Dear Journal

January 23

Dear Journal,

Dear god, I need a drink. (unfortunately, I'll be sequestering myself to one because I'm a horrible lightweight.)

Today, I visited my mother at her old country home. It's been a while since I made the trip, and as I drove up the familiar winding road, a mix of nostalgia and apprehension washed over me. The house stood as it always had, a testament to faded grandeur, now softened by time and nature's touch.

I found her in the garden, tending to her flowers with a serene smile on her face. It was a striking contrast to the glamorous, larger-than-life figure she once was. Age has crept up on her, her once flawless skin now marked by the passage of time. She's still beautiful, but it's a different kind of beauty—one that speaks of resilience and quiet acceptance.

Seeing her there, so content among the blooms, felt surreal. This was the woman who had been obsessed with her looks, whose every waking moment seemed dedicated to maintaining an image of perfection. Now, she moved with a relaxed grace, seemingly indifferent to the physical toll the years had taken.

She still drinks, though. I spotted the familiar bottle tucked behind the garden bench, a silent companion to her solitary labours. It worries me, the thought that she might one day pass away here, alone in this garden that has become her refuge.

We sat together for a while, chatting about mundane things—how the roses were doing this year, the latest antics of the neighbours. Eventually, the conversation turned to me. She asked about my life, and I found myself sharing more than I intended.

"I met someone," I said, the words hanging in the air. "Her name is May. She's... different. Special."

I didn't have the heart to correct her that I wasn't involved with her romantically.

My mother looked at me with a knowing smile, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Why do you say it like that, darling? Like it's already over?"

I sighed, the weight of my thoughts pressing down. "It's complicated. We had a... disagreement. I don't know if it'll work out."

She reached out, her hand warm and steady. "Love is always complicated, Alexander. It's not meant to be easy. But if she's special, as you say, isn't it worth fighting for?"

Ha! Love, she truly thought it was love. I knew love and I knew how it could tear you apart from the inside out.

If that was love, I didn't want it.

Her words resonated with me, but they also stirred a deep uncertainty.

Could I find a way to bridge the gap between us?

Was it possible to reconcile our differences and build something lasting?

As I left, I passed by the walls adorned with photographs of her glory days—images of a stunning woman, always the centre of attention. They were a stark reminder of the past, a time when her beauty defined her existence. Now, she seemed content to let it fade, finding solace in the simple pleasures of life.

Driving back to the city, my mind was a tumult of thoughts. My mother's words echoed in my head, a mix of wisdom and warning. She had found peace in her way, but at what cost? I didn't want to lose myself as she had, to become a shadow of my potential.

May's face keeps appearing in my mind.

I hate how she makes me feel weak. I will not be like my parents who are oblivious to their faults.

I want to use her to weaken James, I want to hit him where it hurts. I want to be the one who twists the knife into his chest. I know he's fond of May, I know he wants her. It irritates me that he can take Emily but also craves for May.

I'll reach out to May, and find a way to apologize, to explain. I won't give up so easily. For now, I'll focus on my work and then I'll slowly bring her to my side. James has already done half the work for me, I just need to do the rest.

I don't want to live with regret, to look back one day and wonder what might have been.

Much to do,

- Alexander