Feb. 10

Dear Journal,

I have to admit I had forgotten about you for quite some time. That makes me quite the unfortunate pen pal. Although, I suppose you’re not much better considering you don’t actually write back to me.

Sometimes I wish I had someone that would write back—I write to my family of course. I’m not that bad of a brother or son. At least, I hope I’m not. My family and I exchange letters on an occasional basis. We’ve never been supremely close. It’s fine. I’d say we’re average, but we split apart as I got older. I suppose it’s something that every man goes through.

Although, I can’t say Bryce goes through that, or has gone through it in the past. He talks about his sister with such love and such praise, his mother and his father with such pride and respect, something I could only hope to glean from someone like him over the course of years and years passed; he really cares  for them. It’s more than his typical charm; that draws the general population to him like moths to a flame. No—when Bryce talks about his family, it’s like he’s entranced in something magical.

It’s those moments when I would give anything, my heart, my soul, my entire being, to see through his eyes if only for a split second. I would even kill—Would I?