dear diary.

With love, me.

Dear diary, with much neater handwriting, I'm back with my trusty orange marker.

I flipped through your first pages (oh, I don't know, six years ago?) and realised – I'm not that same little girl writing to you with a pen I nicked off mum and vowed to sacredly uphold the ritual of writing to you every night.

I was so adorably innocent, wasn't I?

As you know, from being dormant on my bookshelf for so long, every new year's resolution to complete you has failed. But now as I pick you up again, I realise something – that little girl in me still appears sometimes.

My scribbly scrawlings must have frustrated you, didn't they?

How long ago did these entries date back to, even?

It seems like those memories recorded on paper are still stuck in my head.

It's been a while to have something filling up your lines, hasn't it?

I wish, my dear diary, you could have magic powers and cast a spell to bring me back in time to those little, mindless events on these lined pages.

Maybe in my dreams, huh.

All that childhood stuff seems so far away now, as everyone presses on about growing up when I don't want to leave little connections like you behind.

This might be the last time I ever touch you, I think, but you're still going to watch over me from you spot on the bookshelf, won't you? (Even now, I feel guilty about occasionally writing on the drawings on your pages, marring them.)

How could I have been so stupid? It seems like a million light years away when I was rambling about a single piece of homework when now, I've got a make-or-break exam shoved in my face. Ridiculous, wasn't I?

I'm sorry, diary. I'm sorry for breaking my promises to you, vaguely about keeping you forever when I've been ignoring you.

Do you think that could change?

I want to thank you, though. For letting me capture my insignificant childhood memories in my then, rather limited vocabulary.

I'm sure you were scoffing at my childhood simplicity as reflected here. I mean, who wouldn't?

But yes, thanks for bearing with the ever-inconsistent me throughout all these years. (Thank goodness you aren't one of those fancy little notebooks locked up in glass showcases, or I'd feel really bad about ruining you.)

This could count as your longest entry ever, can it?

I hope you'll miss me as much as I'll miss you, though.

You're like a history book documenting my, and only my life.

Thank you.

And for the last time, good night.

With love,

Me.