This is a blank so I can go back and write something here if I don't want it showing up on Recent for whatever reason.

Okay, yes. I have found something I want to put here. This is from a paper journal that has been sitting in my closet for over two years. It was written before I found Oasis, in the days leading up to Grey's graduation. I am ashamed of what I wrote then, but for purposes of documentation I will transcribe it here and then destroy the original.

....

This is my fantasy:

It is graduation. Actually, it is after graduation. I've never attended a graduation ceremony before, so I'm not entirely sure how to envision the setting for my fantasy, but graduation is over, diplomas have been handed out, graduates are being congratulated, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

My insides writhing with anxiety and my mind rehearsing the plan in broken, frantic, panicked thoughts, I seek out a specific person from among the new graduates.

"Hi," I say, quietly because my lungs are not working properly, when she doesn't at first notice me standing timidly near her, obscured, perhaps, by her crowd of admirers.

"Hi," she says.

"Congratulations," I give a weak smile. My face isn't functioning any better than my lungs.

Overcome, or nearly so, by fear, I stand quietly, awkwardly by as the crowd of admirers, mostly her family, continues its sentimental gushing. But when she turns to leave, with her family, I steel myself to do what I have been planning for months.

"Wait," I say. She does. Her retinue waits too, but a safe distance off. My voice breaks and my eyes well up with tears as I say, "I just wanted to say... goodbye."

I give as small sob. She can tell from my tearfulness that by "goodbye" I mean forever. Her face is puzzled: she had assumed we would still see each other once in a while, and she says something to that general effect, drawing closer to me as she says it.

I take her hand and shake my head no. "No - no - I'm afraid - no. From here... the world just keeps getting bigger." I kiss her hand gently, leaving it wet with my tears.

"I have always loved you," I sob, then turn and walk away, not looking back, tears streaming down my face.

She calls my name when I am several paces away. I don't respond. I just keep walking, with determination despite the sobs now shaking my torso. She calls me again. Still I walk away.

A small smirk of triumph crosses my tortured and tear-soaked face when I hear the third call: not only is i it louder and more desperate, it is closer. She is following me. Following me at her fastest walk, maybe even a run.

The smirk becomes a full-fledged grin, which I must suppress with painful-looking contortions of my entire face, when I feel her hand on my arm. Still, though, I walk doggedly forward, resisting her efforts to spin me around, forcing her to place herself directly in front of me, blocking my path.

Her eyes meet mine and, with a power that must be hypnotic, drag my head down to meet hers. My mind is completely blank of thought as she kisses me.

I knew, before my mind went blank, that she was going to do this only out of pity. I knew she was not in love with me, or even attracted to me at all. To some extent that makes it even more perfect: she, angel that she is, kisses me out of pure selflessness, finding the idea repulsive or at least thoroughly unappealing, but doing it anyway. This makes her even more angel and less human to me, and if she's an angel and I'm a human, she is less real, and, what it all comes down to is, I get the full, beautiful, perfect, tragic ending to my part of the story rather than the relationship doomed to be unsuccessful or the incomplete story of simple rejection. For her part, she never sees me again, but occasionally receives a blank postcard from some distant part of the world. She knows it is from me, and that it means I still love her, and her pity for me lasts and grows until it is a kind of love - not enough to prevent her from loving someone else and living a happy and fulfilling life, but just enough to form a distant, spiritual bond between the two of us.

Oh god I was horrible. So ashamed of how I felt then. If I didn't have this journal those feelings would have been completely retconned out of my mind. At least I'm better now...

An earlier version of the fantasy had me awake from my faint - in all versions, I faint when the Angel kisses me - in severe pain. "All Solace Everywhere," the Angel's blasted, accursed, and in all other ways hated boyfriend is punching every bit of me, but mostly my face. His first blow has broken my nose, and there is blood everywhere. I want, with what little of my consciousness is able to think through the pain, to faint again, but my body obstinately keeps me conscious. Through a haze of blood, tears, and pain, I see the Angel shouting, intervening, trying to stay Solace's fist, clumsily wrestling him off me.

