𝐷𝑜𝑝𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒, 𝑆𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑛, 𝑂𝑥𝑦𝑡𝑜𝑐𝑖𝑛- 𝑅𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒

𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑒𝑒- 𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑

Robin couldn't deal with being at Steve's any longer.
When it had hit six, and when the daylight had peaked in its waking, she walked.
She walked the path in which she had been kissed upon, the path in which she had been the most vulnerable she had ever been. She passed the trees which waved at her from the sidelines and the crows which nested upon rooftops and on wires.

She had walked through town, through neighbourhoods, through rows and rows of housing just to reach the comfort of her own four walls.

Her parents were still not home.
She wouldn't be surprised if they were never home again.

The woman unlocked the front door, walked through, and locked it again. All that was needed was the comfort of her own room- so, therefore, that's where she headed.

The stairway creaked underfoot, groaning under the weight after not being used for a good few hours.

The window had been left open, throwing randomised gusts of air into the space. She didn't seem to mind, though- the air kept her paying attention.
The plans were to go home and go straight to bed again, but, after the lengthy walk, Robin was more awake than ever- and unsurprisingly, the thoughts were still very much racing.

The woman sat herself onto her bed before sliding off her shoes. She then paused for a moment, debating leaving them on the carpet, but instead deciding to put them away.

She lifted again, bending down to collect her shoes so she could recklessly toss them into her closet.

When she did, the wooden door creaked, whining from age and use, and the mess crowded the inside; unorganised chaos brimming from the contents.
The woman sighed; it hadn't been organised since middle school.

She threw in her shoes, watching them bounce into position at the bottom of the mound. There was all sorts at the base of the pile, from school work to journals to... she didn't know what the little brown notebook was.

However, the peaking corner intrigued her, pulling her towards its discovery. Robin gripped the corner, tugged it out, and stared for a moment. A tumble of shoes followed its pull, but she didn't rush to fix it, instead, she simply let the mound fall.

A brown leathered notebook sat limp in her hands, ragged at the corners and clasp-tie broke. She recognised it- she recognised it well. In her hands lay years of secrets, years of struggle, years of unsaid thoughts.
Her old diary.

Untouched and unused since early high and the school before, a collection of works from eleven to fifteen year old Robin Buckley... the confused, scared, Robin Buckley.
Her diary, her previous best friend.

Almost like a newly unlocked vault, Robin flicked through, skimming the entries and breathing through the memories that came with them.

Dear Diary,
I don't understand...

Dear Diary,
Why can't I keep friends?...

Dear Diary,
Not only do they see me differently, but I see myself differently, too...

Dear Diary,
I think I like Tammy Thompson....

She closed the book. She got out a pen. She started writing.
If it helped then, it would help now.