The Unwritten Pages

Thirty-seven minutes after getting off the Route 19 bus, Bronwyn Miller realized her mistake. The familiar weight against her hip had disappeared because her leather-bound diary, which was her three-year companion, wasn't there. Her fingers instinctively searched for the familiar worn cover but discovered just the empty pocket of her oversized cardigan.

She abruptly paused on the sidewalk while whispering, "No, no, no." Mentally retracing her steps: The last places she visited before reaching the current sidewalk included the coffee shop and the bus stop followed by the bus ride. She remembered having her diary at the bus stop with her, where she wrote during every wait because it had become her routine.

The diary wasn't just any journal. The diary held all her unfiltered thoughts and secrets for three years which she never expressed out loud. This was Bronwyn in her true form without her deliberate public image.

She started running back toward the bus stop, which was six blocks away. How likely was it for her diary to remain undisturbed on that bench in a city of four million?

Zero, as it turned out. An elderly woman sat on the bench and fed pigeons while no leather-bound book appeared in sight.

She knew that it was gone and felt a strange emptiness inside.

Bronwyn reached the point of thinking the situation wasn't as terrible after three days passed. Someone had probably thrown it away. Bronwyn confirmed the transit authority had no records of anyone turning in her diary.

Then came the notification.

Bronwyn received a phone notification while she was working. A new email with the subject line: "I think this belongs to you?" A link represented the entire email which lacked any other content.

Upon clicking on the link, a basic blog titled "Pages Found" appeared on the webpage showing its first post created earlier that morning:

“Sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared. Mom would, obviously, but would she be sad or just inconvenienced? She's spent so many years being disappointed in me that maybe it would be a relief. I think about disappearing a lot lately. Not dying, just vanishing. Starting over somewhere no one knows the Bronwyn who always messes up.”

Her heart stopped. She'd written those words just last week following her argument with her mother. The words matched exactly with her diary entries which she had written by hand.

As she scrolled through the page, she discovered three new entries which contained her personal reflections written during the past month. The content hasn't reached extreme damage yet, but it's personal enough to make her feel exposed.

At the bottom of the page was a comment box, and above it, a message: "Bronwyn, if you're reading this, comment here. We need to talk about what you wrote on your remaining pages.”

She didn't sleep that night. She kept refreshing the blog compulsively while watching another entry show up.

"I had that dream again where I'm giving my presentation and realize I'm completely naked. Dr. Winters says it's about vulnerability, about my fear of being exposed. How ironic is that? I pay someone $200 an hour to tell me I'm afraid of people seeing who I really am. Maybe she's right though. I've spent so much energy crafting this competent, put-together version of myself. What would happen if people saw the real mess underneath?"

After hours of intense deliberation, Bronwyn typed the words: "This is private. Please stop posting my words. What do you want?"

The response came within minutes: "Meet me. Tomorrow. 3 PM. The bus stop where you left it."

Bronwyn arrived at 2:45, her hands shaking. Before going to the meeting, she instructed Martha about her location and insisted that Martha call the authorities if she failed to report back by 3:30.

At exactly 3:00, her phone buzzed with another link.

"I see you, Bronwyn. I've been watching you for a while now, even before I found your diary. You take this bus every Tuesday and Thursday. Look to your left, at the café across the street."

Through the café window, she could see a figure holding up what appeared to be her diary.

Her heart raced as she stood at the curb, until a gap in the traffic opened for her to cross. Bronwyn identified the figure sitting at the window table as she walked closer.

"Eliza?" she said in disbelief.

Bronwyn's quiet marketing coworker, Eliza Chen, sat down reading Bronwyn's diary.

"Why?" was all Bronwyn could manage.

Eliza pushed the diary toward her. "I found it. I opened it to find out whose it was, and once I realized it was yours, I should have just returned it. But then I read a bit more..." She paused. "You wrote about feeling invisible. About no one really seeing you."

“So you tracked me down to publish my personal feelings on the internet?” Bronwyn hissed.

Her face flushed as she confessed that she knew what she did was wrong. "But I recognized myself in your words. That feeling of being invisible, together with the necessity to hide behind a facade. My intention was to demonstrate that someone truly saw you and listened to what you said.”

"You thought what? That I'd be grateful?" Bronwyn snatched up her diary and held it close against her body.

Eliza didn't know what thoughts she had and looked down. "I've taken the blog down. All the posts are deleted. Your words made me feel connected to you. My whole life I've felt as though no one would even realize I was gone.”

