Night At The Library (Lost Souls #1)

Chapter 13: Julie

Will's eyes sparkled with intrigue at the question, a thoughtful expression crossing his features as he considered his response. For a moment, the weight of the past seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the promise of new beginnings and shared dreams.

"I don't know. I am not a writer. I am more of a reader, so I'll read whatever you write." He said with a little melancholy in his tone.

"C'mon there has to be something you want to tell the world. You are a basketball player and an English lit major. I don't believe that you are just this strong and handsome dude into books" I wanted to know his story. I felt like I could connect to him, I wanted him to trust me enough that he could do the same with me.

"I mean I have always loved poetry. The mystical and symbolism in William Blake, the existentialism of T.S. Eliot. Phrases like "Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many," got me into wanting to try poetry for myself, but a basketball player like me shouldn't even be interested in that stuff, right?" Will admitted, his expression a mix of vulnerability and genuine passion. "I've always felt like I had to hide that side of me, especially in the sports world. But poetry... it speaks to something deep within me, you know?"

His words resonated with me, and I felt a surge of empathy for him. Here was this guy, seemingly confident and strong, yet harboring a secret passion for poetry that he felt compelled to conceal. It reminded me of my own struggles with feeling misunderstood and out of place.

"I get it," I replied, offering him a reassuring smile. "It's tough when people expect you to fit into a certain mold, but that doesn't mean you have to deny who you really are. If poetry speaks to you, then embrace it. There's strength in being true to yourself, even if it means breaking stereotypes."

Will's eyes softened with a glimmer of appreciation. "Appreciate it, Julie," he said, a hint of vulnerability in his tone. "I guess I've always been hesitant to show that side of me. But maybe it's time to embrace it."

Curiosity sparked within me, fueled by a desire to understand him better. "Have you ever gone beyond simply appreciating poetry and tried your hand at writing it?" I asked, eager to delve deeper into our conversation. Writing had always been my sanctuary, a way to explore the depths of my own thoughts and emotions, and I wondered if Will had experienced something similar.

"Yeah, I have," Will replied, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I've written a few poems, mostly just for myself. It's like a release, you know? Helps me untangle the mess in my head when life gets overwhelming."

"Oh pretty please tell me one" I started pleading. I uncovered myself, it was his turn now.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Will's lips as I pleaded with him. "Alright, fair enough," he conceded. "You shared one of your stories, so I guess it's only fair that I reciprocate."

With a moment of hesitation, as if weighing his options, Will began to recite a poem from memory, his voice steady yet filled with emotion:

"If Pain Had a Voice

It would be broken

By the amount of times

It had to explain itself

Of the unknown truth

Of its existence

If Pain Had a Voice

It would be silent

Because it has been ignored so

When it tried to talk

Of the despair

It was going through

If Pain Had a Voice

It would be hiding

If Pain Had a Voice

It would be dead by now

If Pain Had a Voice

It would be of written pages

Read aloud

By whom understands

Its unknown truth"

As Will finished reciting the poem, I sat in quiet reflection, absorbing the depth of his words. There was a poignant honesty in his expression of pain, a recognition of its often silent and overlooked presence in our lives.