Here is what I know. Something spent seven weeks writing in my hand, recording my days before they happened, for reasons I do not understand. A version of me — ahead of me, or around a corner I haven’t reached — left a second journal to help me navigate it. And whatever the first source was, it learned, at some point between October and December, that it had not achieved what it came for.
Here is what I don’t know: what it wanted. Whether it is finished. Whether the journal it was writing was meant for me at all, or whether I was simply the person who happened to find it.
And here is the thing I come back to, late at night, when the apartment is quiet and my handwriting is only mine again:
The second journal was signed, on its final page, with my name. Below it, in smaller letters, one line.
I remember being you. It gets easier. But stay careful.
I have read that line many times now. And each time, I find myself wondering the same thing.
She remembered being me. Which means at some point, she stopped.
I don’t know what she became instead.
I’m not sure she would tell me, even if she could.
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