Until We Meet Again

47. writing for you

The next morning, we're cuddling in my bed so closely like two kids in love. We're absolutely obsessed with each other in this moment and neither us of us wants to risk saying anything that could ruin it. We're supposed to be in the clear now, we're at the sunny destination after a long cloudy and rainy journey.

Her head is laying on my chest, and I take advantage of that position to run my hands through her long brown hair. She giggles lightly when I give her a quick kiss atop her head. She tries to hold one of my hands, and I let her. 

She squeezes it tightly, afraid to let go because we always manage to separate so easily. This could be a moment that'll last forever. 

She ends it though, throwing off my sheets and getting up from my bed. She's barely dressed, and asks me if I could spare her anymore clothes for today. 

"Of course," I respond. I get up this time, disappointed that we have to return to reality already. I pull out a new set of casual clothes for her, and she says she'll return them once she comes back from her apartment. 

"You're leaving?" I ask her.

She nods, saying "Clients are asking for me."

I had assumed that when she had grabbed her phone a while ago that she was scrolling through social media reels like a typical 22-year old, but instead she's working. She quickly changes, and starts to awkwardly make her way out. 

I question, "can I make you breakfast?"

She shrugs, but then decides, "sure, if you're fast. Thanks, babe."

The oh so familiar "babe" makes me want to go insane, haven't been called that in forever. She says it softly, and it only makes me want to get her in my bed again, but I know that she'll say the sooner she leaves, the better. 

I start to walk out of the room, and Delilah says, "wait! Do you have a charger ar-"

She rummages through my desk drawers, but pauses when she comes across that old stack of diaries at the bottom. 

"You still have all of your journals?" She's clearly surprised by that, I know she is. 

She's never really been the type to hold onto sentimental things, she likes to move on. She prefers to not live in the past, and barely does in the present, her mind is always stuck on the future. She always wants to plan out her next move, and something silly like journals don't fit into that. But I can also tell that she's curious, like she was back then. 

She wants to know what's in the thin white pages, she wants to get insight into everything that she's been missing out on for the last 8 years. I don't think it's because she's that obsessed with reminiscing on the past, but she can use them to guide her next statements and dates and actions and attempts to keep us from ever falling apart again. She likes to get ahead of things, that's how she's always been. 

She holds onto a special one, the one from four years ago. She has a lucky touch, she knows which one to grab onto. It has a pink cover with blue embellishments, ripped pages and all of the dust to come along with an ancient product. Her eyes are glued onto one of the stickers, 'This diary belongs to Priscilla. DO NOT READ!' 

I had made the white sticker myself, attaching it with clear tape because I had such strong fears that someone would find it and use it to expose me. I was already seen as an awful person after the whole incident with Rowan, the thoughts in my journal likely would have added a great amount of fuel to that burning fire. 

And I never took the sticker off, I don't think that I could even if I wanted to. If I were to tear it off, it would probably rip off some of the cover too, leaving those strange remains of an awkward hardcover. Her fingers are all over the broken lock attached to the side, it was damaged after so many times it was thrown around. In fits of anger or in my process of moving out to New York, it couldn't magically survive everything. 

"Do you want to read it?" I ask her curiously. 

Her eyes are screaming yes, but she jokingly tells me, "Well, it says not to right here."

I roll my eyes at that, and I ask her again, "Do you want to read it?"

I don't even wait for her to respond, I walk closer to her. 

And I open the diary up myself. 

I place it in her hands, turning through the different entries. Some are random, stressing about the latest midterms and ranting about how terrible the cafeteria food was. Others are more serious and pointed, referencing how much I hated Delilah and how much I wish I could be someone new. 

She only catches a few sentences from each as I try to get through it all quickly, for both of our sakes. She's silent, breathless. She reads all of my words as if she truly knew me back then.

She will never understand their source, but she wants to. I can tell that she's making her own narrative in her head, attributing certain phrases to certain events as if she could ever be certain of anything. My stories weren't meant for her yet I'm letting her read them anyway.

The words can't hurt me anymore, they're too old. They've expired, becoming meaningless but serve as a learning moment. I don't want to feel so alone with this feeling.

 When she finishes reading, will she feel what I did? Would the pain of her past lies and her tricks set in? Would she hate me for being so honest? Would I feel like I'm reliving it at this moment with her being reminded of it all as if it happened yesterday? She just accepted my invitation to see the random spills of ink on paper that I could never peacefully contain in my mind. I'm letting this happen, and that's on me. Whatever she does next is my responsibility. She looks up at me, and the journal looks the same. 

Multiple papers are sticking out in various directions and its scratchy pink paint is still peeling off. It almost looked like gold to me for a second when she touched it, but that's not real. She can't make it brand new. She can't suddenly make the pain relevant to today. She can't bring whatever is written in those words back. And that's a good thing. She finally says, "I'm sorry," but she doesn't even have to bother saying that. I already forgive her. Maybe I made this turn into an issue when it didn't need to be. Maybe 14 year old me just cared a little too much about everything. Maybe I was too dramatic even for my own taste at this point. I'm a writer. I don't know anything else.  

But, now, I'm certain of everything being different. I'm brand new, and so is she. So is this.

All is forgotten because all is forgiven.