Soft, buttery leather. Rachel couldn’t stop touching the journal, and even though it was far too expensive, she bought it anyway. She’d been inspired recently by the Instagrammed journal entries of her creative friends; maybe this would be a way of adding meaning to her life. She started to compose deep thoughts in the car on the way home with the journal, a fountain pen, and a pretty little bottle of black ink.
But she’s never written in it, never come up with a thought she considered worthy of the velvety leather and the smooth sweep of the gold nib.