At the time, I thought the illness had confused her. I missed the profound disappointment in her eyes. The way the light behind them had finally gone out.
Guilt clawed at my throat, sharp and suffocating. I gripped the pen tighter, desperate to write more.
That's when I noticed something strange.
This pen was a cheap freebie from the shop where I bought the diary twelve years ago. It had been clipped to the cover ever since. The ink should have dried up a decade ago.
Yet when I pressed the nib to the yellowed paper, it flowed smooth and dark.
*"I'm begging you, don't confess to her! Let her live a good life without you!"*
I bore down so hard the nib tore through the page.
As the final stroke landed, the full weight of my regret crushed the air from my lungs.
But there was nothing I could do.
No way to undo what I had broken.
I curled up on the floor and howled—raw, animal, inhuman.
*Dominic Delgado, you really are a monster.*
*The one who should be dead is you.*
When I finally lifted my head and wiped the grime from my face, new words had bloomed on the page.
*"Who are you? How are you writing in my diary?"*
*"What nonsense are you spouting? Why can't I confess to Amy? I, Dominic Delgado, will never let Amy Ware down!"*
I stared at the page.
This wasn't a hallucination.
This was real.
On the other end of this impossible connection was my eighteen-year-old self.
The boy who had just received his acceptance letter. The boy who was moments away from changing Amy's life forever.
I dragged my sleeve across my face and wrote back, handwriting urgent.
*"I am you at thirty. Believe me. I would never lie to you."*
I waited.
And waited.
No reply came.
A bitter smile twisted my lips as fresh tears dripped onto the page.
Of course he didn't believe me. He was me, twelve years ago.
How could I not understand him?
He was an eighteen-year-old boy who thought a crush was destiny. Who believed love was an unbreakable vow. Amy Ware was the center of his universe—the girl he'd sworn to protect with everything he had.
If he gave up just because a stranger scribbled a few discouraging words in his notebook, he wouldn't be Dominic Delgado.
I clutched the diary to my chest and curled into a tight ball on the cold floor.
When Amy was still alive, she used to fall asleep like this. Defensive. Lonely.
I didn't know how much time passed before a cacophony of voices dragged me back. The front door banged open.