No matter how cruel it’s been in the past, I’ve never been able to flip fate the bird. I’m a romantic at heart. So when fate drops a leather-bound journal at my feet, I know I should walk away.
I don't. I pick her up, bend her spine, spread her pages. From the first word, I’m a goner. The owner didn’t give me access to her most intimate desires, but I devour them anyway. Her private darkness, her candid, explicit poetry—it all goes down like warm milk. And from that point forward, I drink, eat, and sleep her.
I went to his apartment and let him take my picture. Just once, to see how it would feel. I’m not his to look at, to inspire, to touch, but when he watches me through his lens, it gives me a high I don’t want to come down from…
My journal is the one place I can be myself—as long as I can tie it up and put it away when I’m finished. But when Finn undoes the bow, he pulls strings that could unravel each of us.