I found the book you always carried on my kitchen table. I’m not sure why you left it there, but I think you wanted me to find it. Of course, I opened it.
I read the words inside.
I wish I had never opened that book. I wish you had taken it with you. I wish for so many things, but I know those wishes are useless.
I can’t take back what happened and even if you meant it maliciously I don’t have any ill will toward you. The burden of the book is terrible.
I’ve begun writing my own.