A/N: The Reader OneShot. Older Michael reminisces. Forgive me for this, I wrote it at 1.30am. xxx
Nobody could possibly have guessed the power of the careworn notebook that lies so innocently on the desk in front of him. The mere sight of it's faded leather cover shoots an army of emotions through his veins, setting his brain alight with floods of memories that continue to swim through his mind year after year, as if to mock his painstaking efforts to discard them.
A sudden vivid image of a rain soaked street and the hazy outline of a woman coming to the aid of a choking and spluttering tennager. Him.
He closes his eyes, squeezing them tighter until the memory floats back to its little niche at the corner of his mind, only to be replaced by a dozen more flashes of imagery, each bringing with it a dull blow to his chest;
Sliding into a warm bath; the caress of her lips against his back; the feel of her body against his; the feel of the wind against his face as he rode down a hill on his bicycle as she laughed delightedly beside him; the feel of endless pages underneath his fingers as he read aloud to the woman beside him, her face alight with bright interest.
He opens his eyes once more. The book stares back at him, tauntingly. He aches to pick it up, to thumb through the yellowing pages and allow himself to explore these forbidden moments of the past.
He buries his face in his hands and sighs.
Another image of an aged and tired face, defiant yet defeated.
His heart gives another sharp throb as he reaches for the book; as his fingers brush against the fragile binding, he hears the paper rip as he attempts to turn a page. The torn fragment flutters out of the window and out of sight.
He closes the book.
Perhaps it's best to pretend nothing ever happened.