The Notebook Rating Novels & Stories

My notebook was missing, but how? My entire chest tightened as my heart raced not because of the notebook itself necessarily but because that notebook contained my private notes. My Observations and personal thoughts of him, which means in Messy shorthand scribbles I had written down exactly what I had thought of him. Including several deeply unprofessional comments about Bryan Calloway’s face. Shit! I grabbed my phone so fast I nearly dropped it. ME: Please tell me you didn’t read it. The typing bubble appeared almost immediately at my reply. To quickly and hell I already knew his answer..

He didn't like the idea of eating naked. Tiffany was finishing making their turkey sandwiches in the kitchen. On the table was her purple covered, spiral notebook. Ben noticed it was different from the one they normally used. He sat and opened the cover. In it, he saw his mom's perfect handwriting. Several titles were underlined with what appeared to be summaries under them. She had at least ten outlines. As he was about to read the first, the notebook was quickly snatched from his hands and carried to the other side of the table.

“First of all, you cried during ‘The Notebook’. Don’t deny it.” “I had allergies,” I said, deadpan. There was no way I was going to admit to him that ‘The Notebook’ was one of the best romance movies ever made, and only someone with a heart of stone would have watched that movie without shedding a tear. “Right. Allergies… from your eyes leaking. You’re such a terrible liar.” He smirked, turning back to the TV. “Fine. How about action? Something loud enough to annoy the neighbors, but still has a plot?”

"I was twenty-nine and I had met someone on the night bus and had a series of conversations that stayed with me when the person was gone. And I wrote it down the only way I could." Daniel looked at the dark blue notebook on the table. He thought about the twenty-nine year old Adrian and the four months on the night bus and the composition written in the year of it. He thought about all the years between twenty-nine and the rainy night, the nine years of the carrying, and the composition in the notebook all that time — the inside view of the recognition, preserved. He thought: the notebook is not February. The notebook is the kept thing. The thing held in the honest container, not hidden, not

"People I should have protected instead." Noah looked at the notebook. "You did not make it about the consequences to yourself," he said. A notation, not a compliment. "No," I said. "Last time you did not either." He wrote something. "That is consistent." Something moved in my chest. This child was conducting the most thorough and honest audit of my character anyone had ever attempted, with a notebook and a hot chocolate, with more rigour and less agenda than any board member or journalist or lawyer I had ever sat across from.

But something else, something quieter and more dangerous, said something different. He turned the notebook around and pushed it toward her. She leaned forward and read. He watched her face as she did, the way her eyes moved across the page, the small line that appeared between her brows when she was concentrating. She read for a full minute without speaking. Then she looked up. "Leo. This is, this is actually really good." "It's just rough notes," he said, pulling it back.

It was a more yellowed notebook, which looked older than the others, just like an old antique. An Taotao was attracted all the attention by this yellowed note. She stretched out her hand and pressed it gently in the window. The cool start made her narrow her eyes, but her eyes never moved away. If the window can be opened, she will unfold the notebook as soon as possible and look at the contents above! An Taotao couldn't help but look at it again, and suddenly found that there were several bold characters in the lower right of the notebook. Those bold characters were small and vague, but she caught them red-handed.

"So go ahead. Choose." She stared at the shelves for a long time, biting her lip while she scanned through the titles. I expected her to pick something safe or something funny, or at least something that didn't require too much thinking. But instead she turned around slowly with a small smile that looked almost guilty. "The Notebook," she said. "Please." I stared at her for a solid five seconds, then I said, "You're kidding." "But it's a good movie,” she said. "It's emotional torture,” I replied, glaring pointedly at her. “I can’t put myself through that.”

Behind me, I could practically hear Chloe scratching her head, her confusion wafting through the air like static. A moment later, I returned with a worn notebook in my hands. Its cover was plain, but to my senses, it carried the faint, aged scent of old paper. Chloe blinked. “What’s that? Is this what you went to get?” She tilted her head, studying me like I’d suddenly grown a tail. “Didn’t you say you felt shortchanged?” I said calmly. “What if I give you this instead?” I placed the notebook in her hands. She scoffed theatrically. “That’s still pretty unfair. I’m an internationally top-tier hacker and a world-class principal pianist. You work me to the bone, and now you think you can appeas

a spiral-bound notebook? With exaggerated care, as if handling some priceless artifact, Caleb set the notebook on the table before her. Lila recognized it instantly - the very same journal he'd commandeered during their last confrontation, now being returned of his own volition. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, darting between the proffered item and Caleb's unreadable expression as she tried to divine the trap surely hidden within this unexpected olive branch. But Caleb merely nudged the notebook closer, then withdrew a pen from his jacket pocket. With deliberate movements, he flipped open to a blank page and began to write. Lila watched, mystified, as his meaty hand laboriously traced out a