Journal Entry #3
(yes I know it’s Sunday shut up)
Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
WHO the actual fuck is Hank and why am I still journaling about him when I clearly have moved on to better, taller, living men who text back and feed me cheese???
Hank is the ghost of bad decisions past. And frankly? I’m done processing him. He’s been processed. Ground up like emotional meat and packed into a shrink-wrapped regret sausage.
So anyway! Expect a call Monday. Partly because I think this assignment is a hate crime and partly because I miss your voice and the way you say things like “deflection” and “emotional masking” like they’re not just hot synonyms for flirting.
Anyway. Swim lesson was today. I got in the water. I let a man touch me (Benji, not a stranger, I haven’t relapsed that hard) and I didn’t even cry or bite him. Progress. Chart that. Write it in sparkly ink.
Not that you care since you’re too busy obsessing over Hank the Conceptual Trauma Puppet.
But I also had a date. With a very tall, suspiciously sweet man. He asked me and everything. I didn’t stalk. I didn’t beg. I said yes and wore a dress that clung in all the right spots. And he held doors and didn’t mind when I ordered my pizza like a war crime.
And I didn’t even follow him home. Write that down. Put it in my file. Gold star me, Rhys.
Anyway, I’m writing this Sunday morning because I passed out in a post-orgasm haze last night. Solo show. No Hank involvement. Just me, my fingers, and the crippling realization that I may be developing feelings for someone who deserves so much better than my madness.
Anyway. That was my Saturday.
Hope you’re happy. I’m catching feelings and I blame you entirely.
PS : If you bring this up in session, I will throw your tasteful IKEA desk lamp out the fucking window.
Rhys Journal
This isn’t about Hank anymore.
This is about you.
Your voice. Your stupid tight polos. The way you write things in your notebook when I talk, even though I’m 80% sure it’s just doodles of dragons and grocery lists.
I want to know what your face looks like when you’re not trying to therapize me. I want to see you messy. Raw. Laughing. Naked.
I want to fuck you on that weird little therapy couch that smells like eucalyptus and regret.
But mostly I want you to see me. Not as a case study or a walking red flag. Just me. Raw and weird and trying.
Okay maybe I’m projecting. Or maybe I’m in love with you. Or maybe I just need more iron in my diet. Jury’s out. But either way, you’re in my brain and I hate you and I want to kiss you.
Benji Journal
Oh my god, where do I even start? I feel like I need a permission slip to write this. A hall pass for emotional regulation. A helmet. Something.
Because here’s the part where I usually fuck it up. This is the slippery slope. The cliff edge. The cartoon banana peel of attachment.
And you are just standing there with a smile and your big gentle hands and your nacho cheese, making it so hard to play it cool.
So listen. If you ghost me like Hank did, I swear to god, I will show up.
I will not be normal. I will not respect your space.
I will treat your restraining order like a flirty suggestion.
That’s not a threat, that’s just love with poor impulse control.
And I’m working on it, okay? I’m learning. I’m in therapy.
You’re everything. I mean it. And I know it’s fast and weird and I haven’t even seen your house or your trauma yet, but you looked at me like I wasn’t too much.
Like you liked the chaos. Like I wasn’t something to fix.
You made me feel so safe I got horny and unhinged at the same time, which is honestly my most authentic state.
Anyway, I’m coming to the pool tomorrow.
Not because we have a lesson. We don’t. I know.
And not for water therapy. Though I might throw myself in the deep end for attention.
But because you’ll be there. You, teaching other people. Smiling. Existing. And I just wanna see you.
I’ll pretend it’s casual. I’ll wear sunglasses and bring a towel like I belong there. I’ll act like I just happened to drop by because I’m so breezy and chill and emotionally stable.
But really, I’m just a girl with a crush so loud it’s echoing off the walls of my stupid little trauma brain.
See you soon. Probably too soon.
Please don’t stop smiling at me like that or I will have to kiss you in public and then blame it on my inner child.
xo,
D
Jett Journal
You should text me. Or text. Or knock on my door like a man who knows what those kisses meant.
Bet you said my name and hated yourself for it. Good. That’s exactly how I like you.
I bet you ate all the snacks I left too. I hope you choked a little. I hope you thought of me when you did. I hope you’re thinking of me right now.
Did you jerk off to the kiss on the tank? Or was it the card? Just curious. For science. For my journal. For reasons that are definitely not horny and possessive in nature.