His Heart, Mine

Dear Diary,

My fingers are twisted around the pen as I desperately try to think of something to write while lying on my bed, but I can't. As the time passes, I realize how ridiculous this is, which makes me laugh and throw my pen away.

I've always dreamed of having a secret diary. I wanted it to be my private place, something I could look forward to reading when I grew up, remembering my silly moments as a child.

I even imagined presenting it to my future children when they'd get older, so they could see, from my perspective, how my life was. But sadly, I'm not a diary girl. I've never been.

God knows that I have tried countless times to be consistent.

I think my longest strike was actually a whole month when I was in 5th grade, but Mom knew it wouldn't last – and she was right.

Now, I'm 21 years old, and Sara had the brilliant idea to gift me this diary yesterday.

"Just try it! It will come, I promise," she said. But the words aren't flowing as expected.