Status: Complete.

Letters of the Loneliest


Lily spends the next couple of days scouring the subway for the owner of the notebook. With only the woman's suggestion to go by, she starts by asking all the guys close to her age beginning at the fifth stop before hers. Unsurprisingly, none claim it.

After the first evening, she decides that to a woman in her eighties, a young man could actually be a wide range. To Lily, a young man would be in his 20s. To an elderly woman, it could mean from 20s-40s.

With that in mind, she tries again the next morning, asking any man that seems like a "young man." Still no luck.

When she gets to work, she reports straight to her boss. He dismisses her once he hears no news. She doesn't miss the warning in his eyes, or the way he hasn't spoken of her audition anymore.

Since agreeing to work on the notebook, she's had a mountain of free time on her hands. All work has be redirected to the woman lower than her.

She can't help but wonder why her boss is so interested in the journal, but doesn't dare question it. The spare time gives her hours of freedom to strategize her audition. She can't blow it again.

Changing her office around has allowed her the small room necessary to practice certain parts. She can't do the whole routine in such a cramped space, but it's enough for the turns she finds most difficult. She's even started watching other's routines online, and starting to incorporate new moves.

No, Lily would not be caught off guard this time. Her bag is packed and waiting at home. Every night, she triple checks it to be certain. If her boss comes through, she's going to nail the next audition.


Lily bounces along in the subway. She's later than usual getting home, but she had decided to use the rest of her paycheck to get use of a dance studio. It's nothing fancy, but it has the space and equipment needed, and the cheapest price she's found. She's covering all her bases.

The smell of cigarette smoke fills the air. She wrinkles her nose, bringing her hand up to block the smell. Brow furrowed, her eyes scan the compartment for the source. It doesn't take long to locate it. A man with shaggy hair, hunkered down with a foot in the seat is casually smoking.

There is still quite a few people left, but they pretend to not notice him. It takes her a few discreet glances before she recognizes the man. He's a fan favorite on the current most popular show. She doesn't watch it, not one for scary stuff, but she recognizes him. He's the one that all the girls go crazy over.

Lily rolls her eyes, concluding that's why no one is complaining about him. Rules don't apply to celebrities. She's irritated, but intrigued. Will that ever be her? Will she ever break out in the world, and be allowed to smoke wherever she pleases? She's not a smoker by nature, but she promises to try it just once, if she gets to that level.

Now that she knows who he is, she can't stop looking at him. She never would've thought she'd be starstruck, but she had never seen a celebrity up close.

He keeps his head ducked, ball cap pulled low, as if he's hiding. Maybe he is. It must be exhausting, never being able to go out without people flocking you. That's Lily's dream, though.

At the next stop, he stands, moving towards the opening doors. Lily waits for everyone to notice him, but no one even bothers to look his way. Not one person seems to notice him.

At the last second, he turns to her, squinted eyes meeting hers. She sits frozen, face burning at being caught. Does he know she's been staring the whole time? His eyes are so intense they make her squirm.

For a moment, he acts as if he's going to say something. His eyes rake over her body, pausing on her dance shoes. When he meets her gaze again, he offers a half-hearted smile, but his eyes are drowning in sadness. Then, he's gone.

Lily still feels the effects of the overwhelming sorrow when she gets home. It's almost suffocating, and she can't imagine how someone so loved and looked up to could look so unhappy. It tears at her heart.

She pulls a beer from the fridge and plops onto her couch, propping her feet on the coffee table. She lays the notebook in her lap, deciding to read an entry to help refocus her emotions.

17 September, 2014

Not even going to bother writing my name. Halfway through everyone will know anyways. Because they know me. Right.

I didn't choose to be an actor. I never aspired to be one growing up. I imagined living a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. I wanted to write and take pictures, and my house to be filled with secondhand furniture. The only decor would be my photographs.

I lucked in on a drunken and I am who I am. I'm probably coming across as ungrateful. I love my job. I love my fans. But they don't know me. Not like they think they do.

They see a character on television. Maybe stand in line all day for a five minute conversation and picture. The amount of times I hear I love you a day is insane. Ridiculous.

My friends are great, don't get me wrong, but be honest. If I wasn't famous, I never would've met these people. They wouldn't have taken a second look at me. I know that. They know that.

My photography has shot through the roof, but now I don't know if it's because it's good or because of who I am. I've lucked into my whole life, but sometimes I don't want it. I didn't work for this. This isn't the life I aimed for.

I post something on social media and millions scrutinize it. They take it and pass it around, changing it, molding it. They make me into the person they want me to be. A person they imagine me to be. Based on what? A couple interviews? Nothing is private. My entire life is up for grabs.

I want people surrounding me because of me. Not because of who I play or what I do or even what I look like. I find myself yearning for that more and more.

A new beginning. A clean slate.

Lily slams the journal closed, heart racing. The sadness has only grown. Never superstitious, she can't help to feel a nagging sense that something is off about the notebook. It feels almost like deja vĂș, but of what?

No, it all just has to be a coincidence.