The Start of Something
Henry sat at the small black desk that his father had built ages ago. There was a small notebook that lay closed in the middle of the desk. The cover of the notebook was dark green and almost felt like velvet as he ran his fingers lightly over it for the thousandth time. As his fingers slid off the bottom edge of the notebook they found the cold touch of a pen that had been left untouched for what seemed like forever. Henry picked up the pen and ran his fingers over the notebook again then pulled the cover open and flipped through the pages that had the familiar handwriting until he found an empty page. He repositioned the pen in his hand and pressed it to the paper.
Dear Diary,
Another school year started not long ago (just about a month ago) and I’m already starting to get stressed out again. I’ve been getting headaches almost every night and I haven’t been able to sleep all that well. But none of that is really new, is it? Then again, nothing is ever new for me. Once again, I’m off in my own little world and no one will take the time to notice. Maybe one day, just once, someone will notice without me having to say something. I dou
Henry stopped writing after he heard a knock on the door. He put the pen down, closed the notebook, making sure to stroke the cover once again, and pulled the cover back down over the old writing desk.
“Henry, one of your friends is here to see you,” a voice said through the white wooden door of his room.
“Coming, Mother. Tell them I’ll be right down,” Henry said in return as he looked around the room for his shoes and a coat.
