The Little Black Book

“An invisible red thread connects those who are destined for each other, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.” -Ancient Chinese legend

It was the elegant red font that caught my attention on the bus that morning. I always keep my eye on the ground, because you never know what you might find, but I never expected to find something quite so enthralling. The script on the cover glimmered in the early morning light, contrasting the tattered cover, lighting a spark of curiosity in my foggy brain. I bent down, and scooped up the little black book as I made my way to the back of the bus to my usual seat: left corner, above the wheel well so I could put my feet up as I gazed out the window, making sure not to miss my stop. Music blared in my ears, the usual unusual mix of tunes that ranged from “you gotta listen to this!” to, “please don’t judge me”.

There was no one else on the bus, so whoever dropped this little book was long gone by now, and I had to admit I was interested. I recalled how when I was a kid, before we all had cell phones and social media, people used to keep phone books with all their contacts in it. I hadn’t actually seen one in years. I flipped through the pages, names and numbers in neat, aesthetically pleasing handwriting. I didn’t pay close attention to the names at first, as I was still keeping an eye out for my stop and scrolling through my phone. The quote on the front triggered an association; at one point I saw a stand up from the 90’s where the comedian did a bit about a little black book that held all of their past lover’s names. I giggled a little at the thought of looking up a number and calling a past fling. I bet it took more guts than sending a quick drunk text like my generation is so accustomed to. A couple familiar names stood out to me, but before I had the chance to check the numbers to see if any of them were the same people I knew, I noticed the L.E.D screen at the front of the bus flash and transitioned to the name of my stop. I quickly shoved the little book into my backpack, gathered my belongings, did one last check to make sure I had everything, and hurried on my way to work, nodding thanks to the bus driver on my way down the stairs.

I did my best to stay focused on what I was doing throughout my work day, but my mind kept drifting back to that book. I don’t really believe in coincidence, but what are the odds that whoever dropped that book knows more than one of my close friends? I figured, it’s a small world, and a lot of them live in that area, so maybe if they are the same people, someone can help me figure out who it belongs to. I wondered why they didn’t just save their contacts in their phone like everyone else. My shift ended later than usual, which I didn’t mind because I needed the extra hours to afford the cost of living in our ever expanding city; by the time I got off, the sun was already sinking below the mountains, and I was ravenous. After taking the pup out and fixing us both some dinner, I couldn’t ignore my gnawing curiosity any more.

Opening the book to a random page, I instantly recognized more familiar names… looking closer, I realized I knew all of them. I turned a couple more pages and read the names. Nearly every single man and woman was someone I knew. Not only were they people I knew, but they were people that I knew on a very intimate level. I still remembered a few of their phone numbers after committing the ten digits to my long term memory for one reason or another. On the last line of the last page was the name of my most recent ex, along with their current phone number. I was shaken to my core. This was a huge violation of my privacy, and borderline voyeuristic with the attention to detail and chronological sequencing. A few of the names only had a first name, and they were written in a much lighter ink that seemed faded, while a few others displayed their full legal name and nicknames etched in dark, heavy lines. I put the book in a desk drawer and headed into the crisp night air to clear my head and take the pup out one more time before bed. Curiosity killed the cat, alright…

The next day my dream stayed with me in vivid detail. I’ve been told that if you can remember your dream the next day, it wasn’t a dream, it was a sign...and after being melted by a mysterious book, my brain was malleable to any kind of direction. I was in a huge garden, with winding paths, bridges, dead ends, and roundabouts that seemed to be there just to confuse anyone who wandered into the magnificent maze of flora and ornamentation. Tied to my pinky was a red string that seemed to stretch on endlessly. Instinctively, I began to follow the string deeper and deeper into the garden until I finally reached the center. A rush of relief and familiarity warmed my dream-self as I embraced a faceless person. Around us were gold coins, precious gems, and flowering rose bushes in an array of radiant colors. The red string wrapped around us, expanded, and suddenly contracted, squeezing me back into consciousness at the exact moment my alarm sounded, announcing the start of another Thursday.

