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,
I. Am. Miserable.
May and I have been apart for a few weeks while she was in Europe overseeing the collaboration between Haus of Lyon and another brand. Seeing her again was a relief, and I was surprised by how much I missed her. The moment she saw me, she kissed me, and I felt all the distance and time melt away.
(Carla called me a lovesick puppy which I had to deny to save face—even though it was true.)
I've been extra clingy the past few days, and May, being her patient self, has been incredibly understanding.
Today, my mother called and invited both of us to her country house for coffee. My relationship with her has always been a bit rocky—neither the best nor the worst. As I drove up, I was filled with nerves, but May reassured me that she could handle whatever came our way.
When we arrived, my mother was waiting in the garden. Her appraisal of May was scrutinizing but polite. The tension was palpable as we drank our coffee. May and my mother had a few snarky exchanges, but May held her ground gracefully. My mother eventually suggested that I take a walk while she spoke with May.
It was her way of saying she wasn't going to bite May's head off, though it certainly didn't feel like reassurance.
I wandered through the grounds, revisiting places from my childhood. It was oddly comforting to be surrounded by familiar scenery, even if it was bittersweet.
When I returned, I found May and my mother in the living room, poring over old photo albums. They were looking at pictures of my mother during her modeling days. May was absolutely enthralled, admiring the past designers and their work, while my mother recounted stories of famous people she had met. It was heartwarming to see them bond over something they both loved. May caught my eye and winked, and I felt a surge of relief and happiness.
As we left, my mother told May to visit often. I was speechless the entire drive home. May's kiss on my cheek and her words—"I can handle myself"—were comforting.
Thank god for small miracles!
Somehow we both survived my mother—a feat that is not easy at all. Mother has impeccable taste, something that I inherited from her.
May is getting us coffee while I wait in the car. It's starting to become a rare occurrence where I write. The thing is that I don't feel like I have to pour my emotions out into this book. This was a simple project by my therapist to keep me from spiralling but it grew into something more than that. This journal is apart of me—a little bit of me is inside it and I'm certain that these words will be read when I'm long gone.
The story of May and I are between these pages.
Maybe I can show them to our future children—after heavily editing everything, of course.
