Who's The Author?

.:. Chapter Six .:.

"Shut up!" I told Michael nudging at him. The boys were making jokes all night about me breaking my drums.

"Guess that's what you get for banging to hard. Don't bang a girl to hard you might break her as well." Luke looked over at me after saying that and he knew what was coming next and he bolted.

"Luke I'm going to kill you!!" I ran towards him without no moment of hesitation. A tackle would do him justice for putting sexual tension in the air.

I've actually set a record; I haven't touched the journal in two days. I want to say I'm proud of myself, but in not. I should be proud to say I haven't read someone's personal property, but I'm not because it's been killing me that I haven't read further.

And then I broke.

Dear Somebody,

I miss you. I miss your goofy laugh, your weird and random jokes. And even though they weren't funny but more sexual I still laughed. I miss being able to Hug you. I miss being able to sit on the couch and watch pointless movies while you fell asleep. I miss our days together where all we did was walk around the mall or went out to Chinese. Chinese was our place. I can't stand the fact that I'm not able to talk to you at 3 o'clock in the morning and just have pointless conversations with you. I love you and I always will. It's sucks that I still can't have you here. I miss you.

What did this person mean about this entry? Did they just break up with someone? Did their friendship with someone end? My mind was scattered with questions I would want nothing more than to find out. Why couldn't I find the owner to this journal. Most importantly why can't I stop thinking about what else this journal holds and why can't I stop myself from reading on?

Dear somebody,

Rainy days seem to hurt the most. It's days like this that make me want you here that much more; even though I thought that wasn't possible. I miss you more than I can ever miss anything. I remember the week I was sick and I was tired of laying on the couch and you and I drove in a complete circle for hours around the city. I miss those days. I'd do anything to have them back. I miss you more than life itself.

As I finished that passaged I hadn't realized I cried. I may not know what happened and why it happened, but I felt connected to the writer of this journal I held in my hands. And I had no clue as to why writing on a piece of paper in a journal with the writer unknown had made me cry. I need to find the writer even if it's the last thing I do.