . . . did he ever call you? I tried to call, but the number was unlisted—as was your email; my message bounced back.
You seemed conflicted about that night. He was okay and he might be someone you’d be into. In other ways it was so wrong, like he was your roommate’s boyfriend’s best friend. Awkward. He still hadn’t called. And, it’d been 24 hours. You blamed the drinking (too much), the weed (especially after you’d resolved not to), and the fact that you wanted to fuck-revenge your ex. YOUR EX, you shouted. Why can’t I get over him?