Roland gently opened the black notebook and flipped through the pages; there were colours, words, things highlighted, other words underlined, lines connecting certain words, and other things written in different colours; it all seemed so confusing.
“It’s confusing.”
“Yeah,” he replied. Roland had more he wanted to say; he wasn’t sure what, but he knew he had to say something, but nothing came out. He continued flipping through the pages; some had nothing but drawings on them, some had big paragraphs of text in his messy handwriting, and others had a combination of both.
When he looked up, he realised how close the two were sitting. He smiled, and Lyric returned it. And Roland wanted to know if he knew how pretty Lyric looked under the soft light of his lamp. And how, if they leaned in m
