Work Text:
You stare at the notebook in front of you. It's damp, the pages are crumpled slightly, but you don't care. You gently straighten out a few pages of the notebook, running your fingertips over the parchment. As soon as you decide that they’re okay, you pick up your pencil and begin to write.
A boy named George, is what you title the page. You think it's good, it may be the most basic English name you've ever heard, but you love it nonetheless. You began thinking about George's personality, and what he would be like. A boy who's stubborn, childish, loud, hyper, sarcastic, a lovable dickhead— You scoffed at the last word —reliable, caring in a quiet way, and the fond "I hate you" type of person. You scribble the dot on at the end of the sentence, smiling at your progress so far.
You began mapping out more details about George.
- He will be a streamer.
You always wanted to be a streamer. You would watch different content creators and imagine what it would be like, to live that life, but Mother said no, she'd rather you have a 'proper' job. You normally wouldn't listen to Mother, but as the saying goes— "Mother knows best" apparently.
- He will be able to code, amazingly.
The thought of code floods your mind, you've seen others do it before and you found it intriguing to say the least. You tried it once, but it was too hard for you.
- He will be pretty.
Mother told you that boys can't be pretty, but Father said differently. He said compliments aren't necessarily gendered, so if you wanted to be pretty, be pretty .
Speaking of being pretty, how pretty will George be? You think about his face, you'd prefer it be very defined with a sharp jawline, brown fluffy hair to frame his face, and an endearing patch of light freckles on the right. His eyes would be the same color as melted chocolate with honey-like specs in it. His body would be similar to yours, petite and slim. You smile at the words you’ve written on the page, so you close the notebook and place it in a box you hid under the plank wood of the floor.
Yet, you never opened that box again, over the passing years.
Maybe it went wrong when Father talked back to Mother instead of keeping quiet. Maybe it went wrong when Mother caught Father with another man. Maybe it just went wrong when Mother left for a week and came back with divorce papers. Maybe it just went wrong .
Father was the one who won custody over you, and you were so fucking glad. Of course you loved your mother, you truly did, but maybe growing up with her opinions on life wasn't the best.
You met the man your Father was in love with a few weeks later. He was a kind person, a very lovable one too. You thought he suited your father very well and he did. When you didn't know what to call your Father's new lover, you asked him.
He responded with a simple, "You can call me Sydney."
So, you began calling your Father's lover Sydney. The years go by ever so quickly after that day, yet you never question it. You began working at a bookstore down the street from your house— well, childhood house, to be more precise—your Father and Sydney moved out to live somewhere more suburban, you didn't mind at all, in fact you were glad they were gone from this hellhole you call home.
The days went by quietly, boring but peacefully.
Then, you remembered. Suddenly, you remembered.
You quickly served the last customer, closing up the bookstore. You rushed home and up the stairs to your old bedroom, heading towards a corner. You knelt down and latched onto the broken piece of the plank and pulled.
It came off perfectly with a simple creak, and you placed the board right beside your legs as you picked up the dusty box that has been in there for years.
"Hello there, it's been a while, hasn't it?" you asked the box in a sweet tone, as if you were talking to a small child. You wipe off the dust on top the box, grimacing at the feeling, but at least it will be worth it.
You lift up the lid, and there it is. The notebook sat right in front of you, it was completely the same. A smile appears on your face at the sight of it as you take the notebook out of the box.
You grabbed the lid to the box and closed it after you placed the notebook beside the plank. You placed the box into the ground again before snapping the plank back into place.
You stood up, grabbing the notebook, and headed towards your office. You strode through the halls of your quiet home until you reached the door. You grasped onto the handle and twisted it right, opening it.
Your office was nothing special. Two large full wall bookshelves adorned both the left side and the right side of each wall. Your desk was placed in the far back of the room, yet it was perfectly centered and a simple couch pushed up against the wall. It was nothing much, but you cherish it. You walk towards your desk and sit down in that creaky office chair you brought off of Amazon.
You placed the notebook down on your desk and opened it. The pages were still slightly crumbled as before and you could help but smile at that. You straighten a few of the crumbled pages, a wave of deja vu washed over you and the smile on your face grew even bigger. You open one of the drawers to your desk and reach for a pencil from it, then you close the drawer afterwards. You took a deep breath and began scribbling words onto the page.
You wrote about the boy named George once again—the boy you wanted to be—you wrote about his personality, his looks, his skills, his habits, his attitude, etcetera, etcetera. You lifted the notebook up in front of your face, smiling at your work. You placed the notebook back down and scribbled down your name, Dream .
A small knock came from the door. "Come in!" you shouted out, the door opened with a simple creak.
You think about his face, you'd rather it be very defined with a sharp jawline, brown fluffy hair to frame his face, and an endearing patch of light freckles on the right side of his face. His eyes would be the same color as melted chocolate with honey-like specs in it.
The words echo in your head as the boy who knocked on the door entered the room. "Dream?" the boy asked, eyebrows furrowing together.
A stupid love sick grin appears on your face, "Hiya, Georgie." you breathe out in awe. "What brings you here, love?"
"Well, Callahan gave me a note saying that you suddenly closed the bookstore out of nowhere and I got worried." he pouted, causing you to laugh a little.
"I'm okay, George, I just remembered something, don't worry about it." you said with a smile.
The brunet sighs, "Fine, you idiot. Just meet me in the living room after you're done in here." he huffed, shutting the door behind him.
You laugh quietly as you stand up, grabbing the notebook and placing it into an empty slot on one of the bookshelves. You trace a finger along the spine of the notebook with a soft smile as the realization hits you.
You didn't write a story about the boy you wanted to be.
You wrote a story about the boy you wanted to be with .
And you got the boy at the end of your story.