I abandoned this version of the fantasy because of its happy non-ending. A happy ending would be great, a tragic ending almost as good, so long as it be an ending. Unfortunately, for me and the Angel, a happy ending ies out of the question. Any relationship between us, be it just-friendly or otherwise, would be doomed to failure. I can't quite explain the reasoning behind this - if she can make it work with All Solace Everywhere, she should be able to make it work with me - but I know it's true. So in all my fantasies, and all my plans too, I end it, sever ties with her completely, never see her again. The only differences between the plans and the fantasies are that the fantasies are plans, best outcome, and end it in an especially romantic, appropriate, satisfying way.

So in the updated fantasy - the one where I don't get punched and never see the girl of my dreams again - after the final parting has happened I find my best friend, who has been waiting at a safe distance, ready to give me his emotional support as soon as I need it. He helps me walk to some secluded, beautiful place not far off - I don't know which one, but there are surely at least a few in downtown [Rivendell] - where we sit, and I cry. I lean my head on his shoulder and cry into his neck. For once, he is quiet, knowing what has happened and understanding how I feel. He has had his heart broken before. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders in a gesture of support and understanding.

In the version in which the Angel kisses me, that is all. I go home after several hours, to find an anxious mother with only the vaguest idea of what has happened and bearing the news that the Angel has telephoned at least once. I never return her calls, and even when one comes when I am home I refuse to take it. I do send her a blank postcard from a faraway land I visit this summer, and indeed from every foreign place I visit for at least a good number of years, possibly, if I never get over her completely, my whole life. I remain in love with her for a long time, years, I think, and act severely depressed for several months.

But in a more possible version, possible enough that I am vaguely hoping it will happen, those hours with my best friend are spent slightly differently. In this version I do not get kissed by the Angel. Everything else is the same - that's all part of the Plan. But while my friend and I are sitting together in the undetermined secluded location, I shift my still-crying head from his shoulder onto his lap. He keeps his hand on my arm as my sobs, very gradually, ease off. This is calculated, intentional, but he does not know it. I force my thoughts to stay in the realm of those that will not make me resume weeping for a minute or two, then conjure a mental image of the Angel and think all the most dismal thoughts of how I'll never see her again, never talk to her again, et cetera. The tears and ragged breathing return.

My friend, in response, begins to gently stroke my arm. Somehow I respond favorably while still sobbing, perhaps by making a nuzzling motion with my head. Eventually his hand moves to my hair, stroking it, then running through it, feeling its softness, excited by the way I obviously like the sensation and the attention, despite my grief.

After this has gone on for some time, I turn to look up into his face. The look we exchange confirms what we have each suspected, secretly, for who-knows-how-long before: My best friend and I are in love

Maybe we kiss then, maybe not until some happier date. And it's not like with the Angel. This is a relationship sure to last - our compatibility has been proven by nearly five years of friendship. It is more real, more sane, more ideal in every way. We're right for each other - not perfect, but close enough.

Ugh. Eew. Really hating my past self right now. But I'm better now.

Now, I owe my audience an explanation. If I have an audience, that is. This is not the sort of journal I keep for my future self. This is the sort of diary my future self destroys because it's embarassing for even me to read it, and I would be nothing short of mortified if someone of my acquaintance were to read it. I don't even like people of my acquaintance to read my travel journals. No, this is a diary I hope to leave for complete starngers to read. I hope to plant it in the school library with the label "FIC ANO" on its spine, to be read by anyone who chances to wonder whether any book is actually shelved under "Anonymous" before the librarians take inventory again. Everything in this book is entirely true, but if I plan it it will be under Fiction because no one ever would find it otherwise. (See how desperate I was for an anonymous audience!)

The explanation I promised: You are probably wondering who I am, or even what I am. My first story, the fantasy about my female crush, probably gave you the impression that I am male and straight. When I wrote about my male best friend, I probably left you confused. Well, I myself am confused. I can tell you that I am female, but nothing more. Female, currently seventeen years old, currently a junior at [Rivendell] High School. Without telling you too much and cluing you in to my identity, I am androgynous enough to pass for a boy if people aren't paying attention.

