Had Taylor sat here, or over there? I glance round the café. Mats on the floor, low tables, bamboo walls. Succulents flow from hanging baskets, swaying in the warm breeze from the open terrace. The air is thick with rice, fried oil and the sweet butterfly pea tea that has just arrived beside me.
Her notebook sits on my lap. Taylor’s. It’s scuffed at the edges. The vibrant silver pattern swirled on its cover has faded to a dull grey from being repeatedly stuffed into a rucksack, I imagine.
It’s been here every day since I arrived. I was nervous at first, not wanting to pry. Wouldn’t it be like opening her heart and reading everything that was etched on it? Everything she didn’t want anyone else to see?
I flicked through the pages, trying to look like they didn’t really hold any interest, nervous that Taylor could return at any moment to claim it. Those early days I only noticed the notes scribbled on the cover and down the margins.
