Words fill the small notebook, paper and ink talking in a mundane, taken for granted magic. He can see his name there often, sometimes 'Jim', mostly 'Ellison'.
He's holding Blair's thoughts on him, observations, theories; questions Jim's sometimes answered, sometimes ignored.
Words dance, jump out at him. Cool, dry phrases when Blair's mouth's not shaping them warm and vivid.
He flips the pages slowly, staring down, not blinking in case he misses the part where it starts making sense why Blair's still here, what Blair wants from him. That's not snooping. Not even reading, really.
Or only between the lines.
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