Dear Journal,

Dear Journal, April 26th, 1987

“Listen...” No response. “PLEASE!” I’m practically begging at this point. Mason turns, his gaze changing from ice to water, softening as our eyes connect. I know he’s waiting for me to continue, but honestly, I’m at a loss of words. There are no words, no phrase, not even an I love you that could change the feelings, moreso the emptiness where the feelings once were. He knows I love him, I know he loves me too. As we always said forever and always- I just never imagined our forever ending so soon. Oh, how I wish to turn back time. But then again, would that just mean living through a different story, same heartbreak? He was my soulmate, always will be, only meant for a different lifetime. And in that moment, the silence speaks the love I only meant to say. I know he understands as he turns back around and walks away- his version of our last goodbye. 

Dear Journal, July 6th, 1987

I was always told to love someone as if there may never be a tomorrow. And I never truly understood what anyone meant by that, until I did. And funny enough, once I understood the idea of living as though it was your last opportunity to show the world, or simply that one person, who you can be… I could only manage a good laugh. If you love someone thinking this will be the last day you watch them love you back, you’ll only ever see time with them as a goodbye, never a see you later. So, guess that “life lesson” went out the window when mom died at nine years old. I spent so many countless hours regretting the things I would never get the chance to tell her and yet never once considered the idea that she already knew all the things words could never say. She knew, that’s the one, only thing I know for a fact. Same with Mason… 

Dear Journal, September 15th, 1987

“Octavia, if you don’t start caring about the things, the opportunities I worked so hard to provide for you-” Mariana watches my eyes drift around the room, not quite settling on any specific object, trying to find something, anything at all to distract me from the weekly scolding I have basically memorised. “God, Octavia if you can’t take this seriously…” I turn my head in her direction, partly out of shock and partly out of curiosity. This line wasn’t in the script, something changed and my guess, it wasn’t anything good. “Octavia, I’ve tried everything I could think of to help get you the life I know you deserve, but the only way you are ever going to, is if you believe you deserve it too. This time, it isn’t up to me.” I don’t like where this conversation is going. I’ll admit I’ve challenged control over my life ever since I met Mariana, but just like every other foster parent I’ve had, I never truly expected it in return. And right now, I’m not so sure I even want it. “Starting tomorrow, you’re on your own. Sign your own paperwork for school, make your own meals, and God, for all I care, pay your own bills. But I’m telling you Octavia, this is it. My last straw, your last chance. I’m out of ideas, so please, for the life of me… just try.” I stare, wide-eyed in disbelief. Honestly, I’m more surprised I care as much as I do about possibly losing Mariana than I am about what she said. I’m mad at myself, not for messing up because that’s just deja vu at this point, but more so for finally putting down my walls and even feeling a second of relief for the role Mariana played in my life. How could I be so self-conceited to think I would ever get a chance to be happy again, to let someone else raise me, to ever experience a childhood of my own? Once again, I’m letting myself down… and this time, it may be the last. 

Dear Journal, December 14th, 1987

As a distraction, I try to concentrate on my schoolwork throughout the day, but can’t seem to stop my mind from racing. I guess I never truly realized how routinized my life had become until suddenly, the routine stopped. It was no longer as simple as getting up, brushing my teeth and hair, climbing into clothes I wasn’t even sure matched, and praying for this feeling of emptiness to magically disappear. Even as depressing as that daily schedule sounds, it was comforting to know change wouldn’t, couldn’t ever hurt me again. And now, that comfort is gone leaving me highly on edge. I know what the right thing to do would be.. talk to someone, anyone who may listen, help me find a solution. But secretly, deep down I know I didn’t actually want the help. I’ve become so accustomed to fending for myself that even the idea of depending, relying on someone else, left me uneasy. I don’t even know if I have the strength left to feel that type of trust again. That piece of me is gone, and the more I think about it, the more I realize it may be gone forever. Except… I may just have one more plan up my sleeve…

How do you feel about becoming a stranger?

Dear Journal, January 23rd, 1988

Sometimes I imagine myself in New York City. Walking around times square, with no baggage, essentially, no identity at all. It’s almost like a reward. After a day of fighting to stay confined in the borders of my life that has come to be, I let my mind escape. Return to another world where nothing else mattered, not even my past. I was free. 

Dear Journal, May 28th, 1988

Seeing Mason again almost a whole year later feels like a dream. On the outside, it looks like the same person; besides the new clothes, hair, and honestly, overall maturity. But, on the inside, I know he’s completely different. That Mason, walking towards biology, hanging with his new popular group of friends is not nearly the same Mason that got his heart broken eight months ago. It seems silly now to ever think he was the same guy to bring me flowers with little love letters inside, or constantly whispering how much he loved me and how lucky he was to ever meet me in my ear. This Mason, ha, probably wouldn’t even care enough to tell me to drive safe before heading home from his house. Part of me feels guilty for causing this change, but the other part keeps reminding me that this isn’t my fault. That day we said our last goodbyes at the park, where we once competed to see who could skip the rock the most times, left us both heart broken. We just both healed in different ways. Well, “heals” is one word for it…