The first entry of the journal is brief, but I can already tell by the way she writes that the moment she arrived there, she wanted to come back.
It doesn't say it in words, but as I read over it, i can hear her voice in my head and imagine her face as she was writing it. I can imagine her pained expression and feel the single teardrop in the top right hand corner from where she cried.
I don't really know why I bought this journal, Lisa. I think I just want to feel like I'm connected to you somehow, even if I'm not sure you'll ever read this.
But I'm here now. I'm in London, and I'm a bit confused because it's already been two weeks and I still can't understand what anyone's saying. They all sound really posh, and I even asked a guy where I could buy a cup of tea and a scone—that's a British snack food, if you didn't know—and they laughed at me and said that I was a stupid yank.
I don't even know what that is, but I'm pretty sure it's offensive.
Anyway, I just wanted to tell you about my first few weeks, and I promise to write to you every day.
I won't break this promise.
Forever and always,
Rosé.
I sit there and laugh through my tears for ten minutes.
***
I spend the rest of the day reading her letters.
I barely even stop, only when nature, hunger or my dry throat calls; but otherwise I spend hours upon hours, reading over her scribbled, messy writing and learning about her life without me.
I sit on the sofa, soaking in her words, feeling her emotions. My eyes trace over the few pictures stuck messily to the page, placed next to crumpled paper and I become jealous of them even though I can't be because they got to have her.
They got to experience her when I didn't, when I needed her the most, and I come to hate these random villages, cities and towns I see through pictures. I come to hate the stupid red brick buildings I see and the weird black taxis. I come to hate the miles and miles of green fields and the clear blue skies that I'm sure I'd love if I was there with her; all because when I yearned for her, when I thought I physically couldn't live without seeing her face or her smile, they got to have her. They got her and didn't appreciate her in the way I would've done.
But I still push through all the emotions brought to the forefront of my mind and read on.
***
Among her writing, I find a few undecipherable words and black smudges from where I was assuming she was crying as she wrote about her time.
It makes my heart clench in the most painful of ways, and my eyes fill with tears because I might have been in pain, but I would've rather have been in pain than known she was suffering.
Yet I still find my fingertips tracing over the smudges, over the crinkles in the paper where her tear drops fell and shut my eyes, trying to feel what she did.
I don't, but I still feel pain from knowing she was in pain, too.
***
When I begin crying for the third time, on the third page, I stretch over to reach for the tissue box on the side table and the journal falls off my lap.
I abandon my search for a tissue and reach for it, gasping as if the drop would've broken it and spend a good two minutes checking over it, stroking the suede and eying the floor to make sure nothing fell out. Though when I do, I find a small folded up piece of paper lying on the edge of the rug and gingerly reach for it, bringing it to my lap and pinching the sides, opening it to show what's written inside.
Tzuyu, I need you to give this to her. I miss her, I love her, but I can't tell her out loud.
Please... I just need her to know everything.
Thank you,
Rosé.
It doesn't even have my name written inside, just a vague 'her,' but I know Rosé was talking about me; and as I read it again, I find my mind reeling back to when Tzuyu came to knock at my door all those months ago.
***
"Did she..." I swallow the words, finding it hard to complete my sentence. I haven't asked anything about her since she left. "Did she say something?" I manage to get out.
Tzuyu looks at me, her head tilting to the side and I watch the crease form between her eyebrows as her eyes narrow into slits. "No," she breathes and I can't figure out whether the sinking I feel in my chest is from disappointment or relief. I suppose the former. "Not out loud," she adds, her eyes dropping to the package in my arms.
***
My hand clutches at my chest as the memory comes back, and I realize all this time, Tzuyu knew Rosé loved me.
My first reaction is anger; why couldn't she have told me? Why couldn't she have just fucking said and then I would've contacted Rosé somehow and told her myself? Why couldn't she just have even freaking hinted something?
Though as the minutes pass, as my infuriated thoughts slowly transform into something a little calmer, I begin to reason with yourself that if she had said anything, or rather when she did say something, I didn't believe her anyway. She tried, I remember the 'she would've stayed' comment and it's only now I realize what Tzuyu was really telling me. I realize she was really telling me by saying that I 'must've known' that I must have known she loved me, though I was too caught up in my pain to realize that.
But I don't want to dwell on that, to think about how I could've had or talked to Rosé sooner.
So I just continue reading.
***
I met this guy called Adam at the publishing house.
He's gay, so if you ever read this you shouldn't be panicking or grinding your teeth or clenching your jaw in the way you always used to when I mentioned someone else. He's totally moving to New York, Lisa, and I told him he should totally meet Jaehyun, 'cause I think they would be a cute couple.
He asked me if I had anyone special back home and I cried for two hours.
I never told him, like I never told you.
I'm sorry.
Yours forever,
Rosé.
***
I think I read the seventeenth entry of the journal over eleven times. I actually have it memorized:
I told Adam about you today, and he told me that I should've told you when I had the chance. He didn't mean in the way it sounds, he wasn't rude so don't hate him, Lisa.
But I know I should have. I know I should've told you.
