February 16th. Monday.
Hello, Irene.
I’m writing to you in my diary again, because only within these lines can I touch your shoulder without the fear of you recoiling with that look I saw on their faces in the cafeteria today. No, not yours. Theirs.
Today, Linette poured the remains of some cold cocoa over my backpack. This time it was particularly sticky. Do you know what the funniest part is? She said that “a swamp like me could use a little fertilizer.” I just stood there, feeling the liquid soak through the fabric, reaching my notebooks, while that high, jarring laughter rang out all around me. It pierces my ears, Irene. It’s like broken glass they force me to walk on every single day.
My skin burned under my sweater from the humiliation, and I felt like a massive, shapeless blotch against the blindingly white walls of the hallway. At home, Mom didn’t even look up from her phone. She only said, “Darcy, you look like a slob again; is it really that hard to take care of yourself?” If only she knew how hard it is just to force this body to breathe.
But now… now it’s dark outside the window, and I close my eyes. My room smells like rain and lavender soap, and Linette isn’t here. There is only you.
You’re sitting on the edge of my bed—the Irene I keep locked inside of me. You’re silent, just as you always are in class, but it isn’t a cold silence. It’s velvet. You reach out and brush your fingers against my cheek. Your nails graze my skin ever so slightly, and a jolt of electricity shoots through me, making me arch toward your palm.
I imagine you slowly undoing the buttons of my thick, old-fashioned, second-hand blouse. One by one. Your eyes—deep, dark lakes—look at me with such adoration, as if I were the most exquisite creature ever fashioned by God. You don’t see my acne, my crooked teeth, or this awkward body. You see my soul, trembling beneath your fingertips.
Your lips, cool and soft, touch my collarbone. I feel your breath on my neck, and it’s so unbearably sweet that it steals the air from my lungs. In my mind, you whisper that I am your secret, your treasure. Our fingers intertwine, and I feel the heat of your body through the thin silk of your dress. Every movement you make is a promise. Every touch is a healing balm for the wounds they inflicted on me today.
In this darkness, Irene, I am not an outcast. In this darkness, I am your queen, your only passion. I feel your hands move lower, exploring the curves of my body, and I gasp from this imaginary rapture, biting my lip so I don’t cry out in the empty apartment.
Tomorrow is Tuesday. Tomorrow I’ll have to watch you walk past me again without even a glance in my direction. But I will know. I will remember the taste of your kisses—the ones I love so much to imagine.
Until tomorrow, my love.
