THE DOODLE NOTEBOOK
288 Words
I stopped asking about her.
Not because I forgot - but because forgetting started to seem safer.
Every time I brought up Meher, the silence got heavier.
Like I had said something I shouldn't have.
Like I was remembering wrong.
But then came the notebook.

It wasn't mine.
Found it stuffed behind the school library's radiator - water-damaged, edges curled, faint ink bleeding through the cover.
No name on the front. Just tiny doodles.
Stars.
Eyes.
Window panes.
Some pages were blank. Others filled with half-scribbled poems, pressed flowers, and strange little drawings.

I turned to the middle, and stopped breathing.
It was her.
Drawn in pencil, from the side - hair tucked behind her ears, sitting at a window. Her name written under it in all-caps:
M E H E R
I stared at it for minutes, heart pacing like I was being watched.
No one believed me. Again.
"Why are you so obsessed with this imaginary girl?"
"She's probably someone's art character."
"You're overthinking."
But the notebook felt warm. Familiar.
Like it wanted to be found.

And that night, she came again.
Not in a dream. Not fully awake.
Something in-between.
I was standing outside the school building. The sky was grey, the leaves were blowing sideways.
The world looked paused.
And there she was.
Inside.
At the window.
But not looking at me this time - she was writing.

I tried to shout.
But no sound came.
I pressed my hands against the glass.
And she turned around - slowly, not startled.
She looked at me.
Not with fear.
With knowing.
And mouthed a single word:
"Promise."
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To be continued...
💭 What if the past doesn't want to stay forgotten?
- Writer
