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.

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I have seen that future thing again. That future thing where I think someone will not survive the near future. As I saw my mom in the kitchen today, I almost cried. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. Either because she’ll die before that, or I’ll die before that I don’t know. It could all be wrong. I don’t know, and that’s what scares me.

She survived – and she’s still doing just fine.