I'm a girl. This journal is almost 10 years old, when I started it, I called it Almost 21. Before that, I had a journal called Soap on a domain that no longer exists. Some things have changed since then, some things haven't. I always wanted to be a writer. I live out that dream here.
It was night of the afternoon where I'd ordered a long black in the cafe.
"At this hour?" The waitress said with a raised eyebrow. It was pretty late.
"I'm tired!" I defended myself, a little embarrassed. It's true, I was tired, and she was right, having that much caffeine that late in the afternoon wasn't a good idea.
Our meals came: filled croissant for me, French toast for him. I ate it as I'd been eating most things that week: without enthusiasm. It was like I'd lost my tastebuds. He said it was because I'd been sick, but I wasn't so sure. I felt as though I'd lost my appetite for life as well.
He was confident that too was due to the illness.
We'll see, I said. It probably wasn't a bad thing that I was excited about consuming only vegetable soup in the foreseeable future.
Afterwards, we drove a lot in a van that strongly smelled of diesel and had a cracked rear vision mirror, picking up bargain couches my sister had bought online from opposite ends of the city. i had motion sickness and anxiety, and confessed that I definitely should not have had that long black.
I wanted my sister to be happy. I could sense her exhaustion, feel her mania. The van was a sad place for me, and yet for her, it was a comfort. She was not alone.
I lay in bed that night, thoughts running through my head, fulfilling destructive browsing habits on my phone. And yet through all the noise, I sensed a silence that wanted to come out, and I knew that if I could just get it out, everything would be okay. For then, this knowledge was enough: the potential for everything to be okay. I knew that one day I'd forget it, like I'd forgotten the birthday of someone I thought I'd never be able to let go of.
The thoughts were liberating.
My sister said that that she believed he was the archangel, like his name. I often believed that this was true; if angels existed, then one had found me.
"I miss you when you are sleeping." I texted him at 1.15am.
2 meters away, his phone buzzed and lit up the room for a second, rivalling the glow of the super moon.