18 parts Ongoing Pages filled with thoughts I wouldn't dare say out loud. The weird, random moments that stuck with me, the people I noticed but pretended I didn't. The way I felt about things I acted indifferent to. It was all there, inked into the pages like a conversation with myself.
No one would ever read it. No one would ever know the things I thought about, the things I laughed at, the things that made me roll my eyes at myself.
Like how I let my gaze linger too long on that boy before groaning at my own damn self.
Or how I swore I didn't care about people, but some part of me still held onto the memories of them anyway.
My journal didn't judge. It just took everything in, let me spill it all out without making it a big deal. Without making me a big deal.
So I wrote. Scribbled fast, let my thoughts spill onto the paper. Then I closed it, held it close for a second-like I always did-before tucking it away again.
Out of sight, but never really out of mind.
