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A thick, caramel book that looks newer than its neighbors.

My brows furrow and I read the title on the spine.

Letters to the Universe

I flip it open. The handwriting catches my attention first—elegant, precise…and whimsical? The t’s curved at the ends, the y’s looping with a flourish. Leaning against the nearest shelf, I read the first page.

To the Keeper of My Secrets,

Yes. That’s you, the nosy person reading my journal.

And also yes, I want you to keep reading.

You see? Whoever you are, it’s fated we meet like this. Out of the tens of thousands of books in this building,youchose to pick this one up. Then you chose to open it, being the nosy person you are.

And you’re still reading it even after you know this is someone’s journal containing their private thoughts. (See my usage of “their”? I may be an odd duck, but I’m not stupid. You could be a sixty-year-old-creep for all I know. So, there’s no way I’m telling you my gender. Or anything identifying, for that matter.)

Anyway, fate.

I snort. This entire passage screams female. Someone younger. Someone who still believes in fate and hasn’t had life hammer the magic out of her. Ishouldstop reading…it’s a private journal after all, but somehow, I can’t.

You’re probably wondering why my journal is here.

You see, I have a motto. Several, in fact.

First, don’t wait to live because the clock keeps ticking.

Second, there’s a reader for every book, including mine.

Third, if you believe it, who’s to say it isn’t true?

I don’t know about you, but my life is a giant ball of uncertainty. Like I’ve reached a fork in the road and instead of the usual two options, I get five, or six, and I can’t even ask an eight ball because that thing is broken too. Sometimes, my next steps areobvious, other times, they’re a mess, tangled up in the pressures of real life and the need to know all the answers this instant.

Amid this chaos, I find it hard to be authentic because I’m afraid of disappointing people. My family tells me they expect nothing of me and I should be thankful for that.

But it hurts. It makes me feel replaceable. I think theydohave expectations—maybe they’re not telling me because they don’t think I’ll amount to anything.

So, the only place I can be me is here within these pages, navigating my colorful stream of consciousness as life hurls at me more questions I have no answers for.

But I believe someone out there understands what I’m feeling. Maybe someone who’s completely different from me, someone who probably wouldn’t look my way if we saw each other in real life.

Maybe this person is also experiencing the same thing.

And so, I ask fate to find that person. Because if I believe, then he or she must exist. Because the clock keeps ticking and we aren’t getting any younger, so we must take action now. Because I believe there’s a reader for my book.

So, congratulations.Youapparently are that person.

If you accept this role, please write back and put the journal in its proper place.

Your greatest secret and newest pen pal,

Alex (and no, this doesn’t mean I’m a guy or a girl, for that matter. It’s just a name, so you have something to call me.)

I stare at the spot of ink where her pen landed at the ending stroke of her sentence.

Do I want to reply? I don’t have time for this crap. I have real world pressures—proving myself, finding my place in the world, moving up the ranks at Fleur, and making it bigger and better than before.

I put the book back on the shelf and walk away. Someone else can be the reader of her book.