I'll Never Finish This Book

I’ll Never Finish This Book

by

H. Mallah

I'll Never Finish This Book

Copyright © 2020 by H. Mallah

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. All characters, events, and settings in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.

Printed in the USA

Cover design by H. Mallah

Interior design and formatting by H. Mallah

Published by Barnes & Noble Press10/16/2020

Language: English

No matter what happens, it's you. It’ll always be you.

You weren't much of a reader, but I hope you'll dive into this book despite that. I want you to give it a shot and see it through to the very end.

This book holds all the things I've always wanted to say to you but never had the courage to express face-to-face. So, I've crafted a whole make-believe world to convey those messages. While some of the events in this story might be fiction, the emotions behind them are real.

The way you've captured my heart is so intense that I've painted an entire universe with you at its center. She wouldn't have gone to such lengths for you.

You can't seem to picture a life without her, but she's already moved on without a second thought. On the other hand, I've envisioned a life with you, where we're intertwined throughout countless lifetimes. I've imagined myself completely wrapped up in you, but you've never seen me as more than the person you discuss her with.

You never realized how much it tore me apart to hear you speak so lovingly of her. I wished those lips could speak words beyond her inspiration.

Clutching onto her in that way didn't make you come off as romantic; it just made you seem melancholic. And holding onto my feelings for you in this way doesn't make me appear romantic either; it simply fills me with sorrow.

But here's the key difference between you and me: you write to me about her, while I write to the world about you.

ONE

In the silent spaces of my life, I often feel like a whisper, a hidden voice yearning to be heard. There are moments when I feel like a shadow of myself. Times when I question if I'm much of anyone at all. Talk about self-awareness, right?

If you were to look at my face, it would tell you a story, a story that's still very much in progress. It's a tapestry woven from countless encounters, a mosaic of emotions. My expression often hides behind a veil of conformity, the face I show the world that's supposed to fit in. But it's also the canvas where life leaves its mark.

The freckles sprinkled like stardust across my nose are a little gift from a boy who sat behind me in fourth grade. And the faint scars on my forehead, they're souvenirs from my high school days, a time when some bad habits left their mark. Every morning, I put on a little makeup, trying to be an artist with my own face. I can tell you, I'm no da Vinci, but I paint my own story.

And then there are those moments when I make myself small, as if I'm taking up too much space. Silence becomes my refuge, a shield against the anxiety of saying the wrong thing.

The weight of trying to be perfect often leaves me tongue-tied. To bridge the emptiness, I lose myself in books filled with happiness, while a movie about happy people basking in their happiness plays in the background. I guess I thought that, by soaking up all that joy, some of it might seep into my soul. I may not have always been happy, but at least I could live through the happiness of others.

If I told you that I'm as confident as those unshakable heroines from the stories I love, that would be a little white lie. When self-improvement didn't quite cut it, I turned to writing. I discovered the power of words, the way they can mold and define. I love how they let me craft my identity, presenting the version of me I want the world to see. It's not about deceit, but about self-definition. I've always yearned for self-acceptance, the kind of comfort that comes from being your own skin. But honestly, how often does that really happen?

***

The sky was painted a canvas of blue and gold that Friday morning. The curtains draping the window beside my bed failed miserably at their job.

My first moments of wakefulness were spent in a restless dance in bed. When it became clear that sleep had abandoned me, I groggily sat up and yanked the curtains shut.

Humming softly, I rolled out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom. I indulged in a six-minute shower, just enough to let the lingering scent of fruit linger on my skin without pruned fingertips. I searched for a towel while water dripped from my hair. Once I found one, I wrapped it around me like a dress and went over to the sink. Going from the warm water to the cold tiles made it hard to walk.

I rummaged through the mess of makeup and half-used cotton swabs on the counter to find the toothpaste. I squeezed out whatever I could get onto my toothbrush, hoping it wouldn't fall off as I ran it under the water a few times. I stared at my reflection in the mirror while I mindlessly smeared the minty toothpaste all over my teeth.

During my childhood dental check-ups, my dentist always tempted me with an array of toothpaste flavors, ranging from fruity delights to candy-inspired concoctions. But as I grew older, he defaulted to plain, unexciting mint paste. It was as if he'd resigned to the fact that I was no longer a child. Or maybe he had simply run out of those flavors. Perhaps I read too much into things, but that's another aspect of myself I couldn't quite accept.

What I did accept was that my eyes would never rival oceans, diamonds, or blue skies. They were the fertile earth upon which towering trees anchored themselves, their golden flecks mimicking the sun's rays.

