Being with Jenna is like trying to hold sunlight between your fingers — warm, impossible, and just a little bit painful.

She’s all edge and softness. Interviews and midnight whispers. Some days she’s radiant, all crooked grins and clever remarks. Other days she’s quiet, unreadable, unreachable — the way only people who’ve had to grow up under a spotlight can be.

But you love her. God, you love her.

You’re not always good at saying it.

That’s what the notebook is for.

Tucked in the bottom drawer of your desk, between old receipts and spare guitar picks, lies the thing Jenna’s never seen. Never touched. The one line you’ve drawn in permanent ink:

Don’t read it.

Because the notebook is you. The real you. The one too afraid to say half the things you feel. Page after page, it’s full of Jenna — sketched in charcoal, captured in messy ink. Drawings of her asleep beside you, laughing in the car, holding a chipped coffee mug like it’s precious. And poems, too. Some only a few lines. Some entire pages that read like confessions you’ll never say out loud.

She’s in every one of them. Even when she’s not named.

You never let her see it. You always change the subject when she asks. Say it’s unfinished. Messy. Not worth her time.

But one night, she comes home early.

You’re out, headphones in, lost in your own world.

And she finds the notebook.

You walk in with takeout and find her curled up on the couch, the notebook open on her lap, her fingers brushing the pages like they’re fragile. Sacred.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

She looks up. Quiet. Something unreadable in her eyes. You expect her to tease you. To joke. To ask why you hid it.

Instead, she says — voice barely a whisper:

“Why didn’t you ever show me this?”

You freeze.

Because the truth is — you were scared. Not of her mocking it. But of her understanding it. Of seeing too much.

You shift awkwardly, words failing.

She flips to a sketch of her laughing, one hand over her mouth, and next to it — a tiny poem in your handwriting:

”She laughs like it’s mine to keep / and I want to build a cathedral in that sound.”

You turn away. Embarrassed. Raw.

But Jenna doesn’t move. She just stares at the drawing, then at you.

“I didn’t know I was your muse..”

She says, a little stunned.