Books I Read Journal Novels & Stories

I took a pic of me eating and posted with the hashtag #latenightsnack I washed the leftover dishes and went upstairs to freshen up and get ready for bed When I came out of the bathroom the first thing I noticed was the brown paper packed with books and that old journal slipping out of my bag I crawled over to the middle of my bed to check it out. I opened the bag completely and brought out all the books, I picked up the journal and it actually looked really old, especially the leather on it, then I remembered Mr Jonathan's word's '...That book will test you...' I took a deep breath and opened the book. The pages were.... Blank?? I flipped through the book and it was the same I actually didn'

he said, getting up and walking over to a nearby drawer. He pulled out a small, leather-bound book and handed it to me. "It's my journal," he said. "I have, in ink, written everything down: what I think, what I feel, what I struggle with. I want you, Sara, to read it. I want you to completely understand me." I took the journal, feeling a sense of trepidation. What secrets would it hold? What pain would it reveal? But as I looked up at Henry, I knew that I was ready to face whatever was inside. I was ready to understand him, to support him, and to help him heal.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the couch, the spine of a book, the ceramic mug still warm from my tea. “I didn’t think you’d ever find it,” I said finally. She turned. “I wasn’t looking.” That surprised me. She smiled gently. “It found me.” I nodded. Because that’s how the right truths always do. Calla’s Daughter – POV She pulled the journal from her backpack and placed it on the table between us. “Do you want to read it?” I asked. River didn’t answer right away. Then: “Only if you’re ready.” I nodded.

Besides the boredom, I was a snoopy woman and everyone should've known that by now. My eyes fall on the large map spread out on the desk and my interest in it increased. Without thinking, I reached out for it. It was a map of a city- not our city but another city nearby. I found it boring so I decided to look away and pick up the old, leatherbound book that seemed to be tearing apart from the inside. As I opened it, I realized, it was a journal- Blair's journal. I froze and then kept it aside, I couldn't read his journal or anyone's, that was a private. I wouldn't want someone to read mine if I ever wrote anything.

It felt like a world I might actually want to be a part of someday. I wandered into a bookstore with crooked shelves and a sleepy old wolf man behind the counter. He nodded once when I came in, sniffed as if to confirm who I was, then went right back to his paper. I spent an hour in there, fingers tracing over old maps of pack territories and novels with titles like ‘The Luna’s Song and Moonbound Hearts’. I bought a journal and a pen. I didn’t know what I’d write yet, but it felt like something I needed.

A familiar book for the ride back. Jeffrey leaned closer. “What are you reading?” I didn’t look up. “Philip’s Room by Raven Black.” He looked stunned. “No fucking way! For real?”

So why did I feel like I was forgetting something important? I walked over to my nightstand and pulled out my journal—the leather-bound one Jules had given me last year for my birthday with the inscription "For your thoughts, dreams, and everything in between" on the cover. I hadn't written in it much lately, too caught up in work and usual the chaos. But this morning, I felt the need to write. To ground myself before everything changed,to reassure my self and be grateful. Things weren't perfect but it felt like if I wrote in this book, I would feel better even more free.

Every face around me carried the same mixture of curiosity and concern. The memories came slowly at first, like pieces of a dream trying to reform after years of being forgotten. A small cabin. A warm fire. My mother sitting beside me. Her fingers tracing patterns across an old leather-bound book. Symbols. Drawings. Stories. Things I had dismissed as children's tales. Things I suddenly wasn't so sure were stories at all. "My mother had a journal," I said quietly. Rachel blinked. "A journal?" I nodded. "When I was little, she used to read from it sometimes. Not often. Only when my father wasn't around."

This way I don’t have to carry books everywhere, but I always have something readily available. The books I keep by my bed are ones that I want to read, but can sometimes be a bit slow in parts, so they help me fall asleep. I’m currently reading “Les Misérables” by Victor Hugo. It’s an amazing book, but some of the details can be a bit much. I’ve always preferred fiction, but some parts of Les Mis read more like a history textbook, perfect for those nights I need help falling asleep.

He wanted to have a piece of us with him to take. I blinked back my tears and focused on the other things that were inside the drawer. There was a small photo album, and three black journals. He kept journals! My hands were itching to read them, to know what was written inside them, but my mind said I shouldn’t. If I were him, I’d be scathing mad if I saw someone reading my private thoughts. I pushed my urge away, and picked up the small photo album. The first picture my eyes landed on once I opened the cover, had a very painful lump take place in my throat and a big hole to form in the middle of my chest, where my heart is.