Page 112 of Off the Page

“That’s all right. I just had some good news I wanted to share.”

“Be my guest. I’m sure she’ll be happier waking up to see you, instead of me.” She waves as she ducks into her car, and pulls out of the driveway.

By now, Delilah’s house is as comfortable to me as my own. I climb the stairs and gently creak open her bedroom door.

She’s lying on her back, covers at her feet, arms splayed, her hair knotted across the pillow. She’s wearing a giant T-shirt that readsBUBBA’S BBQ: YOU DON’T NEED NO TEEF TO EAT OUR BEEF! and a lone striped sock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful.

I kneel beside the bed, lean down, and kiss her until she wakes up. “Good morning, princess,” I say.

“Mmmphrrm,” she answers, eyelids at half-mast. “How,” she mutters.

“How what?”

“How do you look likethatthis early in the morning?”

“It’s a gift.” I laugh and sit down beside her on the bed. “I have something to show you. I couldn’t wait.”

She rises to her elbows, yawning. “This better be good.”

I take the letter I printed off the computer last night and place it in her hands. She unfolds it, and her eyes skim the first line:

CONGRATULATIONS. YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED TO THE DARTMOUTH COLLEGE CLASS OF 2019.

Delilah’s eyes widen, and she throws her arms around me. “Oliver, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you.”

“The best part is I’m only two towns away from you.”

She grins. “I can’t believe I’m dating a college guy.” Then, just as suddenly, her face falls. “I can’t believe you’re going to be around collegegirls.”

I sigh. “Delilah—”

“Don’t tell me I’m being stupid. You don’t know what it’s going to be like until you get there. You might meet the girl of your dreams the minute you step on campus.”

“I already met the girl of my dreams,” I point out. “Might I remind you, I didn’t fall in love with you because you were pretty or smart or popular. . . .”

“Aw, thanks.” Delilah smirks.

“I fell in love with you because you had your nose stuck in a book. If you hadn’t been, well . . .you. . . we never would have met,” I say. “You have a lot more to worry about than some random girl I don’t even know yet. You and I, we’re going to argue, and make up, and go to prom, and suffer through exams, and give each other the flu, and exchange valentines, and every single day I’m going to make you remember why we fell in love.”

Delilah looks down. “But, you know, in this world . . . it’s not always a perfect happily-ever-after.”

I lift her chin so that our eyes meet. “I would give up a thousand happily-ever-afters for right here, right now, with you.”

She kisses me, pulling me back down with her so that we’re curled together on top of her covers. Then, suddenly, she sits up. “I just remembered. I have a congratulations present for you.”

“But you couldn’t have known I’d be accepted—”

“I’m an optimist,” Delilah says, smiling. She reaches into the drawer of her nightstand. “It’s not wrapped, but still. . . .”

She hands me a leather-bound book. I open it, but the firstpage is empty. So is the one after that, and the next. In fact, there’s nothing at all written on the pages. Confused, I look at her.

“It’s called a diary,” Delilah explains. “It’s for you to fill out. I thought it was about time you wrote yourownstory.”

I take her into my arms and think:This is exactly where I’ll start.

Everyone has a story.

You might think it’s not worth telling, but then again, it’s a story no one has ever heard. What you do, what you say, how you carry the plot, just might leave a mark on someone.

Because that’s what stories do. They help you escape, and they give you the chance to do things you never imagined you would or could. They let you feel heartbreak you’ve never had and experience adventures from the safety of your own room. They are dreams for those who are still awake. They can be as comfortable as an old pair of slippers and as unnerving as the blade of a knife. They possess the power to change you, to inspire you, to open your mind.

Stories are all around us, caught in the throats of the strangers you walk past and scrawled on the pages of locked diaries. They’re in love letters that were never sent and between the lines of every conversation ever spoken. Just because your story’s not written down doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

Perhaps someone’s reading your story right now, in fact—imagining your eyes skimming over this page, your hands clutching the binding as you hurry to get to the last line.

You’d best get going. Your Reader is eagerly awaiting the next chapter.

Sincerely,

Jessamyn