Dear Diary, I'm Completely Lost

Not The Only Aspiring Writer In Hilhi High

Dear Diary,

I’m back. I’ve spent a weekend with Hunter, just to be thrown back into my life cruelly. I really wish I could’ve stayed in New Haven longer, even if it’s not my style. Just kidding. I mean … Ugh. Okay, no, it’s not my style. I’m sorry, Hunter, if you ever read this. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.

Anyway, I managed to come up with an idea for the writing contest. I guess that’s a good thing? Except it’s not, because I don’t have the balls to put that into the world. I really need to decide what I want, don’t I?

I have a bad conscience for the thoughts that are swirling around my head. You know, the ones about college. So, I do my best to give Hunter all my attention and more. I give him every waking moment that I spend with him until we have to get to the airport.

He is thrilled to have me by his side, and the feeling is mutual. I just don’t want this weekend to end. But all good things must come to an end. Just like summer. And the two-thousands. And Brangelina.

Anyway, Hunter borrows Benji’s car the next day, to drive us back to the airport. I hold his hand the entire way again, the silence in the car being almost eerie. I mean, I have to go back to school now and pretend like I’m not bothered by spending two months away from Hunter again.

People would’ve thought I got used to this after spending two full months without him and surviving. But I’m Perrie. I don’t get used to things so easily. Especially to those that include someone very dear to me. Yeah, I got used to living without grandpa eventually, but it took so long.

I can barely tear myself away from him, once we’re standing in front of the line he can’t cross. He holds me so close that I can barely breathe, but I don’t care. I want to pull him even closer. Have him glued to my side. I want him to come with me!

“Perrie, we have to go,” my mom reminds me quietly, but respectfully. She knows how badly this is hurting me. Me and him both. I can tell by the way his breathing just quickened at the reminder. But I don’t have the strength to pull away from him. He has to be the one to do it.

He cups my face and looks me in the eyes, smiling softly. I’m already on verge of tears again, despite telling myself that I won’t be crying this time. I’ll be seeing him in two month. “I’ll be with you soon. Good luck with that competition. You got this,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss on my forehead.

It makes me melt. A familiar kind of warmth spreads from where his lips touched my skin, travelling all the way down to my toes. I pull him closer and kiss him, again not caring about our parents being there. I need this to survive the next couple of months.

As I turn around to look at him, my lower lip trembles. He stands there, hands in pockets, shoulders slouched like he doesn’t know what to do with his arms now that I’m not by his side to have them wrapped around me.

I wave at him one last time, and he waves back, before the moving staircase hides me away from his gaze. As his muscular frame disappears, a few tears roll down my cheeks, but I quickly wipe them away.

This is no time to cry, Perrie. You need to work on that competition, so you can join him. Stop chickening and dramatizing about how you don’t like New Haven. You like it enough to spend time with Hunter there.

It doesn’t matter where we are. As long as we’re together. And that’s how it needs to be. No matter my feelings. I can take four years in a place that doesn’t feel like home. What’s four years, compared to my whole life?

My parents talk all the time we wait for our flight, but I don’t. I’m too emotionally drained to join their conversation, despite their endless efforts to try to include me in it. I can’t focus at all.

They eventually stop trying, letting me sulk in peace. Once we get on the plane, they both end up falling asleep soon enough. But me? I can’t sleep. Not in the middle of the day, with all the noise that we’re surrounded by. These planes don’t know how to fly quietly.

I have my laptop in front of me, but I just don’t feel like watching anything. I scroll through Netflix for quite some time, but nothing catches my eye. And I really don’t want to watch Bridgerton next to my parents. It’s a little too … intense.

Anyway, suddenly, I find myself opening up a new document. And as I stare at the empty sheet in front of me, words suddenly start flowing. Before I know it, I have half a page written.

I let it all out. I let out my inner conflicts, my love for Hunter and mask it into something that doesn’t give away anything about my life. Like it’s not connected with my current identity crisis. Oh, I love the power of metaphors.

When I get to a page and a half, my dad suddenly shifts. I quickly close the document, pretending like I’m just browsing through YouTube. And I do it just in time, because he looks straight into my computer screen. He yawns and I smile at him. Phew.

Okay, no, I’m not hiding my love for writing from anyone in my family, but I … I don’t let anyone read what I write about. I mean, it’s not that I don’t feel good enough. Okay, maybe it’s partially that, especially since my mom’s profession is so closely connected to writing.

No, it’s more like, I don’t want them to know what I’m writing about. I’m obsessed with love stories in any form and I feel low-key embarrassed about it. I don’t know why, it’s just how I am.

Suddenly, I start overthinking. How am I going to show Mrs. Ramirez what I want to enter the competition with, if I don’t even let my own parents read it? Or Hunter for that matter? Damn, I didn’t think this through.

I don’t touch the draft again. At last not until I’m safely hidden in the safety of my bed, knowing that no one can see my screen if they enter the room. That’s the reason why I’m not working behind my desk.

I keep writing like my life depends on it. And I actually like the final result enough to force myself to be brave enough to take it to Mrs. Ramirez tomorrow. I’m not sure what she’s going to tell me, but I hope she won’t spit all over my style of writing, the storyline and the characters. I mean, it’s a short-story, can’t really do much character development there, can I?

Anyway, I still gather the courage to print the sheets out in secret, knowing that it’s all or nothing. This is everything I have. If I won’t show it to the teacher, she’ll tell me that I don’t even have to bother anymore. I mean, it’s been almost two weeks since I approached her. I can’t avoid her any longer.

So, I grows some balls, as my dearest brother likes to put it, and head towards her office first thing Monday. I have the papers safely hidden away in my backpack, in case I clumsily bumped into someone on the way and have them scatter over the ground.

Yeah, I know it’s an unlikely scenario, but I really don’t want to risk someone picking those papers up and making fun of my love story. Because that’s what would’ve happened, I’m sure of it.

Okay, shortly told, the story is about a high school girl, who is facing an important decision in her life – she has to pick a date to prom. Unlike me, she’s a popular girl, who has suitors wherever and whenever she wants them.

Anyway, she’s deciding between two guys, a metaphor for me, trying to decide whether to pick Yale as my first choice college, or do some digging about what would be a good fit for me first. The story ends with the girl, picking the guy who is doing more for her. Not sure what that means for my own life.

I knock on the door, hearing voices coming from inside. Okay, it’s probably one of those students who need extra help in classes. Or maybe someone that doesn’t need any help and is there because they’re so good. Maybe they’re here for the competition, too?

No, no way. As far as I know, there is someone else who applied, but they probably entered the competition weeks ago. You know, I’m a late party crasher, and they did their job before I even decided to enter a writing competition.

I start taking my backpack off my shoulders, already trying to prepare the first draft for Mrs. Ramirez to either praise or tear it into pieces. I hope it won’t be the latter. But as the door swings open, I freeze mid-movement, my backpack coming to a stop in the crook of my elbow as I come face to face with the person, standing inside Mrs. Ramirez’s office.

“Good morning, Miss Hughes. Do you have a draft for me, too? I just checked Miss Wagner’s here,” the teacher greets me warmly, while my jaw almost drops. Almost. I have enough self-control to not give the b***h the satisfaction of seeing the shock on my face.