Dear Diary, I'm Completely Lost

Fraternities, Lost Phones, Life-Changing Decisions

I text Hunter for about half an hour, finding out that he went to this open night of a fraternity house. Delta Kappa Epsilon? Something like that. He didn’t want to go, he tried to go to sleep after he stopped talking to me, but Stavros made him go with him.

I find out that they’re actually kind of cool, but that he doesn’t want to join them. He said the night was really chaotic. When they got there, someone bumped into him hard, and that’s when he must have lost his phone. He left after half an hour, not realizing he didn’t have it with him.

He’s spent the whole day, trying to locate it, thinking he left it in his room and put it in such a random place that he couldn’t remember it. Then, he realized it could’ve happened when that guy bumped into him at the fraternity house.

He went there to ask if they found a phone, but no one did. They helped him look around, though, and it was found in the bushes by the entrance to the building. Luckily, undamaged. But it was out of battery. He’s spent about two hours, waiting for the phone to charge, because it wouldn’t turn on with an empty battery.

I knew I was being unreasonable, when I started overthinking. I’m glad Hunter tells me things without me, having to ask about them. He’s so honest and open that it’s making this whole long-distance thing much more bearable.

I don’t get to talk to him for long, because my mom makes me go for a walk with her. As long as it’s not a jog, I’m totally fine. Seriously, I can’t keep up with her jogs. I excuse myself, telling Hunter that we’ll talk later. He assures me that he has to study anyway and that he’ll call me in the evening. Like he usually does.

Mom is already waiting for me downstairs, dressed in her sportswear. It makes me worry a little. I’m not exactly wearing leggings. I mean, I’m in a tracksuit, but it’s not that sporty. “Should I change?” I wonder as I see her. And she has her jogging shoes on. Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?

“No, it’s fine. The power of habits. We’ll be walking, don’t worry,” she assures me. Phew, great. That’s a relief. She knows how much I hate to run. Walking is fine. But running? Hell no. I don’t think she’ll ever live to see the day that I decide to go jogging.

We go outside, and I almost feel a little cold. Maybe I should’ve worn long sleeves. But it just seemed so warm, when I looked outside. Well, fall is here. I should really dress more appropriately. Never mind, mom is wearing short sleeves, too.

We walk at a brisk pace, because mom still wants to exercise and I don’t really care. As long as we’re still walking, I’m fine with it. She asks me about my day, probably wondering if I’ve taken her advice.

I realize it’s no use, hiding it from her, so I tell her about the writing competition. She almost seems a little surprised. Like she didn’t know that I like to write. “Okay, but how is that going to help with college applications? I thought you were interested in astronomy, like your brother. Not that I mind, but it’s a little surprising. Science competitions are taken a little more seriously than creative ones,” she speaks up, making my lips form a thin line.

I’m not sure what to say to that, but it makes me angry. And for good reason. “Mom, you were the one who pressured me into applying for a competition. Are you really criticizing me for choosing one in something that I actually like to do and feel like I’m good at it?” I ask, trying not to sound too sharp, but I know I fail miserably.

My mom stares at me in surprise, then says: “No, I’m not criticizing you. I’m just stating facts. Is this competition in creative writing or journalism?” I don’t know how to wrap this nicely. I know she won’t like the answer, no matter how hard I try to package it in a prettier wrapping.

“Well, it’s … It’s either a group of poems, a short story or an academic essay,” I finally reveal, making her sigh. I just know she’s not happy about it.

“Please tell me you’ll submit an academic essay,” she then remarks. I shrug in response. I don’t want to tell her that it’s the last pick out of all the options. I mean, come on, I’d sooner make myself write three poems than a nonfictional work. What’s the point of creative writing, if you can’t be creative? “Perrie, honey.”

“Mom, I’m not into journalism. I want to be a writer, you know that,” I burst out, unable to take her judgmental gaze any longer. She sighs, shaking her head at me.

“We’ve been through this. Writing books doesn’t earn you a steady income. You need a job that will bring you money,” she lectures me, almost making me regret that I agreed into taking a walk with her. And that I approached Mrs. Ramirez at all.

“I can do both,” I rebel silently, despite not knowing what day job I could possibly have that would leave me enough time to write in my spare time. Especially later in my life, when I’ll have kids and stuff. I don’t know where I could find the time to write books.

My mom sends me a stern gaze. “Perrie. Stop being so stubborn. I’m trying to give you a glimpse of reality. I tried to survive as a fictional writer too, but it didn’t work out. I just want you to succeed without having to repeat my mistakes. You’re talented, you could do well in journalism, too,” she continues in a more friendly way.

This time, I’m the one sighing. “I’m not like you, mom. You weren’t persistent enough,” I tell her, not even knowing why I’m saying this. She seems a little taken aback by my words. And hurt. I can see it flicker across her face. But once I blink, it’s already gone. She doesn’t let me know that I’ve offended her.

“Trust me, I was,” she assures me in that polite tone she uses when she’s trying to protect herself. It makes me bite my lower lip in regret.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” I say hastily, feeling bad for letting my tongue be quicker than my brain. “I just … I want to make it. I want to be big,” I tell her, not knowing how else to say it.

She sends me a sympathetic smile, probably remembering how those dreams felt like in her youth. “I know, honey. I know,” she tells me, rubbing my shoulder in an encouraging way.

I use the afternoon to catch up on homework. I don’t really want to make things pile up on me. It’s not a good idea, I only did it once in my sophomore year and I vowed to myself I’d never repeat it again.

By the time it’s starting to get dark outside, I manage to finish all of my homework. I even work through a few chapters in advance, just to be ready. I’ve learned that it makes me understand the topic more easily, if I prepare for it before we’re actually discussing it in school. And it makes me fight through homework much more quickly.

As I finish, I grab something to eat, then head back upstairs, throwing myself on the bed. I text Aiden, asking how he’s doing. He doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does, we end up talking for about fifteen minutes. Then, I get a text from Hunter. You ready?

I smile at the message, feeling so excited that I can barely control my fingers enough to click on his name and call him. The moment he picks up, I’m beaming with happiness. I can never get tired of seeing his face.

I ask him about his classes, and he tells me that he wishes he’d have more time to dive deeper into the topics that really interest him. But all the classes are so intense and difficult that he just hopes he’s studying hard enough for when the exams come. It’s a good thing he’s so hard-working. I’m a hundred percent sure he’ll make it through these four years like a breeze.

He asks if I’ve found inspiration yet, and I tell him all about the conversation I’ve had with my mom. He listens, nodding his head as I try to express how much I was let down when she didn’t support my wish to become a writer, which makes him sigh. “You know, Pez, the way I see it, the two of you are just too much alike,” he remarks.

I frown at his words. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, obviously, she sees herself in you. She’s probably gone through hell to find a job that works for her, even if she wanted to do something else in the first place. And now you’re at the same point that she was at years ago, about to make a life-defining decision and she’s trying to protect you from the disappointment she had to go through,” he explains. I blink in surprise.

When he puts it that way, it sounds completely logical and not at all as condemning as I heard it, coming from my mom’s mouth. “Okay, maybe … But it still hurts, knowing that she doesn’t believe in my abilities,” I declare stubbornly.

Hunter sighs, smiling at me softly. “It’s not that she doesn’t believe. Trust me, she does. Just as much as I do. We all believe in you. But we’re living in a world, where everyone is trying to make a name for themselves. And it’s really difficult to get noticed in the crowd,” he tells me. Yeah. It really is difficult. But maybe not impossible.