I have, as yet, never so much as kissed anyone (unless that boy in kindergarten counts, which he doesn't), and, however much I may want to, probably will not any time soon. (Most true thing you've said yet, past self!) As my various (pretty innocent for seventeen, I think) fantasies indicate, I like both girls and guys. I'm not sure which I like better, or whether I like either in a sexual way. I am far - okay not that far, but not close, in any case - from labelling myself a bisexual. I would be willing, even eager, to kiss the right girl or the right boy, but not to go further: As far as I can tell, my attraction is a combination of emotional and aesthetic.

...

Yearbooks were distributed today. It was a reminder, if any more were needed, that the end of the school year is approaching, meaning time is limited. The prospect of never seeing the Angel again revives some of my conflicting feelings. A part of me wants to spend as much time with her as possible before the parting. Then again, if that part had any power, the Angel and I would already be bosom friends - and I mean that in a purely innocent way, mind you, "bosom" refering to the heart, the seat of emotions, whatever, as opposed to bosoms of a mammary nature. - The dominant part, the one that got me into this mess in the first place, is fear. I can't seek her out, or even stop avoiding her, because I'm deathly afraid. Of what, I'm not entirely sure.

...

It seems a bit weird to be planning for this. Part of me feels like I'm only pretending to be in love, like it's all an act. I have it planned out what I'm going to say, and when I'm going to cry, and for how long I'm going to remain too heartbroken to function. It feels like I just want a heartbreak experience and am going to do my best to make it happen.

I think that's all true, too. But I also remember how real my state of being distraught was on April 28th, the day she forced me into confessing how I felt about her.

It all started that morning, when I panicked. I was in the middle of a conversation with her. Prom was just a couple of weeks away, and she was telling me how excited she was.

"I'm so excited for Prom," she said, and if that wasn't "rubbing it in" hard enough (albeit unintentionally), "It's weird. I'm not really the kind of person who gets excited about dances. It must be just... who I'm going with." Had she known what she would know three or four hours later, she never would have said anything so insensitive. I foolishly take the opportunity to say something stupid I've foolishly wanted to say for a long time.

"Oh, him. How are things with All Solace Everywhere?"

Maybe it was the way I mumbled it, maybe it was just that she was surprised and confused by what I had said, but she gave me a puzzled sort of facial expression, and may also have said "What?" or "Huh?" or somesuch.

I panicked. I stammered a few incoherent syllables, clutched at my hair (which, incidentally, is of an excellent length for clutching in panic or frustration) and, when I felt I could no longer remain in her presence, I bolted. Just ran for it. Ran stupidly away from her until there was no chance of pursuit. If she had not known how I felt about her before, she certainly knew then. I slumped against a tree, panting, whether from the panic or the running or both.

Then, not knowing where else to hide from her and from everyone, I power-walked my way to the site of that day's STAR Test, although there was still plenty of time left before I was required to be there. Though still nervous, or anxious, or whatever the word, I managed to calm myself enough to go through the Chemistry STAR Test as well as first and second periods, successfully and without incident or visible outward sign of distress.

At lunch my plan was to find my best friend and drag him off to some remote location where the Angel would not find me. I hoped to avoid her for a few days, hoped that she would not confront me about the incident if enough time had passed. But my friend had to spend his lunch period finishing a STAR Test, and an acquaintance told me in passing that Mr. [Calculus], the Calculus teacher, wanted to see me. So I was on my way down to Calculus, apparently forgetting my usual paranoid habit of glancing around to check for potential enemies or crushes, when I heard the Angel's voice. She had found me. She had caught me.

"Hey (she called my name, which I am not going to share), can I talk to you?"

I froze. I glanced around for an escape route, but she was so close already, and there were no convenient shrubs behind which to dodge. I was on the landing of the stairs between the courtyard with the nice trees and the Art and Home Economics building. She was advancing on me from the ramp. You know the place.

I mumbled and/or stammered something to the general effect of "Yeah."

(Finish this later, okay.)