August 21, 2002
In the Open
He found my diary. All he had to do was type my name into a search engine and due to my excessive usage of my true name he found this. My diary.
He tells me, pleading that I not be angry with him, swearing on all that is holy and sacred in this world and the next, to not be angry. He only read my cast and my profile, and one very old entry. He wanted to read about old me. Who I was. How I became this Jillian.
He didn't read anything I wrote about him.
I don't know if I'm happy about that or not.
But I am certainly delighted and flattered that he likes my writing, and it was not only interesting because it was me but also because it was interesting. He said it was horrendously difficult to keep from reading more, because he knew I'd be upset.
I'm not.
Not that he needs to know. I'm more honest in my diary than I think I am with myself. And it isn't that I lie to him... just... it's a girl thing. He can't know just how much I adore him. Or I'd start to worry.
How easily I could be decieved.
Maybe someday I'll tell him. Maybe someday I'll let him read more.
Maybe he'll do it on his own and confess it red-faced and apologetic.
Either way, my heart is his. Him knowing that isn't going to change it from the truth.
We were sitting in Kasey's car, singing along to The Cranberries 'Linger', and I thought about just leaning over and whispering, delicately, into his ear, 'I love you.' No one would hear but him, and he might lean back and look into my eyes. Who knows what he would see, what I would see, once it had been disclosed. He wouldn't have had to say it back.
But I couldn't tell him for fear that he would not.
I thought about it.
Does he think about it?
astera at 1:35 p.m.