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12:35 PM
I've decided to toss this journal because I haven't gone to therapy in six months and I think I had only been using it as a way to hold onto Emma, but I haven't answered any of her calls. It shouldn't be, but it's strange to me how Emma never sends texts and it was even more strange when there was a part of me that wished that she would. I think I wanted something tangible, in a sense—something that I could read over and over and over again as a reminder that she was real and that we were real, because sometimes it's hard to think that we were.
There is a box in my closet full of her things and I went through it the other day because my girlfriend doesn't appreciate the fact that I still have it. There wasn't anything significant, really—a shoe that she lost in the woods and the Rolling Stones t-shirt she wore on the night we fucked for the first time, even though she hated the Rolling Stones—but the letter at the bottom of the box was the one I wrote her three days before I broke up with her and I couldn't throw it away.
