The Blank Story of Us

I’ve been told every writer has that notebook that they can never write in. But somehow I feel like this isn’t the same thing. A sense of betrayal rests over these pages and I can’t pick up a pen to ink over it without a sudden feeling of guilt. This blank notebook is a complete piece of art without any writing in it. To write in it would be to ruin the memory of you and me, no matter how terrible it may be. I can’t look at this notebook without a sense of dread because there’s only one story to be written within its pages— ours. And somehow, without writing a word, I know that this story has been told. The only two people who need to hear it are you and me. I don’t know if you’ve replayed it in your mind like I have, but I do know that it is not a story I ever want to write. But, despite this, I get a feeling that I don’t have a choice. Our story has been written in these pages, whether I want to do it with a pen or not.