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Diary of a Dying Girl (Pt. 3)

Entry Three

YOU'RE NOT WHO YOU SAY YOU ARE.

I wonder if you know just how willing she is to do whatever you say, and if you do, that makes me fear your impending future with her even more.

In the beginning, everything seemed so sweet and simple. Even after we buried the sunlight, I knew that we'd see an "after" this.

And there you were, ready and willing to pick up the pieces even though you feared people's opinions—if they would think that you were trying to cover the loss of the sun.

I was so sure of you. I liked that when she talked about you, she never shut up. With every guy before you, she never spoke of them at all. But you were in every word that escaped her lips. You were the creases in her smile, the tremor in her heartbeat. You were everything.

And so I began to question our Creator. I asked Him if you were "the one." I even began to rationalize the loss of the sun, trying to reason with the fact that if he was still around, your love story may have never been. 

In no way am I trying to make his death some sort of necessity, because I know that our Creator was saving him from the pain he cried out about in the months leading to his final day. With that said, sometimes I believe that you may just be a glimpse of better things, a hint of what is to come.

You are a man of all trades: kind, intelligent, protective, life-giving. But despite your most beautiful qualities, you are still your father's son. And I fear that his nature is not yet eradicated from you. Sometimes I fear that you just have yet to grow into it.

I know that everyone has their baggage, but you seem to worship yours. As if the things that make you unsafe make you better somehow. You're unapologetically arrogant and it scares me. You don't negotiate or compromise. And frankly, part of me believes that your proposal wasn't driven by just love. Part of me believes that you were trying to hold onto something that you feared would slip away.

You got her to release her resolve so quickly. She even went as far as making a list. She wanted to talk, she wanted the truth, she wanted to understand, but somehow, someway, you convinced her to throw all of it aside. 

Show yourself. The thing I wish I could scream at you whenever I see you next. I know that there is more to you than what you're letting on. I know that we're only seeing one side, and I fear that you'll wait until forever is locked in place before you release whatever lies within.

Being a dying girl means that I don't have time to give my trust to everyone that comes around asking for it. Her love for you doesn't make you an exception. 

You're not a monster. You're actually quite incredible in nature. You're a country boy, recently a soldier. You drive trucks, ride motorcycles, and take the boat out in the summertime. Believe me, I remember why I let you in initially. I have those hot days and long drives embedded in my head and my heart. I know exactly why I'm not willing to give up on you just yet. But something has changed, and whatever it is cannot be ignored, at least, not by me. 

The boy in my photos—the one wearing my shades, and driving his truck mid-summer with broken AC —I know he's in there somewhere. He just doesn't seem to come around much anymore.

Dearest soldier, country boy, know that I am not as easily convinced as she is. I don't love you in the way that makes me blind to what you might, or already have become. I love you because you're hers. And I care about you because you wrestled your way into my heart. 

But know this, if you're not who you say you are, I have no problem ripping that place you have in my heart right out. 

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Diary of a Dying Girl (Pt. 3)
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