I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

Lost my black pen, found another. Forgot what it was like to love, have a crush, kiss…still don’t. Lost my knowledge of something so grand, still cannot find. Gave up a jealousy, found another. Maybe something is meant, maybe not. I can’t worry about it, or I’ll think too much. Don’t want it to turn out that I lost a love, lost another/ Lost what it was like to love, and now forever.

You know what the craziest part of losing a love is? It’s up to you, not anyone else, when you’ll find another.