Dear Diary

t h i r t e e n

"No," I gasped, flipping through the pages. Empty. All of them. "No!"

I don't even know the girl who wrote in this. I don't even know how I managed to have possession of this. All I know is that I started reading her short entries, even though there weren't that many. Then I kind of... I don't know how to put it.

I fell in love with the way she wrote and expressed herself. I fell in love with the way she addressed the diary as if it were a living object and had feelings too. Even though she called it stupid numerous times...

This girl captured my heart just with the way she wrote, and then broke it with the last entry.

She couldn't be dead. I needed to meet her.

I stood up, the purple diary, with the name Ari scrawled across it messily, clutched in my hand. I was going to find her. I had to.

I knew I was crazy. I didn't even know this girl; for all I knew, she could be a murderous sociopath. I didn't think she was, though. Murderous sociopaths didn't have neat writing. I think. I've never actually met one.

A picture was tucked inside the diary that I had looked at plenty of times. It was of a girl (duh) with long black hair. She had brown eyes and was smiling slightly. She was wearing a red hoodie, and the picture was obviously taken in her bedroom. Where else would it be?

I had looked at the picture so many times it was practically etched into my mind. It helped me visualize her when I read her entries.

I knew I was definitely invading her privacy when I started reading. At first, I was looking for a name, or number, or address; anywhere I could return it to. Then I actually became interested. So I kept reading. It wasn't hard to continue. The entries were short, and there were only twelve of them.

I wondered what her real name was. Ari seemed like it was a nickname. Unless that actually was her real name?

I shook my head, getting into my car and running a hand through my blonde hair. I needed to see her, which meant I had to stop worrying about things like her nickname and think about things she mentioned that would lead me to her.

She never mentioned the name of her high school, or the name of her sibling's schools either. For all I knew, she could live half way across the world.

No. I didn't think she did. I slightly recall finding this on a bench in the park. No one was around.

Maybe I could start there?

I knew her sibling's names, her mother's boyfriend's name, her best friend's name, a teacher's name, and a mean girl's name.

Maybe I could start with the school. There were only two schools in my area, so one had to have a Mr. Pop in it. My fingers were crossed.

I drove to the first school. Gregory High. Not very creative.

I walked in. I had put the diary in the inside pocket of my jacket. It was raining, and I didn't want it to be ruined.

I found the office and knocked on the door. An old woman was the secretary, and she didn't look like she was having a blast. She gave me a look.

Mrs. Frederickton, it read on the nameplate on the desk.

"What do you want?" she asked in an annoyed tone.

"Is there a Mr. Pop that works here, by any chance?" I questioned.

She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"I, uh, need to talk to him."

"You've got the wrong school."

"Alright. Sorry."

I backed out of the office, and even as I climbed into my car and drove towards the other high school, I swear I could feel her piercing gaze. I shivered.

If I wasn't so desperate to find the girl I had been reading about for the last day, I would've turned around, headed home, and had a nap.