Never Knew I Needed (Chaelisa)

Chapter 33

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.