Jackson had always written. He wasn’t bad either. But one day he decided to write… differently.

Jackson paid his rent in advance, filled his freezer with pizza and turned his answering machine to silent. Then he snorted a large line of Cocaine from an even larger bag sitting on the writing table beside him. Hemmingway did it. So did Oscar Wilde. Why not Jackson too?

'The love of my life.'

Two weeks later Jackson sobered up. He couldn’t remember anything about the last fourteen days but sitting on his bed, neatly bound, was a manuscript with his name on the front cover. Above it, printed neatly in red, were five simple words. 'The love of my life.'

His printer was out of ink on the table beside him. He picked the book up and opened the cover.

‘What is true love? Every single person has a soul mate, whether they believe it or not, whether they find them or not.

One person to love and hold.

To laugh with. To cry beside. To share. To experience.

This is the story of the love of your life.

Don’t try and read ahead. Sometimes true love is closer than you think. You just have to know where to look.’

Did he write this? Jackson looked at the empty coke bag beside him. Damn. The manuscript was thick. He flicked towards the middle and opened it.

The page was blank. He flicked forward a little more. Blank too. Quickly he scanned the rest of the book. All white, except for the introduction, which he had already read, and the first page.

Jackson looked at the empty coke bag beside him. Damn alright! What a waste of money. And time! One lousy fucking page. With a sigh he sat down to read. This had better be good - apparently it took two weeks to write.

‘First there was blackness, then there was light. And I realised that I was alive. Of course, I’d always known it, really, from that first tiny little spark of consciousness that began when my father’s seed met my mother’s.

But its hard to remember that when all around you is black, just a constant throbbing, first felt then heard as I grew and developed, to remind you of life. I was safe, and though I had little reference of time passed, I didn’t feel an urge to leave.

When I did leave, it was a shock. That first gasp of air – it stings the lungs. It was an easy birth, and I was an easy child to care for. Of course, by the time I could talk, I’d forgotten those feelings, that birth, that shock, anyway.’

Entranced, Jackson turned the page and continued reading.

‘I’ll never forget my mother’s eyes. They were bright blue, unlike my father’s which were brown. I used to gaze into them when she’d suckle me and lose myself in their depths…’

Suddenly Jackson stopped. Turned the page? He flicked back. No, definitely two. Damn. The drugs must have hit him harder than he thought.

Jackson continued reading, but stopped when he found himself again about to turn another page. He’d read from left to right, and now suddenly there were three pages in front of him! The looked at the forth. Black lines now ran the width of the page.

Gently, confused, Jackson put the book down. Then he picked it up suddenly, savagely and ripped it open. Now there were four pages! There had definitely only been two before. Was he still on crack? He pinched himself.

Mouth open, Jackson stared at the book in front of him and tried to find a logical explanation. Fifteen minutes later, and several more pages read, and pages created, he couldn’t.

He tried everything he could to explain it. He shook the book, turned it upside down and then re-read the pages he had. And every time he got to the end, he’d find another one magically appear on the other side. He tried smudging the pages, and heating them with his hand then even with a blow-dryer, in case the words were in invisible ink. He took photos of the pages before and after, just in case he was losing his mind. He searched his flat for hidden cameras, but there were no film crews waiting to surprise him.

Slowly, Jackson re-read the cover page. ‘This is the story of your life. Don’t try and read ahead.’

The book was writing itself, page by page. Jackson picked it up, excited, and ran from the house.

* * * * *

An old lady steps to the side and loses her brown paper bag of groceries. Swiveling backwards, Jackson hops a few steps as he blurts a hurried apology, points at the book and then turns and keeps on sprinting.

A car screeches to a halt as he runs across the road, hand out in a command to stop. The driver shakes his fist. Jackson continues running. Not far now.

Jackson slows down as he passes a church. He looks from the book to the open doorway, then dashes quickly up the steps and thrusts his laden arm through the entrance. A wince of anticipation but no heat. He continues.

The street is busy. Jackson careens into first one person, then another, a maniac grin on his face, the book his only confused explanation. First a young kid walking out of a shop. Jackson doubles over him in an attempt not to knock him down. By the time the mother comes out screaming Jackson is running again. Then a young woman, blonde hair, his age. She’s stunning – beautiful eyes look straight at him, as if to say something. He slows down mesmerised, then remembers what he has in his hands. He shakes his head and runs past. Another time, another place.

A young mother with a pram. Two pierced punks who shake their hands and do nothing.

Eventually, panting, Jackson knocks on a door and it opens.

“Will, you’ll never fucking believe this. I have a magic book!”

Jackson’s best friend stared back blankly. “What?”

Jackson thrust his precious cargo into Will’s arms. “Read!”

Bemused, Will took the book and sat down on his bed. It was a single bedroom studio, there wasn’t much room. “There’s only one page dude.”

“No, there’s four. That’s the point.”

Will flicked through the book. “Nope. Definitely one. You ok?”

Jackson seized the book back. “Look. Four!” He pointed.

