I don’t know. But it smells like dry erase markers and seasonal depression, and I feel seen.
Rhys wants me to journal about my “progress.” About Hank.
Closure, growth, forgiveness. Yawn.
None of my current journals really scream Hank Closure. They scream Hex Your Ex or A Detailed Log of Intrusive Thoughts: Now With Stickers.
But then I see a journal that’s… trying. Not aggressively inspirational, not screaming in gold foil affirmations. Just watercolor swirls, soft and splotchy like a regretful bruise. The kind of notebook that says, “I might be romantic or I might be emotionally avoidant, you won’t know ‘til page forty-seven.” It’salmost cheerful, but in the way a recovering people-pleaser is cheerful. It has baggage.
Perfect.
And if I’m gonna do this whole journaling thing right, maybe I need one for each of them.
Them being: Rhys. Jett. Benji. My brain’s own little fucked-up boy band. My personal trinity of danger, delusion, and dimples.
I head to the back and spot a three-subject binder.
Fate just moaned softly in my ear.
Three sections. Three men. Three emotional catastrophes waiting to be catalogued like sacred texts.
Yes.
Let’s get academically horny.
Back to the journals.
Rhys’s takes the longest to pick. Obviously.
The plain black composition notebook feels too cliché. He’s not a poetry-under-the-lamppost kind of bitch. He’s leather and stifled moans and precision. After twenty full minutes of squinting and judging cover fonts, I find the one: matte navy, softbound, with a subtle embossed spine and paper so smooth it feels like sin. It says, “I’ll critique your journaling technique while fantasizing about your hands.”
Jett’s is easier.
Neon pink. Covered in little glitter skulls and chaotic lightning bolts. Some of the skulls have hearts in their eye sockets. I don’t know if that’s supposed to be cute or terrifying. Which makes it wildly appropriate. The back cover has a warning sticker that just says “MAY CONTAIN FIRE.” It absolutely does.
Benji’s makes me laugh out loud in the aisle, which earns me a side-eye from a woman clutching pastel post-its like they’re a rosary. His has a cartoon cupcake on the front with the words“TOO SWEET FOR THIS WORLD” in bubble letters. There are sprinkles embedded in resin on the spine. He’d blush so hard if I showed it to him, he might pass out. I, meanwhile, might ovulate hard enough to knock over a shelf of ring binders.
With my arms full of weaponized self-discovery, I cross into the accessories section.
And that’s when the universe screams: “Hi, bitch.”
Because what do I see?
A pair of oversized heart-shaped sunglasses. Hot pink. Coated in glitter. The kind you can hide behind like a celebrity caught in a scandal or a raccoon caught in the dishwasher. I lock eyes with the sunglasses like we’re ex-lovers in a telenovela. There’s tension. There’s destiny. There’s glitter. It’s fate with UV protection.
Next to them on a display is a massive floppy sunhat with matching pink trim. Wide-brimmed. Dramatic. Just this side of villainous.
Together, they say, “I am here for reconnaissance, romance, and revenge. But I will do it in shade and style.”
Does it cross from therapy into stalking if I wear a disguise?
No. It’s homework.
Court-appointed at that.
And I will look fucking phenomenal.
I check out with four journals, two pens, a three-ring binder, and a total pink plastic meltdown. Total? $38.76 and whatever’s left of my dignity.
