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“That you’d take everything,” I whisper, shuddering, my breath catching in my throat.
If I ever see you again, I’ll take it all. I’ll take whatever you love and hold dear. I’ll take everything, darling.
He nods slowly. “Well remembered. That I did. But I’m feeling generous.”
His lips curve up just a hint. My breath turns choppy as he grips my jaw tighter and suddenly dips his mouth right into the crook of my neck. His lips and his stubble brush across my cheek, and the planet wobbles on its axis as he whispers low in my ear.
“It won’t actually be everything. Justyou.”
9
DAHLIA
Six years ago:
I read it too fast.
The day I discovered that diary, I devoured at least a third of it before the sun began to set. A few days later, when I went back to read some more of what might become my favorite book of all time, I realized I had to slow down.
It’s like being served the most delicious slice of cake in the world. You could stuff it in your face all at once and immerse yourself in the full effect of its taste for a moment. Or, you could savor it slowly. You could take your time, and enjoy each and every bite, stretching each moment out as long as you can.
That’s my new approach to the diary, and to the mysterious and emotionally complex person who wrote it. And so for the last few weeks, in between classwork, avoiding my cunt of a roommate, still trying to make sense of why the most popular guy in school keeps talking to me and offering to carry my books to class, and jumping at every shadow imagining it’s Deimos, I’ve been trying to make the diary last longer when I come here to read. Each time I come, I only allow myself one bite: one entry.
But even so, I’ve finally gotten to the end. A few days ago, I read the last entry, which was a several-pages-long thing ruminating on the point of competition. The author—who I’m positive, based off the handwriting, is a man—questioned why it is we as humans in the twenty-first century, with access to unimaginable technological wonders and the power to feed the whole world, still fight. Why do we wage wars? Or compete for anything at all? Why do wecelebratethat competition?
It’s freaky. Whoever this person is, they’reme, almost literally.
It was driving me nuts to think I’d come to the end. But then I came back a few days after that last entry about competition, and there was another entry—this one brief and angry and full of rage about something that happened in their past that they’re still trying to bury.
I mean, again, it’sme. It’s me to the point that I had an insane dream the other day where I reallywasboth author and reader of this diary. Like some sort of crazy psychological plot twist straight out ofFight Club.
I am Tyler. Tyler is me.
Not really. I mean, I might have my issues, but I’m notthatkind of crazy. I don’t think I am, at least.
It’s been five days now since that last entry. And there still hasn’t been another one. That’s twice as long as the author usually goes between writings.
Today, I slip into the secret garden and do my now customary routine. I check the area to make sure I’m really alone, and then carefully pull out the loose stone concealing the diary. I open one of my own textbooks and put the orange leather book inside that, just in case someone steals up on me.
Every time I do this, I not-so-secretly wish for the author himself to walk in on me reading it. I mean, yeah, they’d probably be pissed, or embarrassed, or both. But I know if I could just show them how crazy alike we are, then maybe we could be friends.
Maybe more than that.
At this point, having crawled so deep inside of this person’s psyche, their thoughts, and their dreams, it’s not just that I know them more intimately than I’ve ever known anyone else in my life.
I think I might actually be in love with them.
Whoever they are.
…Yeah, like I said: issues. Welcome to my insanity.
I sit on the bench and flip to the last angry entry about the past. Gleefully, I flip to the next page, seeing the writer has added something new. Instantly, my smile drops from my face and my heart turns to ice.
Diaries are supposed to be private, you know.
Who are you?
I snap the book shut with a choked gasp. My heart leaps into my throat, sending my pulse skyrocketing. I lurch to my feet, quickly shove the diary back into its hiding place, and cover it with the rock before grabbing my bag and bolting from the garden.