Yet, they were pitiful at their job—seeing—without the frames that dominated my face.

My nose, devoid of delicate contours, settled softly against my face, graced only by a sprinkling of faint freckles. And my hair? It would never be the envy of Rapunzel's flowing locks. Instead, it resembled the rich brown of a melting ice cream cone clutched by a five-year-old. Loose curls cascaded to my shoulders, defiant to the hair products that promised control but rarely delivered.

Stepping out of the bathroom's warmth, I looked around my apartment. It was an undivided space consisting of a kitchen, living room, and bedroom. The only separation was the arrangement of furniture in place of walls. Making my way to the cluttered kitchen counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, I reached for the muffin box. I bought them the night before, hoping for chocolate chips, but was left with a mouthful of raisins, a disappointing betrayal with every bite.

Objects of varying origin littered my apartment—books scattered across the counter, batteries lodged within couch cushions, and clothing strewn upon my bed. Whether due to laziness or an attempt to replicate a sense of home, I couldn't discern.

Though my apartment held remnants of my past life, it remained a poor imitation of home. A place only began to feel like home when I could stumble upon my belongings scattered across different rooms—a sentiment I'd cherished in my childhood home. Toys surfaced in kitchen drawers, atop washing machines, and under beds that weren't mine. But after moving, most of my toys remained behind, and that sense of home was forever anchored to a nail where our family portrait once hung. Since then, I'd confined my belongings strictly to my bedroom, fearing the need to pack them up and move again. The dread of leaving something behind was a constant companion.

Desperate to recreate that feeling of belonging, I left my belongings strewn about my apartment, much like the people who entered my life. In them, I left fragments of my childhood, snippets of my fears and dreams, with the hope of igniting that sense of home within them. It might not have been the wisest choice to depend my happiness on others, but wisdom had never been my strong suit.

***

What happens if I pluck this string?

It makes a sound.

And this one?

Impatience crept into my voice. It's the same as all the other strings you've plucked.

During my high school years, I reveled in fantasies of life post-graduation—a life packed with possibilities and brimming with hope. It was a world where I explored uncharted territories, sipping coffee amidst conversations in foreign tongues. But life had a knack for tossing obstacles in my path. My first hurdle appeared as a cramped music lesson studio.

James wrestled with a guitar, his fingers struggling to encompass the instrument's body as he plucked at the high E string for what felt like the twentieth time that afternoon.

What's this one do again? he asked, his confusion undeterred.

My second obstacle resembled a nine-year-old boy in awe of the guitar, as he dissected every inch of the instrument perched awkwardly on his lap. It was clutched too close to his chest, as though the guitar might sprout legs and escape.

Five days a week, from Monday to Friday, Stella's Music Box was my kingdom. Most of my daylight hours were devoted to imparting the basics of guitar playing to children under eleven, and I often found myself being the last one there, which meant I was responsible for closing the shop.

It was now 12:15 AM, and this wasn't my first instance of working past closing hours. Following the ritual, I strolled through the room's expanse that served as our entire store. The cluttered section held Ryan's drum kit in the far-left corner, a sanctuary of chaos.

I gathered stray drumsticks from the burgundy shag carpet, reuniting them on a circular table. Lilly's piano dominated the right corner, a realm of serenity left untouched; she never left chaos in her wake. Her actions carried an elegant grace, something I admired. My own guitar lessons transpired in the room's center, a space I left undisturbed.

My nightly journey home was more bearable in the warmer months, but New York's cold weather had arrived prematurely that year. September welcomed frigid temperatures in the high forties. I stood before the store, gazing at Blank Canvas, the art store across the street.

A single light was on, casting a dim red glow. I couldn't see much through the dimness, but it was clear someone was inside. I had an unfortunate habit of forgetting to check both ways before crossing streets—a habit that persisted despite numerous attempts at self-correction. Perhaps I relied too heavily on the assumption that drivers would yield to me at this late hour when honks and scolding were scarce. Maybe it was because, come midnight, exhaustion had left everyone too fatigued for anger.

I walked at a pace brisk enough to shield me from the bitter cold but leisurely enough to conserve energy. Taxis whizzed by, their uncomfortable seats concealing the springs that perpetually jabbed. I could practically feel the jagged leather grazing my skin.

Stella's Music Box is nestled on the outskirts of Times Square, amidst humble grocery stores and extravagant souvenir shops. It existed in an area separate from the chaos and exuberance of Times Square itself. Nevertheless, the multilane traffic often seeped into our corner of the city, bringing with it a disharmony of sirens, honking horns, chattering pedestrians on cellphones, and the click-clack of high heels on concrete. The commotion mingled with exhaust fumes and the cutting wind that slipped through the city's alleys.

