Excerpts from a Diary

by sulatkamay

Monday

I asked you if you love me. And you asked me if I really want to know. I said “yes”. You said you did, but I wasn’t convinced.

Tuesday

You gave me a sheet of paper, a clue to the treasure hunt game we used to play. You also said that you’ll be leaving on Saturday for a two-week vacation with your family on some country at some fancy hotel. I guess I had no choice, you have to spend time with your family.

Thursday

I honestly tried to avoid you. I was self-conscious and unsure, whether you really did love me. Perhaps it was on how your eyes looked, or how it seemed that the phrase “yes, I love you” was just forced out of you.

Saturday

You left for your family vacation. I told you I wanted a t-shirt as a souvenir.

Sunday

I decided to crack the clue you gave to me last time. I guess I should have done it earlier… I did not understand your clue then, well, I really am stupid at games like these, that’s why you always won.

Tuesday

I finally understood what your clue meant. Somehow, it pointed to my own room. But I couldn’t find anything different, nothing new.

Friday

As I were changing clothes before going to class, I noticed that my pile of shirts seemed to be bulkier than before. I was right. Of all the places you could have chosen…

It was a picture frame, but instead of containing a picture, it was a poem written by a famous writer.

I am not really good with this creative writing stuff. I guess the poem was good, it was about love, about a person confessing love to another. I got the message.

Wednesday

I saw your family vehicle pass by. I guessed that your vacation was over. I went to your house, and was called by your dad. He told me what had happened. He told me about the accident. And that you were dead. I initially believed that it was all a joke, but as I saw everyone in your house crying, I simply found myself tearing because of this stupid joke.

Saturday

It was the day of your burial. I decided to give you a gift.

I wanted to find some good writer to create a beautiful poem for me - one that shall say how much I loved you, how much I wanted to be with you.

But I thought instead to give you this diary. For you to read everything that I have ever thought. And I guess that, no matter how beautiful the poem a good writer can create, it’s nothing compared to a few stupid, poorly written lines created by the person who actually loved you.

I guess, if I weren’t that stupid, we could have at least spent nearly two weeks where we were truly in love.