plants; ethma

4;

Dear Diary,

One week has passed.
In the absence of my secret place, I started tidying up my old library and found things I had forgotten about.
For example, a sketch album of autumn-winter clothing possibilities, created shortly after moving here and then abandoned or the lyric of a song that someone anonymously dedicated to me in highschool.
I still remember when, as I opened my locker the day before spring break, the letter had slipped at my feet. I was surprised, not only because someone had rarely been interested in me, but also because nobody knew it was my favorite song. I remember that when I returned home I read it again until I knew it by memory and for weeks I searched in vain for the author of the few lines above the text. I never knew who wrote it but finding that memory made me smile.

Then, after putting everything in order, I tried to design some new models or at least do something productive.
But my mind has remained fixed on my secret place.
On the good weather and inspiration that I'm losing because of Ethan.
So I turned to his window, curious to find out if the thief was spending his day serenely.
The curtains, however, had remained closed.
I don't know why but I was invaded by a certain sadness, after all, before he had stolen my keys, he had been the first person after years for whom I felt a real curiosity.
I missed watching his dark hair blown slightly by the wind like that day when he caught me watching him leaf through the pages of an anonymous book. But above all, I missed having something that kept me away from my destructive thoughts, also because of the fact that now I no longer even had my only safe place.

I wondered if he ever peeked and surprised me sometimes in the company of Olivia or reading a book myself. For a moment, just the idea of ​​exchanging books with him cheered me up, but I soon remembered that he could pinch those too.
Before the grudge I held against him awakened me, I realized something that stunned me.
It's been a long time since I associated someone with all those emotions.
Yet I didn't even know him.
Ethan was a blank sheet full of unknown words, a puzzle that despite trying persistently to compose it was impossible because pieces were missing.
And I didn't own those pieces because Ethan was far more than ever.

When I made up my mind to look away from his window and get up from the carpet in my living room, I headed for the kitchen. I opened the fridge, hoping to find something to cook, not because of hunger but rather out of boredom. I like to cook, although I'm not good at it, I discovered that it helps to keep my thoughts away.
When I lived in San Francisco and my parents were away on business trips I spent whole afternoons preparing dishes that I didn't even like. Luckily my father was there to eat them as soon as he returned. I don't think he liked them though, I think he did it more to show me that he was proud of me, because my desserts never looked good. I'm glad I never made them taste anyone but my parents.
And above all that my mother has never scolded me for all those times that, bored, I left our old kitchen a disaster and she had to clean that up.

But with the exception of a carton of almond milk, a bottle of water and frozen foods, the refrigerator was empty.
I closed the door with a puff.
Now I had no idea what to do.
Resigned, I went to my bedroom with the intent of sleeping, but even before the idea focused in my mind I had grabbed the latest magazines read from the mahogany desk and headed out of my apartment.
I didn't know how I would open the door, but I had to at least try. Without my secret place, being permanently at home seemed terrible.

When I reached my destination the keys were not there and the exit to the roof was closed.
I had let my arms drop, out of desperation.
I don't even know what I had expected, after all I knew very well that when I arrived I would certainly not find the door wide open waiting for me. But my mind was already thinking about the consequences of no longer owning my safe place.
How was I going to pay my rent now? How would I find inspiration for my models without the only place where I could find it?
How would I have lived now without one of the very few things that held me back from not grabbing that kitchen knife? When bad thoughts buzzed around me like a swarm of bees.