Dear Diary

f i f t e e n

I drove back to my flat, my mind clouded up with thoughts of Ari.

Was she still alive? That was the most important question. She had to be alive, she just had to. If she wasn't, I don't quite know what I'd do with myself, to be honest. I know I'm a grown man with a job; I'm sure I could cope just fine if she was six feet under. Only after a while.

I don't know what it was about her, but Ari seemed different than most girls. She seemed like she wasn't afraid to speak her mind, and she didn't quite care about what you thought of her. Although, actually, the last few entires in her diary proved that assumption to be incorrect...

I shook my head, pulling into my lane way. I was practically bursting with the need to get onto Google and search her up on the Internet. I was positive that it would give me at least some kind of clue as to where she was.

This wasn't normal. Twenty-year-old men shouldn't have the need to meet a seventeen-year-old girl they barely know anything about, other than the information put into twelve short diary entries.

I didn't bother to take off my coat or shoes; instead, I went straight to my laptop, opened up Google Chrome, and typed in "Ari" in the search bar.

A bunch of Facebook profiles showed up, all bearing the name Ari. I clicked on each one of them, but none of their profiles pictures matched the picture at the front of the diary, so I went back to Google.

At the end of "Ari" I added "17 year old." More pages showed up, but none that interested me.

I put "suicide" after the rest, assuming that she did commit it, a heavy feeling in my heart. What if she was dead?

Finally, an article that covered what I was interested in showed up. I clicked on it twice, eager but nervous to read the information it held.

Aristasia Merrivale, seventeen years of age, attempted suicide on February eighth, two-thousand-fifteen. Her attempt at taking her life failed, however.

I let out a relieved breath.

Her father walked in on her just a few minutes after she tried to hang herself. He got her down, and she was still alive. He alerted her mother and then drove Aristasia to the hospital, along with her brother and sister. She was determined to be fine, but was put in Child & Adolescents Psychiatry Center when she attempted suicide again on April second, two-thousand-fifteen.

I glanced at the calendar on my computer. It was April seventeenth. She must still be in the hospital.

I felt almost giddy as I shut down my computer and headed to my car, starting it up and backing out of my lane way. Ari was alive, and I could finally meet her.