Dear Diary

Dear Diary,                                                         Sept. 16, 2019

I feel absolutely dreadful this morning. The hangover, I can handle. It is the arguing that I can’t get over. I’m not even sure that what happened constitutes as an argument. It felt awful being that upset with him. It is one of those feelings that one would want to sweep under the rug, forget, and never relive. Of course, every couple has their quarrels and misunderstandings, something about it just seemed off. Maybe it’s because we were both so drunk. Am I remembering it being worse than it was? I know exactly what I said, though. I even remember falling asleep saying it... mid-sentence! I opened my eyes, and there he was, asleep too. As angry and mentally altered as I was in that moment, I almost wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the scenario. When I woke up this morning to throw some water on my face, Honey was already wide awake and getting dressed for work. He smiled, he reminisced about the party, and he kissed me before leaving the house. Why would he do those things if the argument was as bad as I remember it? Did he think I didn’t mean what I said because I was drunk? I mean, sure I apologized for provoking the argument, especially in the state we were in; however, I still meant everything I said. Perhaps, I’m just overthinking the whole thing. He seemed to be alright this morning. Besides, before we got home, we had one of the best days together I could’ve imagined. He took me sightseeing, we went to one of the most romantic places around for a late lunch, we came home to get dressed up, then had the best time at the Fiesta de Independencia. When we were driving home, I was falling asleep in the car, but I remember looking at him and thinking of how beautiful he was.

Dear Diary,                                                                    Sept. 17, 2019

I don’t want to go. I’ve boarded the plane to go home. I don’t want to go. He is still here. I don’t want to go. Can I see him for another minute? Maybe if we share one more joke, I could see him scrunch his nose up like he does when he smiles. I know I’ll see him again in a few months, but I’ve been completely spoiled by his company. The last image I have of him is that smile and a wave to me as they were checking my passport. Of course, he had to have the last word by tilting his baseball cap toward me, which I insisted he not wear. That was it. My last laugh with him, until next time. I don’t want to go. I don’t think I can go. I have this thing pulling me to stay. Maybe it’s impulse. Thinking of all these months until I have to see him, it’s too much for me to comprehend right now. I need to hold him again, I need to hear his voice whisper to me again, I need to really look at him again. I want to actually take in every aspect of his face. As much as he would hate hearing it, he has a small wrinkle in the outer corner of his left eye. It is only noticeable when he is looking down, and it became one of my favorite features on him; it is endearing and truthful. I need to see that again. I have to get off this plane.

Dear Diary,                                                                         Sept. 16, 2019

I feel absolutely dreadful this morning. I’ve gone through the videos and pictures I took from the party last night repeatedly. I’m curious if I would remember it if not for the proof on my phone. I’m surprised by myself. I hardly ever drink, and even when I do, I act as mother hen. But there I was, shot 5 of… something. The tamales were good; I never had one before then. There wasn’t a single moment during the party that I felt like an outsider. With all the obstacles, such as being an introvert being brought to a party full of entertainers, or not knowing the Spanish language further than a conversation or two. They welcomed me with open arms and even taught me new vocabulary; although, they did only teach me rude or curse words, like elementary school children do. I didn’t feel the need to be next to Honey all night, like a puppy dog, asking for translations; everything felt normal. It’s just bizarre to admit that to myself, since the drinking and partying has never been my scene. Around the 4am mark, we decided we should call it quits for the night. When we got home, though, something was eating at me. I started mentioning some jokes from the party that his friends had made, which turned into an argument as we were laying down for bed. He wasn’t even fighting back. I didn’t raise my voice at him, so maybe I can consider it a debate rather than an argument. This morning he didn’t even mention it; on the contrary, he treated the morning like it was any other. He showered and ironed his work shirt and smiled at me when I woke up. When I brought up the fight, he brushed it off like it was nothing to be concerned about. I felt bad about possibly making a big deal out of nothing. Am I just paranoid? If it’s obviously not a big deal to him, why do I feel so uneasy? I woke up this morning afraid that what we had was over. To think that on the way home, I was falling asleep on his shoulder in the car, looking at him thinking of how beautiful he was, then half an hour later, one of the worst nights we could’ve had together.

