The eighth page was a mess. A whole paragraph was covered up by censoring scrawls, uncharacteristically frantic. The diary was meant to be authentic; scattered thoughts, lacking conviction, had no place among those pages.
Focus, Rarity. You’ve been waiting your whole life for a romance like this, haven’t you? Maybe it’s complicated, but you are more than capable of navigating it.
Though I suppose it wouldn’t be a sweltering romance if it didn’t have some pain to it, would it?
The ink making up those first few sentences had set and dried long before any more were written, scrutinized keenly before any continuation was allowed.
I have some concerns. About Sunset. There, I said it. I suppose I’ve had them for a while, now.
The way she treats me is fine. I wouldn’t change a thing, on that front. Goodness, why would I? She’s one of the most charming people I’ve ever met. The rest of the students seemed to think so, too, for a while.
But now, occasionally, I’ve heard things. Nasty things. And I can’t stop thinking about Lyra.
I don’t even know what I’m accusing anyone of. But I worry. And I can’t stop thinking about that offer Sunset made me. It’s the chance of a lifetime—there’s not another soul anywhere in the world who could make me an offer like that.
On the bottom corner of the page, there was a single, small blotch of discoloration. It had come in isolation—a break had been taken from writing, and tissues and ice cream made a rudimentary antidote.
But I can’t accept it unless I’m sure.
I’m going to talk her. And if my doubts are put to rest… then, and only then, will I go back with her.