6/1/27, post-journal entry 8:

I believe high school is a turning point for every student. It was for me at least. Every single day after meeting each other, I couldn't focus on my assignments nor remember why I was skipping class when I did. It was my fault for falling over your schemes and lies. But, that's what made you so beautiful in the first place.

6/20/27, post-journal entry 7:

I still don't understand the point of everything that happened from back then. I used to think that faith was just another way to say, "I don't fully trust you, but why not?". And I always thought when people say "I have faith in you!", it was usually their way of saying you're probably going to fail that exam, or you're probably not going to meet my expectations.

And I won't lie, I use the word faith as well. But not in the way most other people have when they think someone might fail. When I think of Faith, it's more so to the universe we live in. What plans do they have in store for me? I always wanted to believe that the bad things I endure now will pay off in the future. And for a long time in high school I really started to believe in it.

6/25/27, post-journal entry 6:

Finally finishing high school, I have written my entire life out in this flimsy purple journal. The type of job I want to major in, the college I want to graduate from, the type of friends I want to meet, and even the delicious food I hope to try. Yet, everytime I look at my journal, I can't help but feel like I'm still missing something.

7/7/27, post-journal entry 5:

In the mornings, it's really hard for me to wake up. Sometimes, my Spongebob blanket would wrap around me and never let me go until it's the evening. My mother used to scold me everyday for it, until she read into my journal and looked at me with a pitiful stare. Now, she leaves me alone and makes sure I'm okay with every passing day.

There's always a yellow sticky-note on the front of my door whenever I want to go in my room and think about life. I can tell it's been there for a long time with the paper being stained with dirty finger print marks. And it looks crumbled really badly. The sticky-note seems to have been through many different types of emotions, but I can't seem to remember them. 

8/1/27, post-journal entry 4:

I'm not sure who I should be reading this to. My flimsy journal has about hundreds of pages written for someone, and I always wonder who I've written them to. I know I've written them, since in every journal entry my name is always on the top left. But I don't remember writing them to someone or writing them at all. Yet, my body starts to tense up whenever I come across the name "Faith". I wonder why?

The first page of my journal isn't there, how do I know? Because there is a line of tear marks around the spine of my journal. I still look from the top of my disintegrating attic to the bottom of my insect filling basement to find the missing page, but I can never find it. I wondered if I threw it out because having that page in my journal was the same as having that one b+ in the middle of the straight A's in your report card. Either way, I think about that page every waking day. 

10/15/27, post-journal entry 3:

I've been going to the doctor's office every week now. I think I go on Fridays if I'm not mistaken. The stereotypical doctor office and the smell of nostalgia will always be the reason why I always tell my parents not to take me. It's not because I hate the design of the hospital rooms or the fact that every room smells like a mix of cleaning products and faint humans. Mainly every time I enter a hospital room, my body starts to tense up with my hands rubbing against my thighs, My eyes looking around every aspect the room has to offer, and even the little hairs on my back tingling out of anxiety. When I share this with my doctor, he tells me I have somatic trauma. Why?

11/1/27, post-journal entry 2:

As I opened the photos app to clear unwanted photos for more storage, I realized that many of my pictures were stored in my hidden inbox. I tried using face ID to open it, but it always rejects me. I still use my passcode to enter my hidden inbox, but I don't understand why my face ID never works. I scroll through my hidden inbox with about 100 pictures that were all worth being there. But, there was one that caught my eyes. It was an angled pic from the top. I could be seen sitting down on a bench at a train station. How do I know? Their floors are always dark, dirty, and filled with shoe marks of people passing by. But that wasn't why the picture caught my attention. It was simply for the fact that I wasn't the one taking the picture. How? I can see myself looking up at the camera with a surprised, dumb look on my face with both of my hands on the bench. And a pair of legs can be seen standing on the same bench I was sitting on. Since finding that picture, it has always sat in my favorite inbox, alone.

12/24/27, post-journal entry 1:

It's Christmas eve and in one of my journal entry notes, it instructed me to throw away this journal on this specific day. I kept skipping through the pages briefly to find a reason to throw away this journal, but I never wrote one down. I kept contemplating whether to throw out the book and listen to my past self or go with my gut feeling and keep the journal. I don't know why my past self would find the need to throw this great journal away. I must've really wanted to be an author at the time and failed, because every journal entry always feels pure and realistic. Yet he always forgets to write the girl's name.

 6/29/31, post-journal entry 0:

I never thought I would be writing here again. Thanks to my mom, I get to write in this journal for the last time. It really was fun. But, I always wondered why I can never forget about this journal. Why must my mind fail to keep every other memory of mine but this journal? Hmm… I guess I should write that down too, huh? I don't have that much time or as much space to write my final thoughts. My journal is almost complete and so is my time here. But I know I can rest easy knowing I lived a unique life. Like seriously, why couldn't my parents tell me sooner that everything in my journal was true? No wonder I'm the way I am now! It's sad. I won't remember them anymore, nor anybody else. But, to say that I died for someone else to live isn't so bad, isn't it? I just hope…their body reacts the same way mine does when I read this book. Because if it does, then I'll truly know I'm still haunting them, even if their conscious forgets it. I'll read this journal one last time, for good measure. I'll make sure not to pause on the embarrassing and cringe moments, since if I do I will never get to the end of the journal. And lastly, I would like to thank my 14 year old self, for leaving this great gift to me. It has really been a bizarre roller coaster hasn't it? Now, for the first and final time, I will read this journal as if I were living through the experiences myself. As the title of the journal starts, "Do we remember love?".

End of journal.