Dear Diary,                                                                         Sept. 17, 2019

The plane departs in twenty minutes. I don’t want to go. I spent the entire car ride staring out the window, hoping he wouldn’t see me weep. Needless to say, I know he saw or at least heard a sniffle or two. Now I’m having to hide it from strangers on a plane. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave him here. The second we stepped out of the car, I grabbed his arm and dug my face into his jacket sleeve as if that would bring him any closer to me. We had an hour to kill before my plane was scheduled to leave and we sat downstairs and talked about anything else other than me leaving. What was an hour felt like fifteen minutes, and then we were hugging goodbye. I brushed my fingered through his hair before going through the gate. His eyes never looked so brown before. Once they began checking my passport, I turned back once more, then he pulled out his stupid baseball cap and smiled. Making me laugh before boarding my plane was one of the hardest things I had to endure. I don’t want to go. I can’t go yet. I need to get off this plane.

Dear Diary,                                                                         Sept. 16, 2019

I feel absolutely dreadful this morning. Last night we had an awful argument; it wasn’t obnoxious, or loud, but stern and cold. I was picking for a fight, I’m not sure why. As terrible as it seemed to me, I can’t say he gave me one; he let me rant, said a word or two here and there, but he didn’t give into an argument. This morning I felt like I bit the hand though, that is, until I saw him. His reaction caught me off guard. Normally a walk of shame would be derived from different circumstances, but that’s what I felt when I stepped out of bed. He was getting ready for work, we made eye contact, and he just chuckled out, “Are you alright?” I didn’t have a response. I thought from the moment I opened my eyes, I was in for a world of heartache from a regretful rant. Not that I didn’t mean what the rant was, but I definitely could have chosen a better time and place. Perhaps not immediately after we spent an entire evening drinking and dancing with my two left feet. After we left the party, he helped me into the car and let me rest my head on his shoulder. I had my jacket draped over me like a blanket while the leather of his jacket kept cool from the brisk air. I tried to stay awake to keep him company on the way home, even though he stopped drinking hours ago and we weren’t far from home to begin with. So, I made conversation where I could, maybe something about the tamales they had at the party or how in that very moment I found it funny that his hair wasn’t holding anymore and that his bangs were coming down. I just felt happy. Then, we were home.   

Dear Diary,                                                                          Sept. 17, 2019

I don’t want to go. I was just holding his hand an hour ago. Why do I keep reliving these moments? It doesn’t get easier to leave by doing this. I just don’t completely understand it. I get off this plane and I’m on a loop. These memories, are they pertinent? Why can’t I get off the plane and be with him now? I want to move past this fight, let it stay in the past. Of course, I love some of the moments, but it always ends with my leaving him. I’m tired of waking up with a hangover, afraid of losing him. Why is it that the impulse is so severe every time I’m on this plane? Maybe I just have to ignore it and move on. Maybe once I get back to the states, my head will clear up. I suppose sometimes, you actually have to sleepy it off.

 Dear Diary,                                                                       Sept. 16, 2019

… I feel absolutely dreadful this morning. The only convenience to waking up in this state again, is that I got to see him this morning. I never arrived in the states. I stayed right here close to him. Instead of ignoring his snarky remark in the morning, I stared at him with rose colored glasses, grabbed his face with intent and kissed him as if it would be our last. If there is a specific thing I am supposed to be paying attention to with these memories, I cannot figure it out. If I am to recollect any moments from last night, I am too exhausted to think over the heartache and anxiety. I want to remember his trying to teach me how to salsa dance in the kitchen, the moment that we touched ancient sights with our own hands, and I want to reminisce about him gently laying his hand on my knee as I drifted off in his car last night, Oh!... That is the moment. That’s the moment I realized I had to ruin our evening. When I looked at him, and really saw him, through intoxication and without rose colored sight, I knew in that moment I fell. How could I fall when I knew I was leaving soon? I had to sabotage us. I cared too much and needed to detach. My favorite memory of us is the damning of our night.

Dear Diary,                                                                         Sept. 17, 2019

I don’t want to go. I love him. I can’t turn away from that opportunity. Staying on this plane tonight might have me go back to him like before, however, I’m not ready to take that chance. If I’m still on this loop when I get off this plane, at least I will wake up to see him for another day.

Dear Diary,                                                                         Sept. 18, 2019

When I opened my eyes today, Honey had his baseball cap next to my face. I think he believes the more I see it, I’ll like it, but I won’t. I love the joke that it has become, but eventually, he’ll figure it out. As for right now, I have to go help him cut and prepare the papaya for breakfast.