Emma hadn't gone to her Saturday morning yoga class. She wasn't with her personal trainer now, either, for her biweekly session. She hadn't gone to kickboxing on Wednesday, or most of her classes, and had called in to work on Thursday and Friday. She'd barely made it to mandated team practice for Regionals, and she was the captain of the fencing team.
Really, she hadn't gone anywhere since coming back on Tuesday that wasn't vital.
She'd read the journal four times now. Four times, right up until the entry for That Party. Then she'd stop, and start at the beginning again. Those last fifty pages were still untouched, unseen, as if not reading them would make everything contained in there untrue and undue the damage of the last decade. That maybe her brother would be pounding on the door between this page and the next, hollering her name at the top of his lungs.
But this was New York, not Fandom and it's fairy magic. It was hard and bright and real, with no room for daydreams or softness, and that was why she loved it. Christian was dead. He wasn't coming back, not again, not here, and not reading the rest of the journal wasn't going to change that.
Fifty pages. That was all she had left of him. That was the entirety of his life after he'd been taken away from her, and the one subject on which he'd refused to speak on the one weekend she'd gotten him back.
She turned the page, and started to read.
[NFB, open for calls or texts or vists, sure. SP until after I finish demolishing this set.]