Dear Rhys,
This journal is starting to feel like a shrine to Hank, and I think we both know that’s not healthy. I might call you Monday and ask for a new assignment, something that doesn’t scream “write your trauma in cursive.” I’ve been good. I haven’t called him, haven’t stalked his whore’s social media, haven’t even liked any thirst traps from her sister, who, by the way, wanted Hank first.
This is growth, Rhys.
I’ve been thinking about change. Like real, chemical-level evolution. So, I signed up for adult swim lessons. I know. Ironic, since I’ve spent most of my life acting like water could kill me faster than my ex’s abandonment issues. But I want to become someone who floats. Someone who glides.
This is about healing. Movement. Becoming the kind of woman who doesn’t look back unless it’s to check out her own ass.
Anyway. Wish me luck. If I die mid-breaststroke, tell Hank it was his fault. I want that on the record.
Also, I left my trainer a thank-you gift. Because even hard men deserve soft things. Cookies. Encouragement. You know, emotional protein.
Rhys Journal
Dear Rhys,
So. I saw you at figure drawing class.
Let’s talk about your calm. The way you didn’t even blink at a naked woman in front of you. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t drool.
And I’ve got to say, respectfully, that kind of self-control radiates edging kink. I’ve seen porn stars with less focus. Very erotic. Very serious. Very you.
But also… that woman? With her runway legs and “I drink celery” vibe? Not your type. You need softness. You need warmth. You need someone who makes you laugh so hard you forget your ethics for a second.
You need contrast.
I didn’t mention class in my therapy journal because I want it to be a surprise. A cinematic moment. Because let’s be honest, therapy isn’t exactly the sexiest beginning to our love story. But next week, when you walk into that studio and see me on the model stand, posing like a Renaissance sin?
That’s when we begin. When you’ll realize, therapy was foreplay. This is fate.
Benji Journal
Benji,
Eeeee!! I’m so excited for tomorrow I could scream into my pillow and then maybe bite it for texture. This is our moment. Our meet-cute 2.0. You’ve seen me in the hallway. Next, you’ll see me in damp swimwear, conquering my fear of drowning for the sake of character development.
You’re going to look at me and say, “Wow, she’s even hotter when she’s drowning!”
And I’m going to look at you and think, “That’s a man who would rescue me from both sharks and emotional isolation.”
Can’t wait to start our forever.
PS I shaved everything. Even the parts no one will see. Just in case.
Jett Journal
Jett,
Did you get your things? I hope so. That little monster card? That was bespoke affection, handcrafted chaos just for you.
You could’ve called, you know. My number is on file now. Gym records, waivers, emergency contacts. I’m basically a database at this point. You could find me faster than you could do a pull-up.
But maybe you’re shy. Or maybe you’re pretending not to notice me. That’s fine.
You might not thank me with words, but your pupils will dilate. I’ll know.
I’ll see you Monday.
