Dear Diary,

I am always missing him. I’m always thinking of him. My heart is urging for his touch, his love, and his affection. I just want to melt into his arms. If he wasn’t in my heart, I don’t know what I would do. I miss him so much when I haven’t seen him in a while. I think I’m getting too attached to him for my family’s likings. I speak to him in French, but I don’t think he understands anything I say. That is a good thing because I am always confessing my love for him.

His brother will listen when I need to talk. I don’t know what I would do without him. I can just lay with his brother, and talk about everything. I wish I could do that with him. I don’t know how he would take it though, I’m a lot to handle.

I wish he would just understand what I’m going through.











Love,











Scarlette.


Dear diary,

I visited him today. He was so kind and listened to everything I had to say. I don’t really know what my life would be like if he wasn’t there. No one knows how bad I just want to cuddle up with him and watch romance movies, wasting time like we were immortal. That’s not going to happen though. I want to be enveloped in his warm arms and just feel like I’m at peace. I want to lay with him and talk about how stupid Spiderman and the gang are, or compare our feelings about the new Transformers movie.

I want to go on Disney rides with our children, watch them graduate, cheer when they get into their colleges, attend their weddings, and more with him. The lists go on. I want him to be the Romeo to my Juliet, the sun to my moon. We have to be together.











Love,











Scarlette





Dear diary,

The world is so imperfect. Nothing can go the way we want. We think our lives are perfect and can never go bad, but just as we start thinking that, something goes wrong. Everything goes wrong. There is no one we can depend on to always be there, to always care about us, to always love us. Hate spreads around like the flu, and love is the medicine that can’t keep up. If only we could be together.

If only he hadn’t felt that way. Like no one wanted him or needed him. It was as if I was just a small portion of his attention. He was blind to my live, immune to my need. It was like he had shut me out of his world, the world that I so desperately wanted to be in.

The gun took him. He took himself with the gun.

In his letter, it read, “The flower that one does not pick, the plant one does not water.”

His brother was a miracle. When he died, his brother was there for me. I cried for days. Yet, I still cry. I always cry. Someone can mean so much to you; you have to tell them before it’s too late.

He committed suicide two years ago. It has been a while. I am 19 now, his brother is 25. He would have been 18, almost 19. The hate of society took him; the hate of the world pressed him to do something like this.

Suicide is a killer. Not only to the person, but to the rest of the world that loves him, still.