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Diana spends most of her hours awake sitting on the drawer, watching you walk around your house with Skylar atop your face. Not just sitting and watching occupy her time, though— Diana also finds herself talking. Or is that you talking? Who's making the sound here?
Today is Friday, the second of August. Or is it March seventh, and are you about to get on a plane to Paris, France? Or were you going to London, England? Had you even gone via plane, or did you travel by train? You were reading, or maybe you were drawing. Or you were doodling in your math notebook— wait, no. But yes. But no, not at this time.
She feels her diary counterpart's pages rustle with contempt. You had taken interest in the mirror behind her again, pointedly ignoring her rambling.
"On the thirteenth of October," she starts, "you went to your cousin Cordelia's birthday party." Did I go, too? I might as well have. You described everything like 'a Wikipedia page written by a Harvard professor'. At least, that's what you said after talking about chocolate cake. Were you talking about the cake? No— yes— no—
Diana remembers music, but she thinks of music everywhere. When you were sixteen on October thirteenth, you liked to listen to nearly everything, so Diana liked to listen to everything, too.
"Happy birthday!" Cordelia had beamed at everyone's declarations, her fingers deftly pulling the ribbons from gift boxes. You had gotten her an antique telephone, which you thrifted in New York— New Amsterdam— New? The telephone wasn't new. Because you thrifted it.
"Telephone," she mutters, "Like Garfield's. People don't like to use telephones anymore, they like to talk with Phoneicia, which I would like, too. I like it if you like it, [Name]."
No! I don't like something just because you like it, Diana thinks. The pages of the diary crumple onto themselves with a sound like wet paper being stepped on. Or do I? I like you, [Name]. Because you showed me the world. But sometimes— it hurts.
Diana lets another thought slip from her lips. "Thank you, [Name]."
She doesn't expect you to turn around. She doesn't expect you to meet her eyes. She doesn't expect you to smile so sweetly she nearly forgets about the bad things you've done, the terrible things you— and therefore, she, had gone through. Nearly.
"Hello, Diana," you say knowingly, leaning your head against your shoulder. "How have you been?"
How have I been? That makes Diana think about study hall in high school, where teachers would pass you in the halls and ask you questions. They liked you sometimes. Diana thinks that when you come to her for confiding, it's when your favorite teacher yells at you over something miniscule— (your words, not her's).
"I've been... good. Well, not really. Sometimes I think about June twelfth. That wasn't a good day for you. And me. You and me."
You giggle and close your eyes. "I think you're the best journal I've ever had."
"The only journal," Diana echoes, marveling at your eyelashes. That's what you did with the pretty girls in high school, who told you that you should 'just use castor oil' on your eyelashes. You forgot about it after two months, but your eyelashes did grow a bit longer.
Your eyelashes. Not her's. Because we're not the same person, we just go through the same things. Right?
"What?" Your eyes flutter open. Fluttering, like the dress that you're wearing right now. It's really pretty, Diana thinks. Or did you think that, when you bought it a couple months ago?
Diana tilts her chin up, the fog in front of her eyes breezing away with the sound of your voice. "We're not the same people," she finally says, after her captured breath bubbled out of her throat. "I just... understand your experiences."
You bit your tongue, letting out a hum. "You're right, Diana," you nearly whisper, stepping closer to her. Diana thinks that she can feel your breath on her ear— was that someone speaking French in the distance? No, we're not in Paris anymore. We?
"You have to make me my own person, please," Diana pleads, a rare moment of clarity freeing her mind. You only blink slowly, your eyes meeting her's before you offer another sad, small smile. You slowly nod, careful not to break your pupils away from her's, before you finally spin around, your fluttering dress the only thing Diana recollects.
When Diana loses eye contact with you, she loses her train of thought. She thinks of vague bits from her conversation, like the words 'how' and 'person'. A hypothesis. A theory. The scientific method. That was what you were talking about, weren't you? Science.
"That's our least favorite subject," Diana sing-songs. "Science, because it doesn't involve any creative liberties."
You feel tears prick at your eyes. You hope that, tomorrow, when you talk to her, she'll remember her goal long enough for you to actually fulfill it.
"Diana," you swear, "you'll get your wish if it's the last thing I do. I'm sorry it's taking me so long. I just— won't know what I'm supposed to do with my thoughts when you're free." And every time I look at you, I feel my unreciprocated love filling my lungs like air, and I feel lightheaded— why did you forget?
You feel a tear slip from your left eye and hope it isn't an empty promise.