“Dude, the page is blank.”

“Are you honestly telling me you can’t see this?” Jackson didn’t wait for an answer, sitting down instead beside his best friend. “Holy fuck. It is magic.”

Will just waited patiently.

“Read.” Jackson commanded.

Will did; quickly, unimpressed. “It’s just some story about a guy being born.”

“Read the next page. And it’s not a guy, it’s a girl.”

“No, it’s definitely a guy. It says so right here. Born in the back of a pickup… Holy fuck!” Will closed the book quickly, much as Jackson had done earlier that morning. “There’s a second page!”

Will continued to read, eyes wide, as Jackson questioned him about what he saw. No matter how many pages Will turned, Jackson only saw four, and they were different to what his friend was reading.

The book, it seemed, changed for each person that read it.

* * * * *

Back in his own apartment Jackson continued to read. He would let Will read it as soon as he had finished on the condition that he wouldn’t tell anyone about this. After they'd both read their stories, who knew?

‘My eyes were scrunched up in anticipation of a pain that never came. There was pressure, and the sound of my mother’s voice telling me what a good girl I was. If I was brave, the doctor said, I’d get a jelly bean at the end.

And then it was over! Light flooded back in as the Doctor told me I could hop down now. I nodded dumbly, trying to dry my eyes with my fists even as I seized a candy and buried myself in my mother’s skirt. I hate needles.’

What was her name? Jackson scanned the pages he had just read but returned frustrated. Who was this person? He continued to read.

‘The cigarette tasted horrible, but I tried not to let it show. Tracey had stolen the pack from her mother’s bag and we’d all said that we’d smoked before, even though I know none of us had. I spent the next half hour coughing, and my mother grounded me when she smelt my clothes.’

The book consumed Jackson’s life. At that first page, Jackson had felt only curiosity, and perhaps frustration. At the forth page, those emotions had changed to feelings of wonder. By the tenth page, Jackson was hooked. By the hundredth, as he continued to read, to know this mysterious woman, those feelings changed again. Bit by bit he pieced together her life. Frustratingly slowly, event by event, he discovered another person.

The book was frustrating, and voyeuristic, and mesmerizing, and sweet. Jackson would pick it up and read it every second he had spare, stopping only to cook, never even leaving the house. Will called often. Eventually Jackson turned his answering machine to silent. He truly knew this stranger, inside and out, even if he didn’t know her name. And slowly, as he continued to read, as he grew with her from infant to school girl to young woman, the curiosity turned to familiarity, and eventually, to love.

Is it possible to love someone you’ve never met? Written words describe feelings as actions sometimes can’t. True love can only come when you know someone like you know yourself - when you know every intimate detail – and are prepared to accept the bad, because to you, there is so much more good.

True love takes shared time. Jackson had watched over this woman her entire life.
Sometimes, Jackson wondered.

Who was this girl? She existed, he knew this, and not just in his book. He knew. How the book had come about, how he had come to write it; he had no idea, but he knew, somehow, it was true. It was telling the story of the love of his life. And sometimes, Jackson wondered darker thoughts. What if he got to the end and she was married? Or worse yet, what if she’d lived and died fifty years ago? And he still didn’t know her name.

There were no dates, there were no hints, there were no giveaways in the book. It was as if it wanted him to read until the end before it gave up its secrets, and not put it down before. In his darkest moments, Jackson wondered if the book would ever give up its secrets at all.

It was this thought that made Jackson start the chart on his wall. Any clue he could glean as to this - now young woman’s - whereabouts or identity he extracted and put on the wall. He knew both parent’s first names, but not the last. He knew she lived in America, like him, possibly in the same city, but not when.

A breakthrough came when she bought her first car. It was a 1995 Honda Civic. A student car, bought with not much money. As soon as he read it Jackson was on the wall writing in permanent marker, too excited even to use the post-it notes he had bought. She was alive in his time! She was alive today, and possibly not much older than him!

Quickly he did the math. If she had bought the car brand new, as a student when she first got her license, the oldest she could possibly be was thirty. But Jackson hadn’t known a single student in his class five years ago that had bought their first car brand new. The youngest she could be was eighteen. And there was a distinct chance she might be somewhere in the middle, like him.

Delighted at his detective work, Jackson sat back down to read. It was almost as if the book was rewarding him for reading so well.

‘Hands everywhere, hot and sweaty kissing, a laugh as he presses against the steering wheel and it gives a short toot. And then slowly he begins to undress me. I don’t say no, like last time. I think I’m ready.

My hands explore even as his do. Cosmo said I should go down on him first, and I try, honestly, but there’s no room. We joke that I should have gotten a bigger car and we both laugh a little too hard, nervous.’

Embarrassed, Jackson skipped the paragraph and turned the page. Only to discover it blank. The book was going to make him read every word, if he wanted it or not.

For the first time since he had got back from Will’s, Jackson put the book down and went for a walk. And he thought about what he was reading, and how it was affecting him. The book was teaching him to accept this woman for everything she did. Perhaps that is what true love is all about.

