I'll Be Seeing You The Notebook Novels & Stories

Something I’m still willing to give, if it means burying Miley for good. --- Miley's POV When Nico finally left the room to make the calls, I walked to the wardrobe and pulled out the old notebook—the one with my mother’s handwritten sketches. I flipped to the page marked by a small dried violet. The unfinished collection. The one she planned to name Resurrection. She never got to finish it. But I will. And I’ll use it to destroy the very people who stole her life. Nico returned a few minutes later. Something in his expression made my blood run cold and hot at once.

progressive-markdown_:is(p,blockquote,ul,ol,h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6)]:pr-8"> _*]:min-w-0 gap-3 standard-markdown"> The eighth notebook was not Seren's. This surprised her when she understood it — she had been expecting her own notebooks to be the ones that mattered in the way that Ivory Voss's four notebooks mattered, had been building toward the possibility of adding her own notebooks to the archive's permanent record. She had filled two already. They were good notebooks. They contained real thinking. But the eighth notebook — the one that would be added to the archive in the specific way that the four notebooks had been added, the one that would be read by the people who came after the way the f

Caleb needed to believe he was winning. I'd let him believe it. For now. I closed the notebook. Put it in the bottom drawer of my desk, under a stack of old syllabi, in a folder labeled ENGLISH 302 NOTES. Invisible. Forgettable. Exactly where I needed it. Friday afternoon. Miles's practice. I pulled into the parking lot and waited with the windows down and the notebook in my bag and the specific, electric patience of a woman who was done being the girl things happened to and was becoming the woman who happened back.

Not just the people, she wondered how her boss would react. “ Oh! Lest I forget, Mr. Williams asks that you see him in his office.” She informed her, her eyes now on her laptop and she played with the buttons on it.

But I сhаngе mу mind whеn I ѕее the pages of thе first half of thе notebook are fіllеd wіth flоwеrу, cursive ѕсrірt. [Next POV: 'Blake' in Chapter 73]

Willow wasn't just our manager. She was also George's wife. With her vouching for me, everyone fell into a tense silence. In my previous life, I hadn't been able to make out what was on the screen. This time, I wasted no time. I scrolled through the footage frame by frame. Even though it was nighttime, the ATM lights were still bright. Under the clear, almost daylight-like glow, my face was unmistakably visible. No matter how I looked at it, the person in the footage was undeniably me.

Caelum: arriving Thursday at three, same as every Thursday. I looked at the notebook on Tuesday morning. I opened it to the "What Comes Next?" page. Every item I had written on this page since Ironveil had been either crossed out or still in progress. The succulent was crossed out. Southern Reaches crossed out and circled. The challenge ruling was crossed out. The Ashford action was crossed out, along with the entire cluster of items around it—Lena, the inspection, the Merra cooperation, the founding document, and the registration. All crossed out. The notebook's "What Comes Next" page was the most crossed-out document I had ever produced.

The photo. Her silence grew heavier with every word. Finally, she moved to her bookshelf, pulled out a worn notebook, and flipped through it until she found a page she was looking for. “I didn’t think you’d come back to this,” she said. “Not after last time.” “What do you mean ‘last time’?” Beverly looked at me, solemn. “You’ve been here before.” I froze. “What?” She handed me the notebook. On the page: a crude drawing of the symbol. The cracked eye.

“What the heck am I doing? Yada isn’t here. No one is watching me, and I'm talking to myself for no reason.” She touched the gray patch just above her right eye before ripping the package to shreds. “Let’s see what game we have here.” Examining the notebook, carefully, she recognized Yada’s handwriting. “Okay, Yada or whoever wants me to think this is from Yada, you have my full attention. What do you want to tell me?”

Like the room itself didn’t want me getting closer. The notebook sat perfectly still beneath the dim light. Waiting. I reached for it slowly. My hands trembled badly now. When I touched the cover— Another flash hit me. My own handwriting. Fast. Panicked. Writing over and over across paper: DON’T TRUST THE MEMORIES. DON’T GO BACK. IF YOU FORGET AGAIN— RUN. The vision vanished instantly. I jerked backward sharply. The notebook slipped from my hands and hit the floor. Pages spilled open. And there—