Dear journal,
I found something interesting today. A met a wonderful, beautiful, talented little thing named May. She's as short and sweet as the month she's named after. She's everything the Haus of Lyon needs but I don't know how to get her on my...
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Dear Journal,
This is agony.
May and I haven't talked outside the office. Every time I try to lure her out, she refuses and leaves with an excuse. It's affecting us at work. We've finalized all the designs and are overseeing production, but there's this palpable tension. It's like a dark cloud hanging over us, threatening to rain at any moment.
She's running away from me.
And I was being a coward—every time I gathered the courage to run after her, I wavered.
I couldn't take it anymore, so I decided to go to my mother's country house. It'd been a while since I've seen her and I'm concerned that mother hasn't left the house. When I arrived, she was in the garden, making a bouquet of roses. She looked the same, impeccably dressed with a silk scarf wrapped around her delicate neck. Regal as ever, not a hair out of place.
I sat down and helped her. One of the thorns pricked my finger, drawing blood.I swear these flowers absolutely hate me.
My mother looked at me and asked, "Where's your new lover?"
Ugh. It still stings just thinking about it.
I told her the truth about May and me—the argument, the fear, the way we were drifting. She was, as usual, brutally honest to a point. She told me I that was letting May slip from my grasp with my inaction.
I'll admit that got to me.
I yelled at her, saying she had no right to give me advice after my father left us. After all—she drove him away.
She was unfazed.
Both of us know that it was untrue. Father loved mother and mother loved him—just in a very twisted and destructive way. It was never meant to last. I'm certain deep, deep down she regrets it. She'll never tell me. My father can't even admit that he's still in love with mother. In a strange way, they're both perfect for each other.
She looked at me with a calm I've rarely seen and said, "I've made mistakes, Alexander. But I know love. I may not have been the best mother, but I raised you better than your father. You know how it was with him, all his neglect and boisterous frivolity. He had his mistresses around the house without any regard for you or me. Is that the man you wish a relationship ship from?"
I asked her if I was even worthy of love since all I've known are its negative effects.
She called bullshit and told me to stop feeling sorry for myself. "It's a simple question," she said. "Do you love her?"
And yes, that I do. Wholeheartedly, despite everything.
My heart hurts whenever I think of May. Why does she blame everything on herself? She's not at fault for me being arrested, James and his stupid entitled ways are. She's a victim, she has nothing to be sorry for.
My mother passed me the rose that pricked me and told me to stop looking for ideals. "Life is like a rose with thorns," she said. "Beautiful but painful. It's worth it if you embrace both the beauty and the pain."
I left her garden with a clearer mind. Funny how she does that.
I love May, and that's the only truth that matters. If May wants to run away then I'll fight for us, I won't let my fears and insecurities get in the way. Life isn't perfect, and neither are we.
But that's what makes it worth living.
I'm going to make things right with May. I'm not going to let her slip away, she's mine in mind, body, and soul. I own her and much as she owns me. I'm a possessive man and I love with an obsessive intensity.
