March 18th, 2009.
I hate it. Emily blew up at me this morning in front of Capriol about how fake I am.
All I said was that I didn't want to talk to her right now (obviously,
because I was in the presence of my beloved, a rare occurrance!)
I'm sure he hates me. I hate myself. I want this whole thing to be over.
I believe it will be over soon. I'll give him a real reason to avoid me.
"I need to talk to you," I will say. "I am hopelessly enamoured of you.
I will stop being weird now, I will leave you alone, it doesn't matter.
Now that I have confessed the secret that has been haranguing me thes past
months, unless you have anything pressing to say, I wish to be alone now, sorry."
Why not just say it? I've lost my friend, I'll lose Capriol, I'll probably lose myself too.
Update (3rd period):
He wasn't at lunch and now I fear my resolve is lost. Chopin's Mazurkas play in my earbuds,
and with bitterness, I walked to the wall by the auditorium and sat, just staring at the dull
scenery. I paused the music and decided to try and listen to see if he was practicing.
I couldn't hear anything. I looked at this as an omen. Of what, I don't know, but
I don't want to find out. Maybe I'll tell him tomorrow and then I will leave him alone.
It seems that the only light left in my life is my writing - my stories, my fictions.
Only the mysterious Monsieur Moricz can see my inner truths. Yesterday he said that
he liked my first chapter of "A Long Rendezvous" and that he was planning to write
something based on it! Oh, how wonderful that would be! Plus, he linked to a story of
his he's been writing on Fiction Press and it's ten chapters long (though the chapters
are short. What a gift! A beacon of hope in these desperately trying times.
I hope, I pray he'll come through.