Seventeen

The worn pages of her old diary lay open on the bed. Each page written in a sloppy manner telling one or another story from those distant years. She didn't distinguish too well which ones were real and which were not, for her hand used to make up different stories from time to time to somehow let go of the fact that her life wasn't that interesting. Perhaps she had underestimated herself, though.

She read.

"Tuesday, March 4.

I lost my glasses case again, and hopefully my luck will be good again and I can find them right where I left them. Mother couldn't buy me any others.

I have been reading some new books and everything reminds me of him, some stories seem made to remind you that your life will never be that interesting. I'm not complaining, as some characters live hell inside their oh-so-interesting lives. I refuse to call myself boring.

I wanted to tell you that these days I have been thinking about my future. I'm not in a good place and Mom wouldn't let me go see Dad, although I'