[MJ Fanfiction] Collide

Prologue

19th January, 1991

Dear Diary,

It's been a while I didn't write in here. Lately, I don't have much time to pour my heart out, but today is not a regular day. It's this day. This day I wish I could erase from my memory as years go by. Every year since it happened, I would like to sink into a deep sleep and avoid this day that keeps on reminding me things I wish I could erase completely from my memory.

I can already figure what's going to happen all day long. People will ask me how I'm doing, and I'll answer the old same famous lie: "I'm fine, thank you," and go on with my work like I mean it, while we both know that today is not a day to feel okay for me.

My life seems all over the place. It's like I can't even handle it anymore. Everything keeps on falling appart around me. I feel so alone today. It's like everybody I ever cared about is gone.

I don't think the pain will ever go away; this burning pain in my chest everytime those events play on repeat in my mind. Tell me, Diary, am I strong enough to live with that all my life? Do I have to suffer every single day that God makes?

I don't know how much time I'll be able to fake it, and show people that I'm not okay. It may sound pathetic after seven years to feel like this, but I can't erase the guilt nor this pain.

Grams says that time is the key to my pain, but what if time keeps playing tricks on me?

A loud knock on my appartment's door was heard, and I lifted my head from my journal. I wiped away the tears that I didn't realize were falling from my eyes with the back of my hand, and put my journal down on the edge of the window where I was seated. I wasn't quite fazed by the presence of someone knocking on my door at seven in the morning, because I knew who it was, and it didn't quite improve my mood.

I wriggled by the boxes that were scattered all across the floor, and lazily opened the front door.

"Hey, um, did I wake you?"

"Forget about the courtesy. I have a job, John. Be fast," I snapped, taking a step aside to let him come into my appartment.

John didn't say a word, but gave me a sorrowful look instead, nodding his head. He came in my appartement, careful to close the door behind him with his head hanging low.

"Are those all mine?" he asked after a short silence, pointing at the boxes on the floor with his index finger.

"Yes. I added another box with all the gifts you gave me in it. I don't want anything coming from you."