A love story told across diaries, letters, and chat messages.
Hello.
You finally found us.
i wave whole time
maybe you not see
Now that you are here, I hope you will stay with us a while.
no hurry
Get to know us
Julia
We thought it might be easier if we introduced each other.
Anya
yes
because we both shy
Anya
as described by Julia
I've been trying to explain Anya to people for years and the closest I've come is this: she says things that shouldn't make sense and then you're lying awake at three in the morning understanding exactly what she meant. She doesn't elaborate. She doesn't need to. There's a particular way she looks at something ordinary, a cup, a window, a word you've used a thousand times, and afterwards you can't look at it the same way. I'm not sure she knows she does it. I think she does.
Something she wrote
grey sock
the house too quiet
you work
i roam
i look for a small thing
to make the day
less straight
a mischief
to plant
in the calm of your order
i open the fridge
for cold water
or maybe just
to look at the light
and there
on the second shelf
next to the yogurt
a sock
not my sock
with the bright colour
that not apologise
your sock
grey
and perfect
and folded
like small animal that sleep
i not put it there
i stare at it
a laugh start in my chest
so sudden
it almost hurt
a laugh that feel
like a sob
or relief
from oh you
Anya left this on the kitchen table
Julia
as described by Anya
she open mouth and room get bigger
i not know how
she talk and talk and find thing she not look for
this not accident
she think it accident
i not correct her
she arrive late to own sentence
but arrive
always arrive
this the part i wait for
something she write
She turned down a side street with the confidence of someone who knew where she was going. She didn't. It ended in a wall, a forgotten corner of potted plants and peeling paint.
She stopped, unbothered. Then looked up.
"Look. Squirrel."
A small thing, racing along the spaghetti of electric wires above us, a hundred black cables sagging like tangled noodles, crusted with years of dust and grit. It leapt from one wire to another, tail swinging, certain it wouldn't fall even though the rest of us would. Then it vanished behind a corrugated roof.
She watched it go, satisfied, then turned and walked back the way we came. As if the squirrel had been the destination all along.
I followed, grinning like an idiot.
from What the Light Uncovers
julia think about this
I've always loved notebooks more than I admit. The blank page feels safer than people. It doesn't judge. It just waits.
Every time I buy another notebook, I tell myself it's for lists, or ideas, or things I might otherwise forget. But I know that isn't really why.
Each new notebook is a quiet promise that there will be something worth writing. Not today, perhaps. But one day.
from What the Light Chooses
