Saturday 23 February
Tomorrow is Sunday. I have been lying on my bed for an hour listening to frikkin’ ‘Chasing Cars’ over and over again and I am going insane. I haven’t written in this diary for nearly a week because I don’t even dare think about certain things, let alone write them down.
So here goes, it has to be done. Last Sunday when he drove me to the lookout, when he kissed me, he did it so tenderly, so softly. When he touched me, he looked at me as if … as if I was precious. He melted into me and I melted into him, and he told me I was beautiful. I can’t have imagined it can I?
I think he has been avoiding me this week – there have been no text messages, no taunting me with The Girlfriend, no trapping me against walls. Just the occasional longing look from across a room and when I catch his eye, he quickly looks away.
I wish I could talk to someone about this. But how can I when I can’t even admit any of it to myself?
I think I must be imagining it.
Sunday 24th February
He didn’t come.
Monday 25th February
I am pissed. Really pissed. How dare he treat me like this? I am going to school today and I am holding my head up high and I am not going to let him get to me. I am making sure I look Super Hot (well, as hot as I can manage) and I am going to laugh and chat with my friends and totally ignore him.
The Douche is old news. He is dead to me.
Well, that went well. I managed to get through most of the day with nonchalance and NOT CARING radiating from me. Stu wasn’t fooled though and had a look of almost frightened puzzlement on his face all day as I insisted he accompany me everywhere. Unfortunately he is not in my Math class (being a genius) and so I had to cope with that one alone. And I did not cope well. The minute the Douche fixed me with a look I felt my resolve crumbling. It wasn’t even his usual steamy look; it was a questioning look full of hurt. He looked like a little boy all of a sudden, and he had me suddenly questioning my perception. Could I have been wrong? How could that be possible?
At the end of class, I hung back a little and as I had hoped he came up to me. He shuffled and looked nervous and whispered, “I was busy yesterday.”
“So? What’s it to me?” I said. I couldn’t help it; I was still pissed.
Then The Girlfriend said his name from across the room; I hadn’t even noticed she was still there.
“Yeh, I can see what you were busy with,” I said and pushed past him, not taking another breath until I reached the car park.
I am ashamed to say that when I got home I cried. I can’t do this on my own any longer. I need to talk to someone. Why isn’t Mum here when I need her?
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