Paperwait.

And there she was.

Her brunette hair flowing so freely, a smile so peaceful and a mind so mysterious. She was the type of girl that would run away and start and new life and people would remember her. She was known for her free spirit; nothing was a worry; nothing could furrow her brow. Things to her were just exactly that; things.

She travelled with no roots, she needed no home. All she needed was the clothes on her back, a rucksack full of knickknacks and a fierce ambition to change the world. Years on, I look back with fond memories from my rocking chair on the porch as I scour through photo albums. I had lived a good, standard, wholesome life. I had achieved enough, everything I had wanted. A Career, owning a house, children and grandchildren. I was suitably content.

But somehow she always was there, in the forefront of my mind. A clear memory, never pixilated. The night we had met had a blur filled with drugs, drink, music, a beautiful sunset and her.

That beautiful Ayers rock sunset was how it all begun. A cute little gathering on the beach nearby. Friends and friends of friends, with sand beneath our toes and our lives ahead of us. And then there was her. She was not a friend or even a friend by proxy but she was there and she was the centre of the night. Sat on a rock by the fire, swigging a beer and surrounded by friends, she plonked herself beside me. I remember asking her name. Briana. I will never forget that name. She instantly intrigued me. I wanted to know everything about her. Where did she grow up? Who was she here with?

Little did I know that I would spend a lifetime dreaming of her. I would search for her face in the crowd, scour the newspaper for charitable, amazing things she had done. Or equally obituaries. Over and over again I would go through my address book searching for her name, hoping it would appear, sat there, on dusty pages just like my other contacts. Scratched in italics. Blue fountain pen. Little black book of 62’ – 64.

This is not a love story, hell, it isn’t even a story. This is a memory; not only of the night we met. But the very next day which would be forever engraved into my memory as a simply bizarre situation. April 3rd 1963. This was the night we met, We talked all night, laughing, drinking, dancing. We talked about astrology, her love for The Beatles and surfing. Yet, I didn’t even know her surname. I realise this the next morning.

I wake up in my tent, instantly my mind going to Briana. As it’s early and everyone else is still asleep I head down the beach to the coffee hut. Upon my return, people are stirring and beginning to gather belongings as to head home. My eyes search for her but I cannot see her. I gather my belongings together, ready to head back to my hostel. As me and my friends head back I quiz them about Brianna, nobody knows who I’m referring to and I wonder if she had given me a fake name, or if I was just really drunk.

Hours pass by, myself and my friends cannot figure out who this girl is. I place her to the back of my mind and get on with my day. Starting with collecting my mail from my post locker, usually full of letters from home and the occasional care package from my mom. Looks like a care package day today. I haul the box up to shared dorm, thankfully the room is empty, which means I can read the several letters I also received in peace.

I start with the box. Looking forward to the treats mom sends. Inside, a note and a plastic bag. Carefully opening the note, I realise quite quickly that this is not from my mom.

‘ Cameron,

a billion moments and only one spent with you.

Buy paperclips.’

-Briana

Confused, I open the bag. I don’t even have time to wonder how she knew where I was staying because the bag is full of cash. When I say cash, I mean a lot of cash. I spend hours and hours finding private spaces just to count the money and I count it. Over and over and over again. $20,000.

I reach out to my friends and ask for details of friends of friends and nobody knows Briana well, where she was or how to contact her. I consider turning the money over to the authorities, I question the paperclips, I question why she left this money with me. I question what this means. For years, I wait. I wait for her to find me, to reach out, to give me meaning.

Every day, more time passes. I spend my time on my porch, waiting. As promised, this is not a love story. This is a story of how I became the owner of 2,000,000 paperclips. This is the story of how one person can give you meaning and understanding. But, only, if they are willing to find you.