The eleventh page is marked in several place with dark blotches—once watery and damp, but now dry, albeit crumpled and discolored. Had there been ink under those blotches, it would have been muddied and smeared. On another page, those blotches would have been a disaster.
Here, though, they were of little consequence, for there was, on this page, only a single sentence, penned at the top of the page—neatly, because a lady did not abandon decency for anything so trivial as tears. It was a promise; an oddly solemn thing, to be scribbled in a diary, but there it was secret yet bindingly permanent.
I need to break up with Sunset.