I put this journal aside for a long time. I've been too tired to write in it. My clothes are looser, and she is concerned that I'm "shedding mass." This is not how I ever wanted to get to know her.
At night, I started singing to myself to calm my nerves. She paid rapt attention and shortly asked me to teach her the song, "Le Temps Des Cerises." She asks how I know it, but I'm in no condition to talk about him. It's just an old family tradition I tell her.
Is it lying? I wonder if it really matters now.
I tried to answer some of her questions. About the Black Armory, about life before the end… about what I believed in. About what makes us who we are. About what makes her who she is.
If you don't know where you come from, how can you know who you are? Our past defines us more than we are willing to admit.
All this—all that is lost—I'm telling her that she should care for it. Our past is precious and needs to be remembered.
I tell her this realizing that I'm the one holding back. I'm the one keeping secrets. I'm the hypocrite. Stopped me from being able to even look at her.
Someday, probably soon, she'll be the only life our legacy has left.
Maybe one day I won't be such a coward. Maybe then I'll tell her everything.