Chapter From Rachel’s Diary （Continued）
From Rachel’s Diary:
Frankie went home.
That’s it. No poetry. No slow-motion exit. One last look, a hug that lasted half a second too long, and then the door shut behind her as she headed down to the car waiting for her at the curb. I watched her go from the window.
Everyone keeps calling this a beginning. Like I should light a candle or do something ceremonial. Instead, I retreated to my kitchen after the car pulled away and stared at the spot where she’d been five minutes earlier and felt stupid for missing her already.
I didn’t kiss her. I didn’t say it. I didn’t wreck anything. Congratulations to me for being responsible and miserable.
This apartment is mine now. My space. My silence. My consequence. I wanted independence so badly I chased it across an ocean, and now it’s sitting here with me, daring me to fuck it up.
Paris doesn’t feel romantic. It feels like exposure—harsh light, no shadows, nowhere to hide.
If this is what choosing myself looks like, it’s not soft. It’s not pretty. It’s lonely and sharp and absolutely unforgiving.
Fuck meet-cutes.
Fuck fairytales.
This isn’t that kind of story.
I don’t know what kind of story it is yet, but it’s definitely not one of those.