"She might not talk, but she can tell one hell of a story"
Dia doesn't talk by choice, only a few people know why. She communicates by sign language and so her friends were left with no choice but to learn the language so they can understand her.
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Have you considered writing?"
"Writing?"
"Yes. You can keep a journal or you can write in your phone, in your laptop. Whichever you prefer"
"What is writing suppose to do? What do I even write?"
"Writing can help a person in many ways. You can write how you feel, you can write short stories, you can write... letters"
"I don't want to write letters"
"Just... just think it over, Dia"
Dia sat on her bed with her back against the wall. Her brown eyes are focused on the denim backpack covered in pins and patches, as it laid at the end of the bed. She fingered the gold chain around her neck and nervously chewed on her bottom lip.
She debated with herself whether to reach out and grab the backpack or leave it be. Dia could hear her therapists voice in her head as it told her to write something. Anything. Finally after minutes of silent debate, she reached forward, grabbed the backpack and pulled out a journal. It's not a leather bound journal, it's a regular journal one could acquire at Office Depot. Dia's brown eyes scanned the cover of the journal and pursed her lips a bit at the bareness of the cover. Maybe she could get the Barton children to cover it in stickers to make it look less boring.
Dia sighed as she stood up from her bed, walked across the room and got the record player going on, Coldplay was heard in the room. She grabbed a pen from the desk, sat back down on her bed, opened the journal to the first page and stared at the blank page. Dia twirled the pen in her fingers and furrowed her eyebrows as she thought about what to write. She was told to simply write. Write about anything. She thought, tapped the pen against the paper and the lyrics to Paradise made their way through her ears.
Sighing, Dia got a grip on the pen and began to write.
Dear Jonathan, I don't know why I'm doing this. To be honest, I think this is stupid but my therapist, Doctor Lopez, told me that I should try it out.
That was a year ago.
When I go to see her, she asks me from time to time, if I've written anything in the journal she gave me. I say no. I keep putting it off. I always find an excuse to not do this, and when I have time, I always tell myself "I'll do it after lunch" "I'll do it after my shower" "I'll do it after I walk Biscuit" (Biscuit is my dog. He's an Australian Shepherd)
I keep procrastinating. It's like I'm back in high school and keep putting off a semester long project, only for me to pull an all-nighter the night before the project is due. Good thing I don't get graded on this. Good thing we don't get graded in life because if we did, I would be a straight D student. Maybe a C-
