THOSE SUMMER NIGHTS

[32]

Sitting in small and neat handwriting in the middle of the page were a few simple words.

the world, the hurt, the love through my eyes
Atlas Foreman

I ran my fingers over the words, quickly flipping to the next page. A sketch of a man holding his face in his hands was drawn. The strokes of the writing utensil he used were sharp and hard. Each stroke angry and so full of motion. The drawing in general was a mess of lead, but you could perfectly well tell what it was he was drawing.

I flipped to another page and there, in the same handwriting I started to love looking at, was a journal entry addressed to a couple of people. The date read 4/21/2021– the same date engraved on the tattoo on his arm.

Dear Dad, Mom, Jason, Athena, Selena, Jace,
Dear Jude and Dawson,
Dear Mr. Jackson and Ms. Holly,

I'm sorry.

Yours truly,
Atlas

I frowned and closed my eyes for a second. This felt personal. I shouldn't be here flipping through his journal and shit. I opened my eyes and glanced at the bathroom, listening to the flow of the water coming from the shower.

I was asking to get yelled at by him, but I couldn't physically put the notebook away. I took my bottom lip between my teeth and opened a random page.

I read the entry. The date read 03/16/2021.

Dear God (if you're even out there),

Everything hurts. My whole body is shaking and heating up— I feel like I might implode. Fuck you for feeling like I needed to go through all this shit. When my head hurts like this, I can't help but want to cease to exist. I don't want to die, but you're making me want to— you're making it hard to ignore the urges. I want to get better so bad.

I cancelled plans with Dawson and Jude today and I'll probably cancel plans with that girl from last week.

For the sake of being hopeful, I'll ask again. Give me a miracle.

Sincerely,
Atlas

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. My fingers touched the urgent handwriting and I let out a sigh, my heart wrenching at his words that were pleading for someone to help. I brushed back a curl from my face and flipped to what I had hoped was the last entry I'd be reading.

The date was from a few days ago— 07/11/2021.

My beloved,

I liked the name of endearment you used. I know you probably didn't think much about it when you wrote it down, but I did. I thought about it a lot. It sounds so sad and so longing and I'm pretty sure that those are the only two feelings I'm filled with. I'm filled with so much sadness and so much grief from both my past and my present.

Then I'm filled with so much longing. Longing for a smile that isn't holding back tears; for a head that doesn't wish harm on my body with each step. But most of all, I long for the chance to hold your hand in mine, for the chance to press my lips against yours, and for the chance for you to call me yours.

Truly yours,
Atlas

By the end of that entry, I was finding it hard to breathe. In the bathroom, the water shut off, but I couldn't move, I couldn't get up. I found myself flipping to the next page.

Heat rushed to my face as I read the name of the person the entry was addressed to. The entry was a pretty short one in comparison to the others and the sides were covered in a bunch of small drawings. Some of the ocean, some of a forest, one of a pair of entwined hands, and another of a pair of lips. I ran my fingers over the drawing of the girl's lips.