When We Were Young Book Novels & Stories

The pages turned themselves, faster, a blur of images: Elena, five years old, watching Javier sign the loan, her tiny hand on his sleeve. Sofia, hiding chemo bags in the restaurant’s freezer, tears in her eyes. Marco, twelve, hacking the city’s traffic lights to keep the power on. Me, proposing by the East River, lying when I said no more wagers. The book laughed, a sound that wasn’t sound but pressure, a weight on my heart. The alley shifted. The rubble became the Hamptons mansion’s marble floor, the smoke the gala’s chandeliers, the ash the warehouse’s crater. We were inside the book, the pages walls, the words chains.

Our book that would contain everything – the bar and the boy and the girl who wrote at 2 AM because writing was the only way she knew how to stay alive when the world said disappear. I’d start tomorrow. Tonight was the kitchen floor. Takeout containers and fluorescent light and the smell of charred garlic and his arm around me and the specific, irreplaceable quiet of two people who’d survived enough to stop being careful and start being real.

I draped her pancakes with honey and dropped it on the table right in front of her, serving it with a glass of milk, after which I went back to the kitchen and had mine with a cup of hot chocolate. No one was at the hospital when I got there, and luckily for me, I brought a book along, so I sat right beside the bed and started reading the book. The book was “ My Father's Wish” by Bellaboy, a touching story of how a young man, Hunter, was set up by his late father's will to marry his middle school bully, Hazel, just so that he; Hunter, could claim his inheritance.

CHAPTER 2 PART 1 “Ethan Cruz… you’re still ruining me.” The words echoed in my chest, folding time in on itself. And suddenly, I wasn’t standing in a glass office anymore. I was eighteen again. Freshman year. The air smelled different back then cleaner somehow, mixed with freshly cut grass and ambition. The kind of air that made you feel like anything was possible, even if you didn’t know what you wanted yet. The university gates rose in front of the car as the driver slowed to a stop. My reflection stared back at me from the tinted window, soft makeup, glossy lips, and hair perfectly styled. I looked exactly like what people expected.

] Now, let me tell you a story. • Once upon a time , there was a little girl named Daisy. She was smart and bubbly and full of life. When it came to expressing her feelings and thoughts, she lacked a little; because she cared too much about what others would feel and maybe they would get a wrong impression of her. Though she was just 10, she was very thoughtful and considerate. So, whenever she had anything to say to her friends or family, which was hard to get off her chest, she use to write letters. The letters used to be the specific people and she would let go of her through her words. She felt safe, relaxed and far from the fear of being misunderstood. The letters were her comfort zone

Thе dеѕсrірtіоnѕ оf groping each other and getting ‘felt up’, оf ‘making оut’, аnd then later of ‘blowjobs’ аnd ‘gоіng аll thе wау’ hаd simply ѕоundеd sweaty аnd grоѕѕ tо her. Onе afternoon, lаtе іn hеr ѕеnіоr year аnd ѕhоrtlу after hеr еіghtееnth birthday, one оf her bооkіѕh friends hаd passed her a book wrіttеn bу a fеmаlе аuthоr ѕhе didn’t rесоgnіzе.

I laid back onto the chair and began to read, “In an ancient village, lying in between two majestic mountains…” ~*~*~*~ I had been reading for a while and lost track of time very quickly. Two things were certain: the moon was already up in the sky and I was reading a chapter titled Ye Love of Old. This book told stories about the legends of our realm. Mother has always told me stories before I would go to bed. I didn’t know they were this well-known and even studied by the wisest people that came and went.

She gave him a look and thought better than to speak whatever had popped into her head as he started sorting her books out on the table and window sill. By the time he had finished his task of sorting the books so that it’d be easier to pick them up, she’d settled into him and was a few chapters in. Young sat back and eased into the feeling of having her in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder. The turning of the pages created a peaceful lull that Young hadn’t experienced in years. The last time he’d been serenaded by this sound they were teenagers, Young laying with his head in Asha’s lap as she left the planet and leapt into the world of ink. He’d forgotten how much this simple

As we stepped in, he gave a small nod to the first store’s attendant we met before hurrying off to a quiet section of the store. While Uncle Al ran his long hands along the books on the shelf, soft hurried footsteps caught my attention. A girl of about five years old with pigtails peered at a man who had a book propped on his face. As soon as my uncle stopped pacing, the quiet air of the room felt different. I felt like I won and lost a trophy at the same time as wailing laughter reached my ears. “Do you feel that?” “That,” Uncle Al tapped on a seemingly ordinary leather book about cooking and grinned, “is our ticket. Place your hand on the book.”

She pointed with her finger and ran it down these books looking for a particular cover. “I have been saving this story for the right moment.” She directed her son to sit in the chair and when he sat down, she gave him the book. It looked ordinary to him, but it was obviously special to her. “This is the story of a young man who found a friend while on a journey. It is called ‘The Tale of Meru’.” He looked surprised because he was half expecting another history lesson. “Are you sure you have the right book?” “Yes, Yvayn, I am. I am not as boring as you would like to think I am.”