When Jackson returned, he picked the book up again. The sex scene didn’t last for long, thankfully, though the one two nights later did. That was hard.

Jackson followed her progress, this woman’s, over the next six years of her life. He called in sick at work – he couldn’t bear to put the book down. And he knew that he was getting close to now. His wall was covered in writing. And he read everything.

He watched exams at university be passed and failed.

He watched a wrist get broken when drunk, and felt the lingering pain with her even months later.

He watched her crash a car and scream at the other driver, even when it was so obviously her fault. He watched her feel horrible later that night, and not because her back was aching.

He watched as the love of his life dumped her first serious boyfriend because he cheated on her with someone better looking but brainless. She still cried.

He cried himself when her next boyfriend, a man she really did love, dumped her. And he wondered how anyone could be so stupid as to give this woman up, and was glad they had at the very same time.

And then he saw himself. It was a short entry.

‘I’m pretending to read as I sit on the train, but I’m sick of being depressed about world events, so look over the paper around me instead.

An old woman is talking on the phone to her grandson. Two business men are comfortably ignoring each other down the isle. And two guys in ripped jeans and t-shirts are laughing as they hold onto the straps by the closing doors.

I try and listen in, feeling deliciously naughty as I do. The taller one is cute. The shorter one is sooo gay.. I wonder if the tall one knows? The shorter one speaks about a movie they’ve just seen, and I learn the tall one is called Jackson. Mmm. I like that.

Sometimes I wish I was one of those crazy people that can just talk to anyone. I’d go up and say something funny, and they’d both laugh. Then the cute one would ask what I was doing later, and I’d say ‘nothing’ and he’d take me to dinner and I’d be glad I wasn’t shy and introverted.

Next time. Next time I’ll say hello. I promise. If I see him again – Jack – or whatever his name is, I’ll definitely say hello.

Stupid promise anyway. As if I’ll ever see him again.’

That had only been a few weeks ago! Jackson and Will had gone to see a movie… what was it… who cares… and caught the train home!

Everything else in the world faded to nothing as Jackson’s entire consciousness focused on the pages in front of him. He read on, only to discover two weeks later that he was in her life again.

‘The business meeting went well… I think. I hate doing these stupid things over lunch though. They always get drunk, and then try and stare down my top or at my legs when they think I’m not looking. Can men actually ever think of anything else? Still, they agreed in the end. I’ll have to remember to wear a long skirt next time I’m dealing with Harry.

I stop at the traffic lights on my way back to the office. Damn. It’s never going to change. Up ahead some idiot is running down the road. Oh my god. He almost knocked that poor old lady over! What could be so important that he didn’t stop to help her pick up her groceries?

Bastard. Seems like most men are these days…

… Oh my god oh my god. It’s him. The cute guy from the train. What was his name? Jim, or Rick or something. And he’s coming this way. I’m going to say something this time.

I’m going to say something.

I’m going to say something.

Wow he almost bowled that kid over.

I’m going to say something.’

…

‘I’m such an idiot. I just let him run straight past. Why didn’t I say something?

The lights have changed. I start to cross the road.

Why didn’t I say something? There was something there, I know it. He looked at me.’

…

‘You know what? Fuck it. I’m going to say something.

I turn around and run out onto the road. Maybe I can still catch him. To my right I can hear tires squeal. I look up. Oh n... The lights changed.’

…

‘Grey. My mind feels slow. I am heavy. I don’t feel like thinking anymore…’

Jackson turned the page, horrified, to discover that it was blank.

A wave rolled over him that crushed from the inside. She couldn’t be dead.

No. Please God no.

Not when he was so close.

Jackson wept then, as he hadn’t since he was a small child. Long enduring sobs. The sobs of a little boy lost in a shopping center. When the cat you’ve known since you were born doesn’t wake up. When your parents have to explain it will never come back. The sobs of a heartbroken man.




As he closed the book, through watery eyes Jackson saw one word. One word that hadn’t been there before. He dried his eyes and tried to focus.





‘Epilogue’





Jackson turned the page. And where before there had been no writing, now there was.

‘Slowly her eyes open, hazy and dry from disuse. It's hard to crack the sleep that’s covering them. Something feels wrong. It smells like hospital. She wonders why she can’t move her legs. As the air wavers and becomes clear she sees a man standing in front of her. He seems familiar somehow, as if she’s seen him before. He’s unshaven, bristle stubbles his chin. A haggard look shows in his eyes. As if he’s been worrying, or not sleeping. What was his name? Is it Jim or Rick or somethi…’

…With a start, Jackson’s head springs up. His eyes narrow and he re-reads the last paragraph again. Then suddenly he snaps the book shut and stands up. It’s not Jim or Rick or something. It’s going to be Jackson. He’s wasted two chances. He won’t waste the third. He has a hospital to find.

‘Sometimes true love is closer than you think.

You just have to know where to look.’