Diana Hargrove has gone through enough tragedy for three lifetimes, yet she still has an affirming smile on her face. She's lived and travelled all over the world, but the last straw that broke the camel's back, brought her back to her hometown, Cre...
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𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 | 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴
Welcome to my own personal hell.
Emilia Russo has been straddling me like a cat for the last twenty minutes. In any other situation, someone might think this is a sexual position. She claims that my eyebrows have seen better days, and this isn't the night to walk out of the house with a unibrow.
I entered hell the second Emi sat on my lap. My neck feels like it's going to snap soon.
I haven't even put on the stupid ball gown yet, and I'm already regretting this night. I don't have a single desire to be dressed like a princess. I'd rather curl up in a large sweater and paint the night away. Not dance the night away.
Mom and Nonna are getting ready for the masquerade ball in separate areas of the house. Nonna would be screaming that my mom isn't wearing the right shade of lipstick, then mom would scream that she's a fashionista for a living and can choose her own style.
"Stop moving!" Emi urged. "I swear one wrong misstep and you're going to permanently look surprised at everything."
"Hilarious," I whined, as she continued to pluck. "Can we please be done?"
"One more," Emi concentrated. She yanked the tweezers away, and I flinched at the pain. "Done!"
"Thank Picasso," I murmured.
"Dress time!"
Standing practically naked in my bedroom with Emi isn't the most shocking thing in the world.
Standing practically naked in my bedroom with Emi, while my arms are stuck above my head is a little bit shocking.
I started putting on the dress and either the zipper or the strap got stuck and I couldn't get the damn thing over my head.
After a lot of twisting and twirling, we finally got the dress on and I'm not going to lie, I look really beautiful. The silver color pairs well with my blonde hair, and the light makeup doesn't look too overdone.
"Can we read another letter?" Emi asked, eyeing my music box. "Have you read them all?"
"I haven't. Let's see what else this guy has to say," I said.
Dear Diana,
I've been learning more about myself over the years. Only certain people know who I am and what I'm like. I realized that you never knew me the way very few do.
It made me wonder if you'd like the kind of person you'd see.
As a fifteen year old, it's impossible to say that we would've been in each other's lives still. I'm essentially writing to a ghost, yet I'm a person that believes in hope. I hope that you're seeing these letters or I hope that you'll see them all one day in the future.
