untouched journals.

[this is what happens when you open a journal you haven't touched in more than a month]

every single time you see her fragile body, you cringe:

her arms;

wrists;

collarbones;

thighs that are miles away from touching;

sunken cheeks and eyes;

everything looks like a symbol of death. it's as if the myth of vampires, of the undead is true, only in this case, eating is prohibited.

every single time you see her, you wonder how she's still alive. she looks like an old person on the verge of a collapse or a heart attack while in reality, she is still in her teens. she should be enjoying herself, going out with friends, laughing, but these things are far from her reality, which consists of tears, screaming, wasting away, constant calculations and arguing with oneself.

every single time to see her, you try to guess how much time she has left to be in this world. as her condition deteriorates, the number of days in your head decreases:

half a year;

three months;

a month;

a fortnight;

any day now.

she could be gone any day now, but this is not your biggest concern.

every single time you see her, you wonder how many days and pounds until you look as lovely and fragile as she does.