Entry 1
I shouldn't have started this.
But if I don’t, I forget.
And if I forget, I make it up.
I don’t want to make anything up anymore.
She’s not here.
Of course she’s not here.
And I’m still writing like she’ll read this.
(stop doing that)
Everything smells like roses lately.
Not in the real way—like, my head does.
They keep showing up in places I didn’t put them.
I mean not literally.
Maybe it’s a guilt thing.
Maybe it’s just something red to look at that isn’t my hands.
I never knew how to speak right around her.
Every word turned into barbed wire on the way out.
I’d stare too long, or not at all, or laugh when nothing was funny and act like I meant to.
I wasn’t made for people.
That's not self-pity, it's just math.
But I said I wouldn’t say that kind of shit anymore.
I keep telling myself I’m going to “document” things.
But I don’t know what this is.
A record?
A confession?
A countdown?
Dad keeps asking if I’ve “been sleeping better.”
Mom keeps asking nothing at all.
They wouldn’t get this.
They’d probably think I was in a cult if they saw what’s on my drive.
Or worse, they'd say "you're too smart for this nonsense."
That’s the real horror.
That they think they know who I am.
I miss her voice.
I miss the blooming feeling when she sat too close.
I think I ruined it.
I know I did.
Let rot mean something.
– N