That’s how she always started. Dear Diary. As if she was talking to me. As if I could hear her.
She’d always follow it with How was your day? Every day was better when she wrote to me. I should have told her that.
Her days were hard. Her days were sad.
I never do anything right.
That was her favorite; she wrote it a lot.
The best part of my day was when she’d pull me out right before bed to get her final thoughts down.
Writing helps me sleep.
Sometimes she missed a day. Sometimes she missed a lot.
I wish things were different.
It hurts. I don’t want to hurt anymore.
I knew I wasn’t her first, but I still loved her so much. When she took me out of her drawer, I could see the shelf filled with all those who’d come before me. The shelf I’ll never know.
I wasn’t her first, but they weren’t her last.
How was your day?
Mine could have been better. You know, sometimes I think you’re the only one who understands me.
I tried. Her honesty helped.
I miss that. Dear Diary. So simple.
It had been coming for a long time—my whole life. I knew when she wrote it I’d never see her again.
Prompt: write a scene from the point of view of an inanimate object.