NOW
Having a part-time job was also in my plan on trying the things my parents won't allow me to. I only started working here at the flower shop a few months ago since my grade level is now appropriate for having a part-time job. I remember recieving just silence when I visited my parents for the first time after I left home. The next visits were the same and on the next year, they started to ask about my grades again. As if I didn't really left the house. They didn't scold me even after it. They just ask questions and then let me be in my room to study again. But they're not always at home whenever I visit. They're not even the first reason why I'm visiting. It's my Nanna. She's like my grandmother to me even though she's just the main maid. She cares and cooks for me. But whenever my parents are home, Nanna goes back to her hometown without a choice. She likes staying at the house with me, to watch over me. But even if she says that to them, they would say, "You don't need to watch over her. We are here to do that."
I was busy zoning out by the counter when I did not notice Mr. Louie already calling me from the other corner. He's here to deliver the new plants and flowers. I'm quite early today that's why Kael and Shanaia has not arrived. I immediately stand up and run towards Mr. Louie's direction. As soon as I stop behind his back, he faces me with a book on his hands. Or sort of.
"Yes, Mr. Louie? May I help you?" I ask. He was busy looking through some boxes he brought along with the flowers. He placed it in this corner. And I can see that it is filled with old stuffs. Toys, crayons, small shirts, teddy bears, flip flops and old paper sheets. I wonder why he brought these here in the shop.
Mr. Louie raises the book he's currently holding in his hands. Suddenly, two customers gets inside. I was about to accompany them but Kael also arrived right after them.
“Perfect timing. There’s something I would like you to see.” Mr. Louie says. Kael greets us as soon as he sees us and tries to blow his wet hair that's in his way of vision.
"Morning, Mr. Lou! Morning, Eve!ㅡ Wait, morning and eve! Hahaha! Gets me everytime," he laughs at his own words before getting to work. He always calls me that everytime he greets me here at the shop. I shake my head. My attention went back to Mr. Louie.
“I found this in last week’s donation box. Take a look—” He hands it to me. I run my hand over the cover. It is a beautiful brown clothbound, soft to the touch, with embroidered floral patterns that appear dusted with gold with nothing written on top. Maybe the book sleeve is missing. I skim through some pages in search of the title. But everything’s blank.
“It’s a notebook,” Mr. Lee says. “Quite a beautiful one, don’t you agree?”
“It is…” I whisper, admiring the quality of the pages. “I can’t believe someone gave this away. It hasn’t even been used yet.”
“I immediately thought of you,” he says, and points to the back table. “I’ve noticed you use that table to write on or study when you have free time. So I figured you might appreciate this gift. Who knows … maybe if you change the medium in which you wrote, it might inspire something.”
“I only studied there twice,” I say.
Mr. Lee chuckles and waves it off. I look down at the notebook. “I can have this?”
“As long as you make good use of it,” Mr. Lee says with a nod. “I think of it as an investment.”
“How so?”
“You see—once you finish your book, we can put it on the shelves, right in the front of the store,” he explains. “And I can tell customers she wrote it here, you know? In the journal I gave her. My wife and I are planning to make this flower shop a reader's sanctuary. So students can study here and can also buy flowers.”
I smile as I hold the journal close to me. Mr. Lee is always encouraging me to write more. “Use your time at the store. Talk with your books for inspiration. They’re full of ideas.” Mr. Lee is well versed in the world of literature and always finds beauty in everyone's words. He understands what it is I’m trying to say even when I’m not sure myself.
“I don’t know if I could write a whole book, though,” I admit. “I’m having trouble just thinking lately. I’m not sure what to write about anymore.”
“What have you been thinking about?” he asks. I run my hand along the spine of the journal.
“Everything, I guess. My life. What’s happening in it.” But there is someone I've been thinking about lately. He's just wandering in my mind and I don't know why.
“Then write it down. Write down what’s happening.”
I look at him. “Mr. Lee, nobody wants to read about my life.”
“Who are you writing for again?” Mr. Lee asks, arching a brow. He has asked me this before. I know the answer he wants to hear. I write for myself. I’m not sure what this really means, though. I can’t help caring about what people think, especially about my writing. “We have too many voices inside our heads. You have to pick out the ones that mean something to you. What story do you want to tell?”
I stare down at the journal, thinking about this. “I’ll try, Mr. Lee. Thank you for this."