Dear whoever,

1

JULY 11

Dear whoever,

I don't even know how to start, how to do this at all. I've never realized how sloppy my handwriting is. In 5 years will i even be able to comprehend the words on this page?

My hand is starting to cramp already. The last time i wrote in a journal (because I refuse to call this a diary) was about 10 years ago. Now I'm 22 years old and I prefer typing away at my laptop rather than holding a pen between my fingers.

Why am I doing this? Stupid Quinn. This will help you cope, she says. Write down your feelings instead of breaking things in my apartment, she says. Quite glaring at everything and smile once in a while, she says.

But what am I supposed to write? All these empty pages and blank lines. Write what you feel, she says. What i feel? What do i feel about what? Does this notebook come with an instruction manual? I can't believe Quinn paid 5.99 for this thing. I don't know what i feel. I feel everything. We all feel everything. Some emotions are just more prominent than others.

Stupid Quinn. She thinks she can help me. That by hugging me tight, my broken pieces will mold back together. But her fragile arms are not enough.

Today i feel: sorry

Sorry that she's trying so hard

Sorry that I'm a lost cause

Sorry that

My phone rang and vibrated on the nightstand next to my bed. The sound of piano music filled my ears and distracted me from my writing. Yiruma's River Flows In You to be exact. Quinn recorded herself playing it and then set it as her personal ring tone. So intrusive. But she played well and I always had a hard time answering the phone when she called;mentally debating what was sweeter, the sound of her playing piano or the sound of her voice?

Finally I pressed the green circle, halting the melodic notes.

"Quinn." I always said her name when I answered her calls.

"David," And she always said mine. "I'm coming over and I'm bringing snacks." I groaned into the phone while running a hand down my face. "Don't pretend you're not going to do your happy dance once I hang up the phone." She replied confidently.

"I don't have an effing happy dance Quinn. And what kind of snacks are we talking about here?" I closed the notebook and pushed it under my bed. I hadn't finished the entry but I could care less. I was doing this for her, even though she wanted me to do this for me.

"Oh please, I watched the last three super bowls with you. You definitely have a happy dance." I rolled my eyes as I slipped a clean shirt over my head with one hand. "And don't worry about the snacks big boy, I'm like 5 minutes away now." I looked at myself in the full body mirror propped up next to the front door. Messy dark brown curls, light brown eyes, a few beauty marks scattered along my skin from my cheeks to my neck, dark eyebrows, thick eyelashes, lightly tanned skin.

"Quinn, I tell you this every damn time you call. Its not safe-"

"To talk on the phone while driving, I know." She interrupted.

"Well, Miss -I know everything- why the hell are you still on the phone with me then?"

She giggled on the other line and I glared at my reflection in the mirror before walking away towards the small kitchen.

"The real question is, why haven't you hung up on me yet?" I knew she was smirking, I could hear it in her voice.

"You're impossible." I sighed, leaning against the marble island.