she dragged the pen across the page. ink spilled out from its tip, creating lines that created letters that created words. those words seemed to string themselves together into thoughts, or not so complete thoughts, or just a note here and there.
the paper was illuminated by the light of a candle.
candles made her feel safe.
just like the diary made her feel safe.
everything was in it. pages and pages of things she had told no one else. volumes of things she had observed or doodled or imagined. a wellspring of secrets. from the poems of her teenage years and the yearnings of a pubescent mind to vitriolic rants against the world, the galaxy, and everything in it.
they were pages of hatred and of love. they were her pages, and she loved them.
"dear Melissa," she said aloud, pausing to suck on the end of the pen, innocently thoughtful. Melissa was the diary's name. it had had many names before that, but now itd was called Melissa.
she tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, away from her eyes. "let me tell you about today." and she began to write again.
"today i met a man. he shares his name with a number - isn't that strange?"
"'lissa, i don't know what to do..."
and she wrote.