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I had a journal I started writing to him in right after he put the emerald cut diamond on my hand.

I remember how I scowered over the different leather bound books lined up perfectly on the shelves of the back wall, their blank pages just waiting to get soaked with ink. I couldn't contain myself. I finally chose, and then sat in the same bookstore and wrote to him (the future him) for two hours.
He didn't know it.
I played it over and over in my head. It was going to be a journal of memories and thoughts, a journey of a decade together. I was planning on giving it to him on our ten-year anniversary.
Like the relationship, it started out strong
And fast.
It slowly began to have big gaps.
Soon it sat dormant in drawer.


I kept it hidden for years.  Writing only when big things happened. The birth of our girls.

When I was happy.

When we were going through the divorce I threw it at him one day as he was laying in our bed. I told him I knew we weren't going to make it to ten years, and he should just read it now. It was another backwards attempt to hang on to something that wasn't working.
It was dramatic.
And true.

And heart breaking to do.

He asked me why I stopped writing in it.

I didn't have an answer.

After things ended I ripped out the ink stained pages.
For some reason I thought it would help. I don't even remember doing it. I just know the outside of the journal is still beautiful and sits on my office shelf.
The inside is damaged

And waiting for blank pages to be filled.

August 13.

I would have only one year left to go before I gave him the anniversary gift 11 years in the making.

My Roots

My Roots