June 1, 2015.
Dear diary,
There he is again. The boy. It isn't the first time he's shown up by my usual spot, clothed in long sleeves and pants, hood over his head.
I sit alone on the old, rusty bench beside the serene lake, the sun scorching whatever lived beneath. I sneak a glance at him.
He has to be sweating. How can he sit there under the sun in those warm clothes? I yearn to ask but I can't. I won't.
I want to see his face, I do. But I have to be patient.
I have to be.