So I'm telling you now.
I love you, Lisa. I love you... so much that words will never be able to do it justice. I love you so much that it actually hurts sometimes... all the time now, actually... but back when we were together, but not together, it was a good kind of hurt.
I'd do anything to be together but not together again, because I just want you, in any capacity.
Please don't hate me. Please still love me.
My heart is yours,
Rosé.
***
When I read some of the entries, I find myself lying down on my side, curling into a ball with the journal clutched to my chest and I just sob my heart out.
Everything hurts, and my eyes are stinging after the amount of tears I've cried, but the funny thing is, I haven't even read the entire journal yet and I know there are more tears to come.
Still, there are certain ones that just rip the breath straight from my lungs.
Even if they are as short as the forty-second entry:
I miss you, Lisa.
All my love, always.
Rosé.
***
By the time I reach the third month of her visit to London, I no longer find any cheery little entries or tiny notes with a brightness and sunshine that I know to be Rosé, because they're all full of pain.
Each sentence I read I can feel her pain, I can imagine her sitting on a bed in a hotel room in the middle of a foreign country, crying her heart out as she writes to me, not knowing when she was ever going to see my face again and even though I was in pain, I find myself wanting to travel back to that time, to take her pain away and to add it on top of mine just so she didn't have to feel it.
My fingertips trace over more teardrop stains, and I see my own falling beside them because I can't stand the image of Rosé crying.
I'd do anything to make sure she will never cry another pained tear if that was possible.
But I can't, and for some reason it doesn't even deter me from continuing through the pages and letting my eyes take in her words.
***
I don't know if you hate me... but I don't want you to hate me even more when I tell you this.
My heart stops at the first line, and I find myself frozen, unable to look away, to glance further down the page to see if this entry has an ending that's going to make me break all over again.
But when I take a few long breaths, when I manage to regain some vision and push the blur away that covers my eyes, I find that I'm breaking, but not in the way I thought.
I went out on a date.
I didn't know I was going to.. it was a surprise one set up by Adam, but I still don't want you to hate me or him.
He told me I should try to get over you and meet him for dinner to talk about you more, but when I got to the restaurant and this guy approached me, telling me that he was here for our date, I realized that Adam had set me up.
But I also realized something else.
Nothing can ever replace you, Lisa, and I don't see myself ever getting over you. I don't think I could even if I wanted to, and I never meant to fall in love with you, but I think it was just meant to be. I think we were meant to be, Lisa, and I messed up. I messed up real bad, and I don't want you to hate me because I can't live in a world where I don't have you.
Which is dumb (I know you hate it when I used that word but it is dumb) because I moved here, moved away from you for a year, but I just needed to figure things out.
I needed to clear my head, and now it's four months since I've seen you and I still can't figure out why I came here.
I just want to see you again. I just want to call you, to hear your voice, to know how you're doing and whether you're missing me... but I'm scared to. I'm scared that when I hear your voice, I'll get on the first plane back to you and you won't want to see me. I'm scared you hate me, and I miss you... God, I miss you, more than anything... and I wish you were here, or that I was there, but I don't know how you feel about me anymore.
I'm not even sure this is coming out right, but what I'm trying to say is that I miss you. And that I love you more than anything.
And always will.
Forever yours,
Rosé.
***
There's a knock on my door just as I finish journal entry one hundred and seventeen.
I glance at the clock to find it's going on nine in the evening, and I frown because I wasn't expecting anyone. Still, I get up and try not to hold onto the hope that Rosé might be standing behind the door and head toward it, wiping my eyes with the back of my hands as they're probably red and puffy. It's a lucky thing I don't get my hopes too high anyway, because when I open the door and find Tzuyu there, I'm not (that) disappointed. I'm just a little confused.
"Hey," I breathe, my eyebrows knitting together and eyes flitting around the empty hallway. "Everything okay?"
"I just came to apologize," Tzuyu spills out and once again, I'm confused. Apologize for what?
I lean against the door and cock my head to the side. "For?"
Tzuyu's eyes flicker behind me and I turn to find her looking to the sofa where thousands of used tissues lay spread out and to where the journal lies open on the coffee table. My body stiffens, and I begin feeling a little vulnerable and stupid that I'm crying and so I shuffle out my apartment, pulling the door closed but not locking it, clearing my throat. Tzuyu snaps her vision away and back to me immediately because I just want to get this over and done with.
"For not telling you about Rosé and how she felt."
Had she come over here and apologized a few hours ago, I probably would've snapped and yelled because I did feel angry that she knew about Rosé and never told me. I was angry that she had this journal, that she probably read through it, or at least skimmed it—she would've had to, to have found that note that said to give the journal to me—but now I don't feel that. I don't feel like I want to scream at her because she didn't have to give that journal to me, she did it because she wanted me and Rosé back together.
Okay, maybe she didn't tell me that Rosé still loved me, but she knew I wouldn't listen to her. She wouldn't have come here to apologize if she was trying to be a bitch or whatever.
