A Page of an Autobiography

(This is going pretty well. I hope it’s not too boring, and if it is, I’ll edit later. Where were we anyway? I just need to peruse the last few pages:) End of exams. End of sixth form really. I did go back, but only to the library. I would sneak in and organize the shelves, chat with the librarian. It was relaxing.
Not that I needed much to relax from, I told you that I’d been just meeting friends and revising.

End of june came and I just picked up all my interests I’d dropped. I managed to complete my bronze medallion, six years after I first tried. I biked everywhere, fun even if it was from necessity. I hit 18, which wasn’t too different from 17.

Most of all I was learning to take it slow with

The handwriting stopped, 232 pages in to the first draft, never completed; she’d left it too late to write.

The man smiled tearily, hands shaking. He didn’t need to have the name to read to know whose it was. Sighing, the papers were put away along with a band of gold.

He remembered that summer well.

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