Every time she turned a page, he could feel her getting closer to something. Something. In the beginning he didn’t want to be bothered. He wasn’t ready to open himself up again. It had been so long, he could feel how far away he had gone, like stuck-together pages, like a book that’s been binded on both sides. There was no way in, no way to find the truth. But she was getting so close, close to where his heart lay. Like a sleeping beast, forgotten for so long it couldn’t remember its function. She would be the one to call it back.
He kept going back to the moment when it all started. He couldn’t muster up the energy to care, he had been picked up and put down so many times, not once had anyone persisted long enough, no one had seen all the parts of him. Some saw the beginning of his story, others just the end, but never the middle. So many had skipped to the end, to a conclusion that had no true meaning if you hadn’t stuck around for everything leading up to it. Its really the middle people need to stick around for, he thought. Endings, good or bad always brought closure. Middles are uncertain and uncomfortable, it was where he was most vulnerable. He believed that she could see that. He could see her, right in the middle: cross-legged, leaning on her closet door, gently prying open pages like there was something precious hidden in between each leaf. It made no sense to him, how he treasured his moments with her knowing the impossibility of it all. But when her hair would slide down from the loose bun she kept it in, quickly brushing against the page before she put it up again, he never felt more like fiction.