So I don't get angry. Instead, I just bite down on my lip, shrug my shoulders and shake my head as I say, "It's okay, Tzuyu. I know why you didn't."
Tzuyu shifts, her fingers toying nervously with the ends of her sleeve. "I was going to, but you wouldn't have—"
"I know," I cut in and step forward, opening my arms. "I'm not mad at you, so just hug me, okay?"
It's a little strange because I rarely offer out hugs to anyone that isn't Rosé, or related to me, and Tzuyu does catch up on that because she jerks a little, blinking confused but quickly steps into the hug and wraps her arms around me. And I wonder whether I should be pissed at her, wonder whether I actually have a valid reason to, but I'm just so tired of being angry and sad and I don't want to have to deal with those negative emotions, so I just pull back, look her in the eye and offer a smile.
"You're really not mad?" She quietly whispers, still seeming unsure.
I laugh lowly through my nose and shake my head. "No, I'm not."
She seems to believe me, which is good because I am being honest, and we two talk for a little longer before she tells me she's going on a date with Eunwoo and is already late.
I'm a little shocked, but you I always convinced Eunwoo had a thing for Rosé so I'm kind of happy he's going out with Tzuyu, and bid her goodbye.
One less thing to feel negative about.
***
There's a couple of entries I come across where I wonder whether I actually wrote them.
For example, entry number two hundred and twenty-one:
Lisa... I can't even begin to describe how much I miss you.
I couldn't even get out of bed today because of that. Because I was lying, staring at my ceiling and wondering whether you missed me back... whether you still even love me.
I have pictures of us, of you, and I spend so much time looking at them, but it's not enough. I even have a video, but that's still not enough.
I just need to see you. In person. I just need to know you're okay and to look into your eyes because it hurts without you.
It feels like I can't breathe without you next to me.
I love you. Always.
Rosé.
They feel like I wrote them, because they have the same emotion, the same description of emptiness, and it's only after I finish reading them do I realize that there's an upside to when Rosé and I both felt like that; because neither of us work properly without each other.
It's not exactly the best realization, but it calms my nerves and dulls the pain a little, because I know that Rosé and I need each other.
And as I lie down and mull over her words, I hope that I never have to live without her again.
But that decision is pretty much up to me now.
***
The last one is the one that catches me off guard the most.
Out of all four hundred and twelve entries, only three of them contained mentions of the future, all of which were saying about how Rosé wasn't going to come back. Or rather, she wasn't sure if she was going to. It'd hurt to read it, but she'd already explained it to me and I'm almost glad that I knocked the package off the bed and it went forgotten about for months because I'm not sure what I would've done had if I read this when she still wasn't near. I'm not sure if I would've just given up and bought a ticket and flown straight to her, only to find out that she was no longer in London but elsewhere, touring the UK.
So for that I'm glad, but this last one... this is the only one that actually mentions coming back to me. That mentions getting through everything and finding a happily ever after.
And this is how it goes:
My dearest Lisa,
This is the last entry I will write inside this journal. This might be the last time I ever talk to you, even if it through a journal and even if it is kind of one-sided.
But I just feel like you have to know a few things. You have to know that I love you, but you should already because there hasn't been one letter where I haven't written it. I've meant every word when it's come to my feelings for you, and I don't want you to forget that either.
Anyway, you have to know that if I ever do come back to you, if you ever choose to forgive me... that I will never leave you again. It was stupid, I was dumb, and I wish I'd never left. I wish I didn't get on that plane and I wish that I had just come back to the place I've only ever really known — your arms. I wish a lot of things; I should have done a lot of things, and I know it's pointless to just write this and then send it to you because I don't even know if you'll respond. I don't know if you'll be able to because I'm not staying here in London anymore, I'm going touring... I think. If I can handle being away from you any longer than I already have.
But one thing, Lisa... one thing I promise from the bottom of my heart, is that if you choose to let me back into your life, if I'm lucky enough that you forgive me... as long as you love me, we can make us work.
I know we've got issues, and they're not going to go away with a simple apology, but I know we can work through them. I want to work through them, I want to sort it out and clear the air because I want you. I want you, all of you, forever and a day, and even if I come back and we spend months and months arguing, being angry at each other and yelling... it'd still be better than anything because I'd rather do all those things with you then start something with someone new.
I'd rather go through the hardest, toughest times with you, than even think about anyone else.
Because I love you, Lisa. I love you, and if I come back... well, when I come back (I don't think I can stay away from you)... I will spend however long it takes, go through whatever conversations and do whatever you want if it means we end up together.
But if you don't... well, I guess we'll just have to see when the time comes.
I love you, Lisa, and I can't stop loving you anymore than I can stop the world from turning. I wouldn't want to.
So please take me back, please love me again.
Your Rosé. Always.
***
I don't know how many times I read through that last one.
All I know is that by the time my eyes are stinging from the tears I'm still shedding and sleep is reeling me in, the sun is rising. And I barely get to the three repetitions of those words I've longed to hear again for the thirty-sixth time before I get pulled under and fall asleep, the journal clutched close to my chest, trapped on that page.
Because soon... I've got to make a decision.