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July 14, 2032
<p>Dear diary,</p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I love staring at my boyfriend’s eyes.</em></p><p><em>I’m starting to get annoyed, though.</em></p><p><em>They never blink inside the jar.</em></p><p><em>They were prettier when they were still attached to him.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>My therapist says there isn’t a jar.</em></p><p><em>She says my mind created one because I couldn’t accept what happened.</em></p><p><em>According to her, he’s been dead for three years.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>That the police found pieces of him scattered across the city. An arm behind a church. A leg near the river. Teeth in a drainage tunnel.</em></p><p><em>His eyes were never recovered.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>My therapist says that detail is important.</em></p><p><em>That my brain latched onto it, chose them as a place to stay.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>She calls it grief.</em></p><p><em>Sometimes denial.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I asked her why she was so sure I didn’t have them.</em></p><p><em>She looked uncomfortable.</em></p><p><em>People always do.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>The police searched my room six times.</em></p><p><em>Every drawer. Every closet. Every floorboard. Every box.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>Sometimes I think they didn’t look properly.</em></p><p><em>Sometimes I think they were afraid.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>My therapist said I should stop writing about them.</em></p><p><em>She said documenting delusions reinforces them.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I told her they aren’t delusions.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>She wrote something down.</em></p><p><em>She always does.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>Today she asked me where I thought his eyes were.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I told her the truth.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>“It’s on my dresser. I put them there this morning. I was tired of hiding.”</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>She didn’t respond straight away.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>“I think we should focus on what’s real,” she said.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I said I agree.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>That’s why I keep them where I can see them.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>She wrote again.</em></p><p><em>Didn’t finish the line.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>She asked me to repeat myself.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I did.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>Slowly.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>Her expression changed. Not much.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>“How?” she asked.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>My therapist had beautiful eyes.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>Kind eyes.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>The sort that make people trust you.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>The sort that look better when they’re still.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>She didn’t say goodbye properly.</em></p><p><em>Just watched me like she wasn’t sure which version of me she was looking at.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I liked that.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I spent most of the evening rearranging the collection.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>Space. Light. Order.</em></p><p><em>From brightest to least bright.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>Things behave better when placed correctly.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>The therapist’s eyes fit nicely beside my boyfriend’s.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>Both blue.</em></p><p><em>His dull with boredom </em></p><p><em>Hers bright with curiosity.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I think I’ll leave them like that.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>I am tired of hiding them.</em></p><p><em><br/></em></p><p><em>11:47pm</em></p>
July 14, 2032
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Laseeee
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