Then, she nodded at my journal. “What are you writing?” I instinctively pulled it a little closer to me. “Oh, is it private?” I shrugged. “It’s. . .uh. . .nothing important.” “Gotcha.” She didn’t press me for more information, something I wasn’t used to. Most people are always trying to get me to share my thoughts or my feelings or some other garbage that I have no interest in talking about. I nodded at her book. “What are you reading?” And then, with a smirk, “Or is it private?” She scrunched up her face, pressing a hand to the book. “It’s a re-read. Sense and Sensibility.”
