Dear Diary
I never write in this thing - my life is littered with quarter-full diaries, notebooks, computer files. If anyone ever wants to compile it all, they'll have quite a task. And then there's the bit with *him*... I think I burned all of it. I kind of hope so - he's my secret shame. But at the same time, maybe someone could learn something from it.
Nah, the world knows enough about the wisdom of mistrust.
I wonder, if it wasn't for being burned by a guy I never met, could I keep this up? Would I really be enough of a cynic to mistrust my soulmate? There. I've said it finally. I never said it to him. He knew, but there's something so solid abouthing so solid about *saying* it - about hearing it said. That's why I never let him say it.
God, look at that. Tear marks already.
I never let him say it, and he never pushed me far enough. We were both a little scared, I think. Especially with fate working against us the way it did. Until a few weeks ago, I think I would have said to anyone who asked me that the worst day of my life was the day I "met" him in person. It was actually kind of amusing - amused the hell out of him, but that was partly a defence mechanism. We both cried over it later.
An instore. That's how I met him in real life. I'm even on one of the Much Music clips from that day, which is worse. It defined me as a fan - as someone who could never just meet him and start something, made everything so much more difficult. But I had to do it once. We talked about meeting casually in the hall of the hotel - and then he saw the itinerary. They even had a band meeting after the concert. Plus, Quebec still spooked him in those days - the guys would have wondered how little Nicky found the courage to wander around a hotel after coming from Montreal and all that insanity.
The guys. I could kill them all. Some nights, lying there, trying to forget how alone I am, I relive those early morning hours and wish I had fought him, pulled him out to safety first. Things would have been different then. They might still have known, but would they have bonded?
He's always been the hero. Sacrificing himself for the good of the family, to protect his brothers and sisters, to save *them*. Dammit.
Who am I kidding? I wouldn't change a minute of it. It would have ripped him open, to have them suffer the way they would have without his help. I'd never do that to him. If one of them had died... he would have gone with whoever it was.
Sometimes I think about killing myself. I have a life outside of him, of course. We both stomped all over that tiny little hope that we might be able to arrange that first meeting, the one where we could start a life... oh why even bother writing it down?
That hope never really died. I found that out in the first pains of knowing he wanted someone else. He would have died happily if I hadn't reminded him of them. In the end, their years together, their life together, their bond meant more to him than me.
I've been rejected a million times before. I dealt. Or repressed and moved on, anyway. It's been two months and this wound's still open, bleeding, infected.
No one else has noticed enough to comment, of course. No one who isn't psychic, and *they're* all tip-toeing around me, afraid I'm going to break, or explode. When daily life is a never-ending cycle of deadlines, it's not hard to do it on automatic pilot.
Don't they know they're making love to one already dead?
That's how I feel. Dead inside.
And yet, if it makes him happy, I'll go with it. I'll keep living, because if he ever finds out I killed myself, he'll dwell on it. I want him to move on.
I do.
No, I don't. I want him to port in here, demanding answers, breaking down all my sheilds until I have to tell him everything. I want him to make it all right. I want him to tell me that no matter how long I kept silent he would never fall in love with her, that he misses me everyday, that damn the world to hell he's going to move to Toronto and make me happy for the rest of my life.
That's what I want, but it's mean and selfish and impossible. He didn't rush in here as soon as he figured it out. Hell, he never even figured it out. Suzanne had to *tell* him I was gone. I was supposed to be a part of him. Me gone was supposed to be like missing a limb. You don't go two months thinking, "Hmm, my left arm feels kinda light. I'll just ignore that for a while and use the right one until it feels better."
I should be happy, being right. So what if he knows my whole soul, owns it? I'll get a new one. He doesn't need me anymore, and he'll get over the wanting. I was right. I have no right to be angry. These hot drops of sea water hitting the page aren't allowed to exist. I made my choice. I saved myself from actually hearing the words "We were never really meant to be" from his lips. It's all right that he didn't miss me until he was told I was gone. I don't hate him.
That's the truth, I don't.
I'll always love you, Nickolas Gene. Forgive me for never being strong enough to say it.
The quote is from Les Miserables, "Lovely Ladies".