I gave him the notebook last night. I didn’t think about how I’d feel till I was on the train, and I felt its absence gnawing a hole in my bag. I tried to remember everything I had written, to get it back, but I couldn’t.
When I wrote in it, I knew I was going to pass it to him first, so some of my words were aimed directly or indirectly at him. But that was before I’d met ‘him’, so really they were aimed at an imaginary figure in my head. I suppose all writing is aimed at an imaginary figure: the ‘you’ that we speak to when we write is both general and particular, real and made-up.
After I said goodbye I wondered when he would start to read. Maybe when he was still on the tube. I would have if it was me; I never did have any patience. I imagined the other passengers idly glancing over as he took the book out of his bag and began to explore the contents.
It feels like an exciting thing to do; ‘romance is analogue’, and analogue is romantic. I find it hard to let go, but I know there is a freedom to be had in giving something away; passing the burden of responsibility onto someone else for a while. I don’t have to tell you my innermost thoughts; they are hidden away in a notebook, travelling around the city in somebody else’s bag. It is his turn now. I wonder what he is going to write?