Dear Nate {Dear #1}

-Chapter 12-

This felt nice to write. You get to see more of Nate's caring character.

I hope you guys like it!

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Thank You!

-DANA

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NOT EDITED

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Dear Journal,

            I cannot believe I’m a senior now. These four years of high school have gone by in a blink of an eye. It’s true when someone says high school, and maybe even college, will go by in a snap of your fingers. I can just remember my first day of high school. I was so nervous and scared, but now I’m a senior. This is it. My last year of high school. Usually this is where people will declare how “this is their year”, but it won’t be. Even if I said it out loud and am determine to have this year be my year, I won’t go through with it. I’m a wimp. The phrase YOLO doesn’t apply to me and I’m fine with that—most of the time.

            There are times I wish I can walk up to a guy and start up a conversation. Or talk to my crush, Nate, and ask him out. That’s the problem with being shy. Shyness holds people back and I am one of those people. When I think I can go up to Nate and talk to him, my stomach starts to ache and my nervous get the best of me. Maybe if I was more outgoing I would have friends and more importantly Nate. I wouldn’t feel like such an outcast.

            It’s funny. Almost all my entries in this journal are about how I wish I had courage, or about Nate, or about how I don’t belong anywhere. If someone who read my journal, they’d think of me as a whiny teenager.

-Alison  

♣

            I’m almost at the end of Alison’s journal. She doesn’t write in it often. I like reading her journal entries and yet, at the same time, I don’t. I hate reading about how she thinks she is pathetic and doesn’t belong anywhere. I hate how low she thinks of herself.

Her father thinks she’ll wake up in less than a month now, but I don’t know what to think or believe. I want to believe it more than anything, but I can’t. I need to focus on my last baseball game in a few days, finals, graduation, and then college.

            “Honey,” my mom’s voice comes out behind me.

            I turn around in the patio chair, hiding the journal under my leg. Mom walks out with a cup of steaming coffee or tea in her hands. She hits down in the chair beside mine.