Books I Read Journal Novels & Stories

The book’s worn edges and cracked spine hinted at countless secrets within. As I opened it, I realized, it was a journal- Xavier'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. The weight of the invasion felt heavy in my chest, guilt tightening my throat.

If my handjob sucked, then I had to make it better, learn the best way to treat a cock, and whip him up with something he’ll never forget. “Noah”—his moans played in my head as I searched the shelf for something helpful. [The Faith of the Dragon Lair] [How to kill a dragon] [The Art of Fireflies] [An Omega’s Journal] My finger paused at the last book, “An Omega’s Journal.” It sounded intriguing and also felt like it was written from experience. I pulled the book out of the shelf, dusting it off and removing the particles in search of the author’s name. No name, no copyright claims… Who would leave something this private in a library?

Just occupying my own body without apologizing for the space it took up. At a small bookshop on the corner I stopped on impulse and went in. The smell of paper and ink and warm indoor air folded around me immediately. I moved between the shelves slowly, reading titles with genuine curiosity, picking things up and putting them down and picking up other things, with no sense of hurrying or having to justify the time. Eventually I chose a plain-covered journal and carried it to the counter. The cashier smiled. "New project?" "Something like that," I said. "Yes."

I followed Blade's gaze and then turned to look at him again. "Well, I'm glad you have something left of them. Do you read it often?" "Not very often but when I'm stressed or not in a great mood. Their journal entries are a good refreshers and tells me more about their love for each other. Or other things in general" he answered. "Must be nice to know more about them..." I murmured and sighed. Blade smiled small and said, "Yes, indeed. So do you plan on reading the book right now?"

But even so, Adrian still didn't know what pulled him so strong to get into the interior of the house. “For some reason, I feel like there's nothing so special in this room. I felt the pull coming from the other direction. But, I have to find something in this room. Maybe my instincts are wrong...." Adrian muttered slowly. Then Adrian began to walk closer to the tables in the room of the late Alexis parents there, and opened them. Adrian saw old books that looked very worn and dusty there. Slowly, Adrian took the books, and began to open them. Adrian read a few pages from the pages in the book. “A diary?” Adrian muttered realizing what the book actually contained.

He could tell the world I deserved it. I’m pulled from my spiraling thoughts when my gaze falls on the bookshelf. A couple of decorative books sit there — unread, untouched. But they remind me of the journal Jules gave me at the funeral. My pulse quickens. I hurry to the bedroom, grab my purse, and pull out the journal along with the small rubber ice cream figurine. The journal is heavy in my hands, both in weight and what it might contain. I set the figurine beside me, its innocent appearance mocking me as I open the journal.

Walking home with that book felt like stealing light from the sky. In my room, I opened it slowly. The pages smelled like dust and ink. I didn’t understand most of the first chapter. But I didn’t close it. Every night after work, I read one page. Then another. Then another. At the restaurant, Jenna started calling me “Book Mouse.” Leo noticed too. “You falling asleep on your feet,” he grunted one night. “What’re you reading?” “Math,” I said. He blinked. Then shook his head. “Nuts.”

Finally, she pulled out a book and beamed. “I once read this, and loved it so much I read it again and again. You’ll love it.” She handed it to me proudly. It was green, around two hundred pages, titled Trust the Journey. Catchy enough. I signed it out, planning to read over the weekend. I always enjoyed reading in the cool of a Saturday evening with a smoothie. An image of Henry flashed in my mind—walking toward me on the balcony, tray in hand with two glasses. Why did these reminders keep haunting me?

The FT section of the rack was the deepest, the issues stacked in reverse chronological order, the most recent on top. Two culinary journals, Elijah's, which arrived monthly and were read promptly and thoroughly. Elijah read them with a pen in hand, making notes in the margins, dog-earing pages that referenced techniques he wanted to try or restaurants he wanted to visit or chefs whose work he wanted to understand better. The culinary journals never stayed in the rack for long — they migrated to Elijah's office or to the kitchen or to the small stack beside his side of the bed — but they passed through the rack on their way to wherever they were going.

I work out often, actually when I can, which is usually twice a month. I eat healthy, stopped eating out, instead I make food, this morning I will make Egg Fried Rice, I've been trying recipes. I read, not what Fiona and the girls read, I have no mental capacity to keep up with that, but I read books, I read Harry Potter, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, Everything is Fucked, and Atomic Habits. I tried getting into poetry, Violet recommended some books by Rup Kaur. I pick up her book, The Sun and Her Flowers, I should be done before tonight.