Despite the hour, the traffic never waned. Businesspeople wheeled their suitcases, students bore the weight of backpacks, and shoppers toted their purchases. Everyone moved with purpose, but I couldn't help but wonder if they had somewhere to go, someone waiting for them.

The city was a vision of grandeur, a picturesque destination for vacationers seeking fascination. Yet, residing there was an entirely different narrative. The reality was far from the glitz and glamour depicted onscreen.

All the noise and dazzling lights served as a distraction from the underlying loneliness. In a sea of faces, everyone was a castaway on their solitary island. At least, that’s how I felt.

When my family first moved, it was in pursuit of better careers and a more comfortable lifestyle. We transitioned from a modest home where my sisters and I shared a room, to a spacious abode in an affluent Michigan neighborhood. In this utopia, every house mirrored the next—meticulously manicured lawns, charming gardens, swimming pools, and pristine white fences. Most families owned multiple cars. It was a serene enclave where the only sounds were the occasional growl of a dog at passing cars.

Children in the neighborhood rarely ventured outdoors, their schedules brimming with extracurricular activities. It wasn't until my junior year that the reality of funding my own college education dawned on me. It was a sobering realization but one that transformed me during my senior year. I joined multiple after-school clubs, enrolled in classes with tongue-twisting names, and did anything else that would let my application stand out. Out-of-state options were never part of the plan, as most of my applications were for universities in Michigan. But there was one application, sent out like a desperate call for help, that got me into NYU. It was like a bright light showing me the way to success, even though I never thought I'd make it.

My parents seemed really let down as if I had gone against what they wanted by applying to a faraway college. Because my family was going through money troubles, we made a deal: I could go to college in New York if I could find a way to pay for it myself.

They knew it would be nearly impossible, but they gave me a kind of choice. What they didn't realize was that they had dared me to beat the odds, and now I was super determined to do just that. My parents' family friends own a book publishing company, and they kindly offered to pay my rent and college tuition. But here's the catch: in exchange, they want me to write a book good enough for their publishing. It's a bit of an unusual deal and little did I know, it would steer me into a journey I never saw coming.

As I approached the border of the Upper East Side, I entered my apartment building. Climbing a short flight of stairs, I reached the elevator. Regaining sensation in my chilled fingertips, I pressed the button, observing the orange glow beneath my nail. The elevator's warmth and the scent of musky cologne and vanilla perfume enveloped me. The ascent to the sixth floor felt endless.

The minutes ticked away mercilessly on my phone's screen—1:34 AM—and I couldn't help but wonder how I'd muster enough rest for my eight o'clock class the next morning. With a tired sigh, I shuffled into my apartment and carelessly flung my bag onto the cluttered couch that doubled as my makeshift workspace. The never-ending ticking of the wall clock served as a reminder that time was slipping through my fingers.

Procrastination was a luxury I couldn't afford anymore, so I trudged to my kitchen, separated from the living area by a worn-out counter. It was stocked with instant coffee, a couple of ramen packets, and a miscellaneous assortment of plates and mugs. I snagged a chipped mug, filled it with water, and popped it into the microwave. As I impatiently waited for it to heat up, my mind wandered to the towering pile of assignments that loomed over me.

My apartment mirrored the chaos of my life. Books lay scattered haphazardly on every available surface, thrifted artwork adorned the walls, and a dust-covered keyboard occupied a forgotten corner. It wasn't just a place to crash; it was my sanctuary, a refuge from the relentless hustle of the city, a haven where I could immerse myself in my world of music and words.

The microwave's shrill beep pulled me back from my trance, and I grabbed the steaming mug of water. With hands that trembled slightly from exhaustion, I ripped open a coffee sachet and watched as the brown granules dissolved in the hot liquid, filling the air with the familiar, comforting aroma that provided solace amid the city's constant noise.

Sipping the scalding drink, I settled on the couch. The coffee table was a chaotic battleground, strewn with sheet music, magazines, half-finished journal entries, and coursework from my college classes.

My guitar leaned against it, and I absentmindedly strummed a few chords while I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. I began strumming a familiar melody, surrendering myself to the music. It was during these late-night sessions that I felt most alive, as if the bustling world outside my apartment ceased to exist, leaving me free to create and express myself without reservation.

