I recently picked up a book at the library. This in and of itself is not too strange. I got the book from the swap shelf, a bookshelf set up in a side hallway where people may take and leave books as they see fit. This is not too strange either. What is strange is that there was a note written on the inside, on the bottom over three pages.
The writer of the note intended it to be read by someone specific. The writer questions their relationship (apparently, things were tense between them), but still insists that they love the other person, and hopes that they will return the writer's feelings and that they can work things out. I was...surprised and a little uncomfortable coming across the note. I felt like I was intruding on something that did not concern me. Also, it raised a few questions in my mind.
Who wrote the note? Who was the note intended for? Did they ever get the note? Did they work things out or did the problems escalate? Who left the book on the shelf? The writer, the intended reader, or someone else entirely?
There's a certain amount of intimacy about the way the message was passed along. "Here; it's a book I think you will enjoy." And hidden inside is a tender note, waiting to be read. But it wasn't meant for me.
This little event has gotten me thinking, about several things, but especially about what is going on around me. I see people around me, and they see me, and but how much do we really know about each other? Everyone has a story that is their life and all our stories continue onward, come together, and pull apart.
How well do you know the stories of the people around you?
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