~Her words were my poison. I used them to consume myself.
Disturbingly honest. Painfully strained. Carefully penned down. Dangerously addictive.~
A journal that landed in the right hands and told a whole story with words, no lips could speak.
Two...
Somehow after an excruciating day I realised something that I probably shouldn't even be thinking about in the first place.
In my head, at least right now, this makes sense and that sort of disturbs me a little?
Maybe I'm just losing my mind, which at this point, is a possibility.
Maybe we get attached to people because when we're them, we're the best version of us?
Or at least a mildly likable version?
That, it doesn't have all that much to do with them, but it's just what they make us see ourselves as?
I know it doesn't make sense but my brain seems to think that this isn't absolutely ridiculous and I refuse to tear a page out of you because I sound stupid. If I did, you'd be in tatters by now.
You know, if I wasn't writing this down, I'd probably say this to Chase? There's still a chance I'll say this to him but, at least now I know what it's going to sound like. So I'm glad you exist, my dear reader.
And to be very honest, I'm not sure I'm complete without you?
It's like we're connected now, you and I?
PS. Chase loves you more than I do.
After, quite possibly the most painful week, the plain black journal had finally found its way back to my fingers.
Looking down at her words, all I could think about was how much I needed that journal. How I was incomplete without her words? And how freaking scary that was?
Some part of me just wished she'd go away? That her words would go away so that I'd be forced to learn to live without them again.
So that I wouldn't feel like I was losing my mind every time I didn't have her words to hold on to?
I didn't like how dependant I was on some journal I had practically stolen?
It was somehow becoming more and more apparent that this was unhealthy--and by the looks of it, I wasn't the only one who couldn't let go of the journal.
I knew nothing about diary chick except what her words told me but I felt a sort of unspoken bond between us?
Because she seemed to need the journal just as much as I did--if not more?
Guilt found its way into my veins.
No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that she was okay, I didn't know that?
That's where the guilt set in. Knowing that I may have taken a part of her away from her? I had made no attempt to return the journal to its rightful owner but I don't know if I'm going to be okay if I return it?
It was a complicated mix of selfishness and desperation?
The obvious solution was to read and return the journal but I couldn't do that?
Because now the book was a part of me?
Just as much as it was a part of her?
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