2:56 :: h.s

trente neuf

{ Trigger Warning }

17:38

I open the window and Rae climbs through.
It was kind of chilly today, so I wore my black t-shirt and sweater.
The same thing I wore when Rae and I went for a drive.
She hops off my bed and her arms wrap tightly around my waist.
I hang around her shoulders and feel the blood leave my fingers.
Her head tilts up to me and I kiss her shortly.

"Where have you been, missy?" I joke.

She giggles, "I should be asking you the same thing. How was dinner with my dreadful mother?"

I shrug. "Surprisingly, not bad. Apparently her and my mom work together."

"Wow, that's kind of cool. Maybe I could be like Melanie. You know, in the, 'our parents work together so why don't we date' sense."

I laugh and let go of her. "You're better than Melanie. You actual do shit. She just sat around, looked pretty, and loved everyone and everything. She was too perfect and it got really boring, really fast."

She seems pleased with this information. "Good to know."

I open my closet and move a shirt out of the way, "on another note, while I was at your mother's, I got something for you."

Her eyes widen, "what is it?"

I hold her journal out in front of me.

A huge smile breaks out on Rae's face and she squeals, "I can't believe this! Oh my gosh! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

She throws her arms around my shoulders and I stumble back.

"This honestly means so much to me. Thank you." She kisses my cheek.

Heat rises in my cheeks, making her cold touch disappear as quick as it came. "It's no big deal, really."

She sits on my bed and unwraps the leather band from around the journal.
A pen falls out of the inside flap and I pick it up from the floor.
She opens the journal to a random page, and runs her fingers over the page.
I don't know why.
She can't feel it.

She scans the page and flips to another. "All of this seems so silly now. All of these poems about loving someone when I never loved anyone at all. Not only those, but all of these where I pushed really hard on the paper, and scribbled, and ripped through the page because I was so angry."

"I don't get why that's silly?" I state but it comes out as a question.

She turns to a different page, "it's silly because I ended up killing myself anyway. I wrote in this to get my emotions out but . . . it didn't really work."

I nod slightly.
It is heartbreaking to know she thinks like that.
Or thought like that.
Thought that writing down how she felt could help, only to be sitting with her writings now, in the in between, seeing that it didn't help.

Even if she has the journal now, writing can't save her.
She's already gone.