"What you did was a violation," Bronwyn stated firmly. "You had no right."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Eliza spoke once more when Bronwyn began to walk away. "There's something else you should know. On page 43 you stated that you haven't encountered anyone who truly understood your feelings. That's not true, Bronwyn. You're not alone."

"That doesn't make what you did okay."

"I know," Eliza said quietly.

Bronwyn opened her diary to a blank page and started to write as she walked towards the bus stop.

“Today I encountered the person who discovered my diary. I discovered that it was Eliza from work who found my diary rather than a creepy stranger. Eliza expressed her connection with me through the words I wrote. I remain angry yet feel uneasy about how someone who barely existed to me understood me so well.”

“Eliza mentioned my writing. “You possess exceptional writing skills”, she remarked. This memory took me back to my creative writing professor during my sophomore year before I changed my major to business because my father considered business more practical. These pages represent the sole place where I've openly revealed my desire to write a novel.”

A week later, Bronwyn found a sealed envelope on her desk with a handwritten note: “I understand if you decide never to speak to me again. If you ever do, I must inform you that I have begun writing too. Putting the invisible parts on paper sometimes helps people understand them better. - E"

That evening, she flipped to page 43 of her diary:

“I question whether there exists another person who experiences this same sensation of ghosting through their own existence. At times I feel I could yell in a packed space without anyone listening to me.”

On Monday, Bronwyn took her usual bus. Eliza occupied the back seat as she wrote notes into her little notebook. Their eyes met briefly before Eliza quickly looked down.

Bronwyn took the vacant seat next to Eliza. "I got your note."

"I was sincere when I apologized," Eliza answered with a voice so faint it was nearly inaudible.

"What are you writing?" Bronwyn asked.

"Just thoughts. Nothing as eloquent as your words."

“Your words reveal things that otherwise stay hidden,” Eliza resumed. “Reading your diary felt as though someone had expressed my inner emotions in words.”

Bronwyn acknowledged that her actions were still wrong while showing less anger.

"I know. After discovering your diary, I started writing my thoughts down myself. The act of writing my thoughts down became helpful after I read your January entry.”

“Writing feels like breathing underwater because you discover air in an environment meant to choke you.”

"Yes. Your diary entries reminded me of your desire to write a novel one day. This story is about all the characters you've been imagining since childhood.”

Bronwyn felt her face flush. Those were private dreams she'd almost forgotten.

Eliza said softly "You know that you can do it." "Your diary entries read like literature already."

The bus came to a halt at its regular destination for Bronwyn. She decided to remain seated instead of exiting as the bus started moving.

Six months later, Bronwyn sat across from Eliza at their regular café table by the window - the same table where they'd had their confrontation.

Bronwyn declared "I finished it" while pushing the manuscript toward Eliza across the table. "All thanks to you."

Eliza picked up the stack of papers, reading the title page: "The Unwritten Pages" by Bronwyn Miller.

Their initial coffee meetings which started cautiously, developed into both a genuine friendship and a creative partnership. They gathered every Tuesday evening to write, with Bronwyn working on her novel while Eliza focused on poetry.

Bronwyn announced after taking a sip of her coffee, that she planned to send her manuscript to the literary agent they met at the writers' workshop.

Eliza remarked on the strange way things come together. “The moment that brought us together happened because you left your diary on the bus stop...”

Bronwyn joined in with a playful grin, saying "You were such a creepy stalker."

"I prefer to think of myself as the universe's extremely flawed messenger."

Eliza's expression grew serious. “What drove me to give you back your diary was something you'd written about your dream to write a novel, but your fear that no one would want to hear your voice. Your diary entry revealed your dream of becoming an author, yet your fear held you back. I came to understand that I was reading the thoughts of an individual who possessed valuable insights but doubted anyone would listen to them.”

That night Bronwyn opened her original diary and flipped to the last page where she started writing a new entry following her confrontation with Eliza. She went back to read her thoughts from six months prior.

“I don't know if I'll ever fully forgive her, but today I understood something: The experience of being truly seen can evoke simultaneous feelings of fear and awe.”

Beneath those words, Bronwyn added:

“Today I finished my novel. Sometimes the worst moments in our lives become doorways to the best ones. Sometimes a stranger becomes the friend who helps you find your voice. And sometimes, being seen is exactly what you needed all along.”

She shut the diary softly because she was no longer fearful of its contents, or the consequences of someone reading them. The words had served their purpose. They had guided her home to herself.