“Just what was I thinking?” I said this thought aloud while sitting on that bench, absentmindedly staring at the concrete floor before me. The realization only hit me after I finished the sentence and noticed the weird stares I received from some passersby. I felt embarrassed but decided to ignore them.

  I was frustrated to a considerable degree. Dejected, I take out the source of my frustrations from my left pocket. It was the notebook that I found yesterday.

  For some godforsaken reason, I decided to play with whatever is written here.

  It started this morning. Since it was a weekend, this damn notebook was the last thing on the back of my mind.

  Instead, the day started like any other. Through the burning rays of the morning sun jolting me awake. I’ve always been a light sleeper, so waking me up didn’t take long.

  I’m someone who manages to get up from bed quickly. I choose not to, though. The moment I woke up, I turned around, trying to shield myself from the light through the cover of my blanket.

  The summer heat foiled my attempts, as it only took me not even a minute to emerge from my self-made cocoon. I grew increasingly frustrated with the weather, thwarting my attempts at proper rest, but deep down, I was thoroughly aware that this was nothing more than an excuse. No matter how tired I may be, I couldn’t fall asleep again anyway. Once I’m up, I'm up for good, and yet I still try to rebel against the way my body works.

  It takes a good minute of practically suffocating myself in the mountain of pillows until I relent and finally start the day.

  I don’t even take my time to stretch properly. I head straight for the bathroom to wash my face. The day is pretty much a blur from then on as I go through the motions.

  I'm taking a shower.

  I'm shaving my beard.

  I'm putting on my clothes.

  I'm staring at my phone to catch up on stuff.

  I'm eating my cereal.

  I'm staring at my phone to play some mobile game.

  Cleaning the room after a week of putting that responsibility off.

  That’s how it always goes. That is... only until now. While cleaning my desk, my gaze settles on the strange notebook I found in the streets. Flashes of recollection assault my mind. After a long shift at work, I was very out of it when I picked it up. Against my better judgment, I ended up taking the item with me.

  My gaze lingered on that thing even after I continued cleaning everything. Once I was finished, I was looking at it with a little, no, much hesitation.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  It felt like I had made a grave error; taking the notebook into my hands again would make it feel real. It surprised me how much this affected me, as I genuinely didn’t want even to touch the thing.

  If reached the point where I had to go away for a glass of water to hold off the moment. No matter my reservations, I reached a point where I needed to confront this, so I took the book into my own hands.

  For being so small, the book felt very heavy in my hand.

  I opened it and read through the text I skimmed yesterday, but this time with a more coherent mind. As I continue to read this, I’m becoming increasingly confused. More than anything, my apprehension continues to fester in my mind.

  There are so many questions spiraling in my mind, and I have no clue how to tackle them, much less whether I want answers to any of them.

  I lean back and rest on my bed, closing my mind to gather my thoughts.

  Let’s reexamine this:

  I’m currently holding a notebook without clues of where it even came from.

  Whoever wrote this claims to be dead.

  That same person doesn’t reveal any other information.

  Instead, they want to make a game out of this?

  This should only be seen as a prank that’s gone too far. Someone with a terrible sense of humor wrote this stuff out of fun. That’s it. No one died. Considering they don’t even acknowledge the nature of their “death,” it seems like nothing more than an elaborate roleplay.

  That should make sense, but…

  For some reason, I can’t help but take this seriously, no matter how much the rational part of my brain protests.

  This person doesn’t reveal any information about themselves. Doesn’t this just prove they didn’t want this to be traced back to them? Couldn’t they have simply made up stuff then?

  The more I try to make sense of this crap, the more confused I ultimately get. I drown myself in my pillow to keep the headache at bay.

  Assuming this is real and someone indeed did die, shouldn’t I report this to the police then? Why should I comply with this unreasonable and frankly insane charade?

  Can’t I flip through everything and see if the other pages reveal anything else? However, they seem to imply that there is no information to gather from this. Even so, shouldn’t I check?

  As I keep debating myself, my eyes keep settling on one sentence.

  Why bother writing this, then?

  I want to know what you think by the time you're done. I'm curious about your interpretation.

  The interpretation of my life.

  This phrase keeps sticking out to me. Is it truly this simple? My head keeps spiraling and spiraling. What’s the point of that? They even admit to the foolishness of that farce themselves, after all.

  This is nothing more than a lighthearted scavenger hunt. A scavenger hunt with no reward at the end of it. A truly pointless scavenger hunt.

  It’s as they say. No matter what action I take, there’s no point or consequences. There’s no information to report to the police or chance to determine the truth. If anything, he would look like a complete fool if he arrived with this at a police station. He doesn’t feel like becoming a laughingstock.

  However, what actually prevents him from doing that is that it would simply not… feel right. This is addressed to the reader and the reader only. This request is extended to me as an individual. It almost feels like I would do something terrible. This letter confuses me to no end. Nothing about it makes sense.

  The casual manner of writing that the person went with.

  The detailed and beautiful handwriting serves as a startling contrast.

  The information, or rather the lack thereof, borders on insanity.

  The way that the writer frames this information is trivial.

  More than anything, the abnormal request is at the center of it.

  In the end, I have made my choice. I will play along with this. I genuinely believe there is no point to this, but perhaps that’s why this choice ultimately felt easy.

  I flipped to the next page, genuinely curious about what would await me, only for the following sentence to make me pause, instantly removing any feelings of intrigue I may have held, as though I was splashed with an entire bucket of ice-cold water.

  Have a popsicle at the beach.