Jayden didn't think much of the journal project when it started.
At first, it was just another weird idea from Mrs. Carter—like the time she made them write love letters from Shakespeare's point of view. He figured he'd get paired with someone who'd write three boring sentences, and he'd do the same, and that would be that.
But now… this was different.
Every week, he'd flip open the notebook and find words that actually meant something. Not rants or fake stories, but little pieces of someone's real thoughts. Someone who saw the world quietly, the way he wished he could, sometimes.
And for some reason, she felt familiar.
---
This week, he sat on the edge of his bed, the notebook in his lap, reading her latest entry under the soft yellow glow of his lamp.
> "Do you ever wish you were someone else?"
He didn't even need time to think.
He always wished that.
Not because he hated himself. Not really. But because the version of him people saw—the confident, loud one—was only one side. The safe side. The one that didn't get judged.
No one ever asked him about the other parts.
Until now.
He grabbed a pen and started writing.
" Okay, so maybe I get it now. Why people write letters.
You said you'd be a sparrow. I like that. It makes sense. I think I'd be a tree. Something rooted, steady. I feel like I'm always moving, always talking, like I can't stay still. But deep down, I think I'm tired. Really tired.
And yeah, sometimes I wish I could be someone else. Not because I don't like who I am. But because I'm scared that if I stop performing, no one will care enough to notice the real me.
You're lucky. You get to watch the world quietly. I feel like I always have to be the one making noise.
Anyway, I'm glad we got paired.
— Still Me (still anonymous, still figuring it out)"
He stared at the page for a long time after writing that.
It wasn't like him to talk like this. But somehow, this girl—whoever she was—made it feel okay. Safe. Like her notebook was a place where truth could breathe.
He closed it carefully and tucked it back into his backpack.
And even though he had no idea who she was, he knew one thing for sure:
He wanted to write her again.