Hours slipped by, my fingers dancing nimbly over the strings. Music had always been my refuge, my escape from life's relentless demands. It was the one thing that made me feel truly alive, and I clung to it fiercely. As the first rays of dawn filtered through my curtains, I reluctantly set my guitar aside. I glanced at the unopened envelope that had arrived earlier in the day. I recognized the return address immediately—it was from my family friends, the ones who had been generously covering my college expenses. Dread clawed at my chest as I considered what might be inside. It wasn't the usual kind of letter from them; it was different, foreboding.

With trembling hands, I tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter within. My eyes scanned the words, and a mixture of anxiety and urgency coursed through me. It was a warning, a reminder of the looming deadline for the book they expected me to write for their publishing company.

The letter emphasized that my future depended on meeting this deadline, and the financial support I had come to rely on was hanging by a thread.

The pressure of their expectations weighed heavily on me as I thought about the tough choices I had to make. The path ahead would be full of challenges, trying to balance my college work, my job, and a daunting writing task. It felt like my dreams and responsibilities were coming together in a complicated dance, asking for sacrifices and unwavering dedication.

TWO

September 23:

I headed to work right after my class, my footsteps carrying me along the familiar path to the music store where I'd spent countless hours honing my skills. The moment I stepped inside, the music that had been playing in the background began to quiet down, making way for the excited voices of my coworkers.

Hey, Elaina! Their warm greetings put an immediate smile on my face as I waved back at them. Ryan and Lilly were already in their usual spots, each surrounded by a group of enthusiastic students eager to dive into the world of music. The shop itself had an inviting ambiance, with its walls adorned with various musical instruments, creating a cocoon of creativity and inspiration.

As I made my way further into the shop, I was joined by my ten students for the day. Their energy was palpable, a mix of excitement, curiosity, and the unmistakable thrill of learning something new. Some of them chatted animatedly, others giggled, and a few even broke into spontaneous songs. They quickly gravitated toward the guitar shelf, backpacks slumping to the floor as they selected their chosen instruments.

I reached for my guitar, its well-worn strings bearing witness to the countless hours spent in that shop. With a gentle strum, I set the tone for the lesson, playing a simple chord and waiting for my students to follow suit. Most of the kids caught on quickly, their fingers finding the right frets. As the session went on, the younger ones began to bombard me with questions, their curiosity as boundless as their energy.

Elaina, was Santa born in ancient times? Austin, a fourth-grader with wide, eager eyes, asked. Lana, a more seasoned student, couldn't help but roll her eyes at his innocence.

Austin, Santa's not real.

Austin blinked rapidly, clearly taken aback by this revelation. What do you mean?

Lana sighed patiently, trying to convey a complex idea to her young friend. He's made up, like a story in a book.

Austin's expression fell, and he glanced around the room as if seeking confirmation from the other students. He's real! My mom said so! he insisted, determined not to let go of his belief.

Another nosy kid shouted, adding to the growing chorus of questions. What does 'we can't afford it' mean? My mommy always says that.

Miss Elaina, Haley just said the F word! a student shouted, causing a flurry of reactions and confusion. Haley quickly jumped to her own defense, her face turning crimson.

No, I didn't! I didn't say anything like that!

The rest of the session was spent navigating the delicate balance between music lessons and childhood curiosity. I assured the younger ones that Santa was indeed real, entertaining them with stories of holiday magic and joy. Meanwhile, the older kids found comfort in their cell phones, a luxury I had never known at their age. It was amusing how times had changed, and the generation gap between us became more apparent with each passing day.

As the lesson concluded and my students gathered their belongings, I couldn't help but reflect on the unique blend of innocence and curiosity that filled the room. These kids were a reminder of how constant change was, and I wondered if I would ever feel that again.

As they bid me farewell with a chorus of See you tomorrow, Miss Elaina! and exited the shop, I knew my day was far from over. I began the process of tidying up the shop, gathering scattered sheet music, and repositioning guitars on their stands.

Ryan and Lilly joined in the effort, their faces etched with a mix of exhaustion and fulfillment.

Another day, another musical adventure, Ryan sarcastically commented, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Lilly, with her ever-present cheerful attitude, chimed in, Absolutely! These kids can be a handful, but it's rewarding to see their faces light up during a lesson.

I nodded in agreement, my fingers brushing over the strings of my guitar as I contemplated the day ahead. My responsibilities were far from over, and there was another task looming on the horizon. Once we made sure that the shop was in order, we prepared to close for the day.

Ryan waved goodbye and headed for the exit, followed closely by Lilly. As they left, she turned back and called out, Bye, love! Don't work too hard!

Bye, guys! I called after them with a wave. Their friendship made me feel less lonely in the city.

