Growing Purple Hyacinth

Marian had just started writing in a diary.

If you asked her five years ago or even 10 years ago if she would someday consider having and owning one, she would have laughed at your face. She was not a fan of it nor she would have ever taken any thoughts on having one, for her, it was just a waste of time, a waste of resources, and a waste of energy.

But now she owns one, it was an old notebook given by a friend who insisted that she writes; an old brown cover, spine red as blood, pages were smooth and unused, letters C and J were on the covers as a reminder of whom the notebook used to belong.

Now, she was forced to write her feelings out.