I rushed through the day, hoping for an excuse to leave early. When I made it back to my apartment, I took care of my essential responsibilities and set out to find a box I had tucked away for the past four years. It wasn’t hard to find Sol’s letters. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of them, even when I relented and committed myself to Quinn. I had met Sol by chance at a music festival, and that name has been a whisper in the back of my mind ever since. Reading the letters again brought back a rush of emotions - the elation of feeling that someone else truly spoke my language, the crushing weight of the realization that the distance between us was too great to explore our obvious connection. We had always been unfinished business, checking in from time to time, but keeping a respectful distance. I quickly found the name and number and took a deep breath. I hadn’t spoken to Sol since my most recent breakup - I had taken a hiatus from dating in order to reestablish my goals and priorities without the influence of a significant other. Before I could think too much and lose my confidence, I dialed the number and pressed send.

After what seemed like an excessive amount of rings, I heard that familiar euphonious voice on the other end of the line. We talked for hours that first night. Catching up and laughing like we never missed a beat. Before I knew it, a week had passed, and we were speaking every day again. I was star-struck by the serendipitous nature of the whole thing, but never once questioned that it was exactly how I should be investing my energy. Not all fairy tales have a happy ending, though, and my fantasy shattered when Sol’s snapchat story proudly presented a smiling couple celebrating their two year anniversary. My still fragile heart burst yet again. I wished them well, and retreated to numb my wounds.

Over the next months I spiraled into nothing short of an obsession with the red string. Each new person I met I tried on in the role of the faceless person in the center of that garden. I saw a possible future with everyone I felt any sort of affinity for, and searched through my past, thinking I could reignite a flame that had already been extinguished. Those experiences were meaningful, yet fleeting, and the expense was too high. My work ethic and performance in school diminished, and my mental and physical health were clearly suffering. I was adding names to the list that was already longer than I wanted to admit, and I was disappointing others and myself with unfair expectations of happily ever after. I was losing myself in trying to find another - I had forgotten that I wasn’t a half looking for another to complete myself. A quote that Sol had sent me once upon a time resurfaced in my subconscious, “find yourself, so your soulmate can find you”. I consider myself lucky that I was able to acknowledge my descent and take corrective action. I gathered the resolve to hide the black book and refocus my attention to the things that filled me with a sense of purpose. It took a little bit of realignment, but I reclaimed my direction and pushed onward, more determined than ever. I applied for grants and scholarships, and planned out my next career move. That state of flow consumed me so much that I was blindsided by the reappearance of the little black book in my dreams. It was a simple image: a wanted poster with a picture of the book with its enticing red script on the cover, and $20,000 a reward listed underneath. I tried not to pay it too much attention, not willing to risk getting caught up in that paradoxical trap in which the more I searched for the other end of the string, the longer and more tangled it got. I continued to pour that energy back into myself, and the fruition was sweeter than I had expected. I was awarded a grant to begin my master’s program at the school I aspired to attend - in the amount of $20,000. Things were falling into place, and I gave thanks every day for the lessons that had served as the stepping stones to my current blessings. Sometimes dreams really do come true.

I had been living on campus long enough to settle into a new routine when I saw Sol for the first time... again. A job opportunity just so happened to open up in the same town I was attending school, and the relationship that appeared so happy had been a ticking time bomb. This go round, things were much different. We were wiser people, who understood that some things are meant to be, but not to last, and that sometimes, forever only lasts a moment. We knew to enjoy every day, because we’re not promised tomorrow, and that a person can’t pour from an empty cup. We had learned that attraction does not always come with compatibility, and that sometimes, love is not enough. So much individual work and accountability comes with lasting relationships of any kind; high expectations can ruin something before it even begins, if we’re not clear in our communication.

One final dream about the book visited me, in which I saw Sol’s name once more, but this time it was written in red, and the other names had faded away. I searched through all my belongings to see if I still had it, to no avail. I’m not sure if it got lost in the move, or if it had just been a figment of my imagination, but either way the experience was profoundly eye opening. It may be true that you can’t fight fate, but we all have the opportunity to step into our destiny if we focus on finding ourselves first, and have the patience to wait for divine timing.