With the shop now empty, I took a moment to collect my thoughts. It was time to face another challenge—one that had become a defining aspect of my life lately. I needed to return to my cramped apartment and focus on the deadline that would shape my future. The letter from my parents' friends and their publishing company sat on my coffee table, a stark reminder of the promise I'd made. Writing a book worthy of

their publishing was no small feat, and the clock was ticking relentlessly. The pressure weighed on me and I didn’t know where to start.

As I locked up the shop and made my way home through the bustling streets of New York, I couldn't help but wonder how the unexpected journey into the world of storytelling might intersect with the music that defined my life. Little did I know that the answers lay just around the corner, waiting to surprise me in ways I had never imagined.

My mind buzzed with thoughts of the book I needed to write. The weight of the task ahead felt overwhelming, and as I entered my apartment, I couldn't help but feel lost. I knew I should sit down and start writing, but the blank page on my laptop screen seemed overwhelming. I had no idea where to begin or what story to tell. Doubt crept in, and I found myself lost in thought, reminiscing about the past.

As I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen, I couldn't help but daydream about those moments of pure joy when I first picked up a guitar and strummed my first chords. The memories of late nights spent playing music with friends, the laughter, and the simple pleasure of creating something beautiful washed over me. I thought about my childhood, the times when I would sit on the porch with my parents, listening to their stories and imagining my own.

I remembered the music that had always been a part of my life, the melodies that had shaped my dreams and aspirations.

The city's sounds faded into the background as I got lost in my own world of nostalgia. I thought about the people I had met along the way, the friends who had become family, and the mentors who had guided me through the ups and downs of life. But as the hours passed, I realized that I hadn't written a single word. The book remained untouched, and the cursor on the screen continued to blink, mocking my lack of progress. The uncertainty of where to start and the fear of not doing justice to the story paralyzed me.

With a sigh, I closed my laptop and decided to call it a night. Maybe I needed more time to figure out the story I wanted to tell. As I climbed into bed, I couldn't help but wonder if my journey into storytelling would be as daunting as it seemed. I hoped the answers would come to me in their own time, weaving together to create a symphony of words and emotions.

***

September 24:

After a long day at Stella’s Music Box, the three of us – Ryan, Lilly, and I - decided to unwind with some Chinese

takeout. We sat on the outdated shag carpet in the middle of the shop, surrounded by a warm, cozy atmosphere created by the soft glow of fairy lights. As we dug into our noodles and dumplings, the conversation flowed naturally, and it was one of those rare moments when we weren't focused on teaching or work. I realized it was a perfect opportunity to learn more about them.

Ryan, with his rugged appearance and friendly smile, began sharing stories of his early experiences with music, You know, when I was a teen, I played bass in a garage band. We thought we were the next big thing, but looking back, we were pretty terrible. Ryan reminisced about his garage band days, the rush of performing in front of an audience, and how music had been his anchor during challenging times. He laughed as he recalled the countless hours spent in that cramped garage.

Lilly, sipping on her peach iced tea laughed, and chimed in, Ryan, I'm sure you guys were better than you give yourselves credit for!

Ryan laughed, Oh, we weren’t. But I had a blast with those guys.

I leaned back, curious to know more. What got you into teaching, Ryan?

He paused, reflecting for a moment. Well, after my garage band days, I studied music education in college. I always knew I wanted to share my passion for music with others. Teaching here is a dream come true.

Lilly, her fingers gracefully picking at her food, shared her own story. I grew up playing piano, thanks to my mom's persistence. At first, I hated it, but the older I got, the more I realized the beauty of it.

I nodded, listening intently. And now you're an incredible piano teacher. I smiled.

She blushed modestly. Thank you, Elaina. It's great to see these kids discover the magic of music.

As the night wore on, we continued to swap stories and share our dreams. Lilly shared stories of her childhood piano lessons, recounting how she had always felt a deep connection to music. She spoke warmly about her family's unwavering support, especially her grandmother, who had been her biggest cheerleader.

As they shared their experiences and dreams, I felt a deeper connection with them. They had unique stories, passions, and dreams. It was so special to be a part of their world.

Lilly turned her attention to me with a curious smile. And what about your writing, Elaina? How did you get started with that?

I traced the edge of my journal, a mix of excitement and vulnerability coursing through me. Writing has always been my way of making sense of the world. I began by jotting thoughts on scrap paper. experimented with poetry, and eventually found myself keeping this journal. It helps me escape reality and create new worlds.

Ryan leaned in. That's deep, Elaina. Have you written anything you'd like to share with us?

I hesitated for a moment, thoughts of the book I had committed to writing for my parents' friends swirling in my mind. "Actually, I've recently taken on a challenging project—a book I