Home for the holidays. How weird is that.

Talking to my old friends. One of them is a teacher; she works at the old high school sometimes.

Weird. Weird.

Some of them aren't doing anything. Just making excuses. Some of them are getting by, some of them are doing what they love.

Some of them are gone, and nobody can get ahold of them.

CHELSEA.

I see you there. Write me.

She won't write me. She doesn't even read this journal.

Chelsea, Chelsea. We all miss you. Get in contact. We miss you.

I miss you.

~

Talking to my mother. Really looking at my mother.

Seeing an old woman, so sure of herself, unable to see anything else.

Is that what I will turn in to?

I don't know. I am of another world.

Listening to sad love songs on Youtube again. Makes my heart hurt.

"You were really stuck on that last one," Martina told me. I smiled gaily, but my heart hurt.

"I was, wasn't I?" I laugh. "I hate him." I talk of G, and my heart hiccups.

I speak to T every day, pretty much. I like the fellow. We'll see where it goes.

Will I ever fit in again? Easily and seamlessly?

~

"How is Anne's book?" I ask my mother. We're putting decorations on the Christmas tree. Every now and then she makes me stand back and critique it.

She shrugs. "It's okay," she tells me, and that surprises me. Anne has several books published now. It's what she says next that really surprises me, though:

"You're a better writer."

I look at her sideways.

"What do you mean, I'm a better writer?" I ask. "You've barely seen anything I've written."

She shrugs, but doesn't make eye contact. "I saw what you wrote when you were in high school, and even then you were better than she is."

My mother doesn't give compliments lightly.

"That's depressing," I say. "I should write a book."

My mother nods vehemently.

"Yes," she says. "Yes you should."

What to write about?

I've only ever written fantasy. Fantasy, and this journal.

Maybe I should publish this journal.

One girl's spiralling descent into womanhood.

Terrifying and pointless.

I could market it as a horror.

.

Rosie.

Before&After