The Truth About Nora Jones

My secret emo phase

The next morning, I wake up sitting on the floor, mascara down my cheeks. With a sob, I walk up to the bathroom, to discover myself ruined. My hair is messy, I'm still shaking from the situation. My dress is not adjusted at all, and my earrings are off. With a heart-breaking sigh, I step back to my bedroom and just sit on my bed in silence.

I'm so stupid. Of course, he played with my heart. I mumble to myself wiping an upcoming tear

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, I quickly put on a fake smile and innocent face, as I lean in my bed, watching YouTube shorts on my phone.

Nora? What are you doing? Asks my father worryingly, as I keep watching my phone, trying to make him think like I'm fine

I'm breathing, dad, but I wish I wasn't. I say coldly, in a dark tone

He frowns and sits down next to me, wiping the mascara off my cheeks. I shake slightly from anxiety as I try to act like everything's okay. Well, it seriously isn't, I'm not teaching you anything.

Nora...he sighs

I look away, my eyes filled with tears.

I'm sorry, Dad, I didn't mean to say that I just want to be alone for now. I don't want to think about it

Without adding a single word, my father sighs deeply and agrees, getting out of the room, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone, all stuck up and lonely.

I remain silent for a second, as I try to compose myself from what just happened. I've never really been nice to my father because of how hard it was when I lost my mother, but I'm just feeling worse now. I feel like he didn't deserve that. He was in love with my mother, then he got me, he loved me. After all that, he lost someone he loved, and he lost me because I lost my mind. I hate having to say that, but it's true.

Plus, I don't want to talk to anyone right now. Not my father, not Avery, not Jules. Not anyone else but myself, even if it hurts.

I pull out my diary reluctantly, trying not to feel childish. Examining the purple-ish cover, I open it brutally and start writing.

"Dear diary,

Dear myself,

I've been dealing with a lot lately. Well, you already know it. Of course, you do. But I feel like I can never explain myself to others because they wouldn't understand.

Okay, they might say "Oh, I understand" or. "Oh, I get it," they can't get it the way I do. Okay, you've got a comparable situation, but you can't live exactly what I've been living.

Pity? I don't want it. Understanding? You can't give that to me. Those words saying that everything's going to be fine? It's never going to be fine. Everybody's been telling me it's going to be alright and that I should stop complaining, but it never got any better.

So, hear this.... (yeah, you can't but whatever)

You. Can't. Relate. You don't know how much it hurts.

But dear myself, of, I know you do. I'm not consoling myself, but I know that there's always someone for me.

Me. And that's the only hope I've got, so I better hang up on it.

And that's exactly what I'm going to do."