If it's not forever...it's not love

Diary part 1

Deb's POV

Okay. Now , I cannot stop. Personal diaries have always been a weak point for me. Avantika and I had one of our biggest fights when she did not let me read hers. The only part I was interested in was what she though about me in bed, whether I was bigger than her previous boyfriends, whether I was a better kisser...... That sort of stuff. Well, after a lot of histrionics and girl-ish tantrums, she let me read it. I just read the word big and fabulous somewhere in the paragraph and I was happy. I am sure she added them after I told her that I want to read the dairy. She threw away her dairies the very next day. There are certain privacy boundaries that every people in relationship shouldn't cross. Like Facebook passwords, mail passwords, and personal dairies.

Anyway, I flipped the page over and see another short note. How can I stop? I almost died with this guy.

28th June 2010
"Every day that I don't see her, is a day not worth remembering. Because ever since I first saw her, she defines my life."
I saw her again today. Not just saw her. I followed her today. I hope she does not have a boyfriend. Even she does, it would not matter. She is so beautiful. I see the guys around her all the time. They are all creepy. I hope she thinks that too. All of them tried to give her their old books. I even saw a few of them exchange numbers. I wish I were one of them. But I already sold my books. Maybe, I could get new ones for her. And scribble down short, sweet notes for her on every page. But I don't want to be one of those creepy guys surrounding her. I will let it be.
I wish to see her again tomorrow.

*************
I can read a lot faster than this, but I am not. For every page that I turn, I think that this person might be dead. It is a little unsettling. I have already imagined him in my head. He's probably a geek with big spectacles and oiled hair. The kind that hides behind concrete pillars and stalk the girls they have crushes on. I flip through the diary and try to skim and find out whether he has written his name anywhere. No signs. No numbers. No addresses. Nothing.
I go on to the next note. The page is little burnt on the sides. I try not to imagine what must have happened to the hand that held that diary.