ENTRY 1

I found this in a box my things from the move.I don't usually write in journals, as I prefer the feel of writing on loose leaf more than writing atop stacks of pages but, I might as well get some use out of this.The way this book was bound is weird, its rather cheap and flimsy.
The thread is pulling up and splitting.I could just fix it myself, Dad taught me how to sew forever ago yet Tristan has the sewing tools in his room.I'd rather not pester him for them right now.-
Mom bought me this notebook after.She said I should write things down so I wouldn’t bother her with them.Talking drags things out and makes people uncomfortable.Writing, she said, keeps it contained. Keeps it neat. And if I never needed anyone to talk to, I had my future self to sympathize with my past self's thoughts.She put the notebook on the kitchen counter, told me to use it whenever I felt like "that", then went back to doing whatever she was already doing.Ever since then I haven't really been too open.-I was the one who found him.
I don’t write that sentence often because my head gets ideas when I do.The house was too quiet.
Sound of his absence was ear-piercing. I remember thinking I’d woken up too early for school.If that were the case Mom would've been scrambling to get Tristan up, they were always so loud in the morning. That silence reassured me they were gone.Mom always told me not to leave my room until Dad came in.
I was supposed to yell if I needed anything.I just sat at my bed and looked at the clock.
That tick tick ticking tone.
It went on for hours.Eventually, I started making scenarios in my head.Dad had forgotten to get me up maybe?
Perhaps he was just too tired from staying up writing the night before.
After all, Dad had deadlines to meet. He always did.My father had a meeting with a filming studio later that week so he had been cramming for the past couple of days.Innocent thoughts.Eventually, I became so uncomfortable, my legs couldnt stay still. I felt static shooting up my legs so I took it as a sign to get up.I won’t describe him.My brain already keeps record without my permission.I waited hours for Mom to get home. I wasn't allowed to leave the house without Dad, I wasn't supposed to do anything without him.He looked so peaceful,
"he's finally getting some rest" I thought.Mom cried like something inside her snapped clean in half. Tristan didn’t cry at all. He just stared at the wall.I remember thinking I’d done something wrong by seeing it first.Like if I hadn’t looked, it wouldn’t have counted yet.I don’t think about him every day.That’s the lie I tell myself so I can keep eating breakfast without feeling ill.
But sometimes when the apartment is quiet...that quietI feel like I’m eight again and the hallway is too long and I already know what’s waiting at the end of it.I'm not writing this to feel better.
I'm writing it so it stays here instead of stacking itself up inside me.Journaling keeps thoughts from rotting inside my head.

ENTRY 2

Sometimes I feel like my head is a room in my apartment I don’t live in.I stop by to check if the lights are on, then leave again...At work my hands do everything without asking me first. They grab boxes, count change, knock on doors.When customers talk, their words float past my face instead of landing. I nod because that’s what a person is supposed to do when noise points at them.I don’t feel tired the way most people describe it.
It’s like my body is tired for me.I catch my reflection in the glass door sometimes and it startles me.Not because it looks wrong, but because it looks finished.I don't see myself as a complete person.When I blink and it blinks back, perfectly synced. I don't recognize myself much.None of this is new.I remember being a kid and feeling like my thoughts were sitting one step behind my eyes, watching the world happen to someone else first before it hits me.Teachers would say my name and I’d need a second to realize they meant me, not this body.I thought that was just how growing up worked and that when I got older my mind, body and soul would merge into one form.When I walk, It takes a second to register the impact of my feet hitting the concrete.When I speak, the words come out wrong.Sometimes I press my fingers into my arm hard enough to leave marks just to check if I’m still attached to it.I always am. I just don’t feel present enough to claim it.The worst part is how normal it feels.
Like I’ve been renting myself out my whole life and only just noticed I don’t know where the key is.I need a replacement, I need one soon.If this is what being a person feels like, then I guess I’m doing it right?It just doesn’t feel like me doing it.

ENTRY 3

Some days I think about Medas.
He had A LOT of medals, which was silly considering he was one himself.He had track ones. Gold and silver, never bronze. He used attach them to his backpack (they were SO LOUD)... they would bang together as he walked.Medas also would toss them onto his desk like they were nothing, like they didn’t mean he was all fast and super strong... things I always wished I was.People joked about his name and the irony of him having so many medals. He pretended to hate it, but I could tell he liked being known for something.We weren’t close friends. Not really.
But we talked. He sat near me sometimes.Y'know... borrowed pencils. Asked if I understood the homework. That sorta thing.Once he leaned over and said my hoodie looked cool, then I wore that hoodie every day for weeks after.I didn’t realize it was a crush at first. I thought it was admiration, or jealousy.I only figured it out when I started rehearsing conversations in my head and feeling sick afterward....When I started paying attention to where he was in the room before I paid attention to anything else...The day everything went bad wasn’t special. And that’s the worst part for me.Just lunch. Too loud. Too many people. I already felt like I was standing a step to the left of my own body... it was a foreboding feeling that kept me alert.Someone made a joke. I don’t even remember what about... and I laughed too hard. Then I said something stupid. I don’t want to write the exact words because they still feel sticky in my mouth, but it was about him. Something about how easy everything must be for him. I tried to make it sound playful. It came out bitter....There was a pause.
Not long. Just long enough for me to realize I’d messed up before anyone else reacted.... ugghhhhh....Medas looked at me, surprised. Not angry. Just… caught off guard? Then he laughed. A real laugh. The kind felt cruel. Someone else laughed too. The moment moved on without me.
My brain tried to get over it quickly but my body couldn't???I could feel my face go hot red... almost as if it were burning. Then my hands started shaking as if they were freezing.I stared at my tray and tried to swallow but my throat felt too tight.I didn’t say anything else for the rest of lunch. I don’t even think anyone noticed. Sometimes I just need to learn how to keep my mouth closed.After that... rather awkward incident... everything shifted.
Not in a dramatic way. Just small things.I told myself it was no big deal. That I was overreacting... That people say dumb things all the time. But I replayed that moment over and over and over and over and over and over again in my head...I kept trying to figure out what I should’ve done instead. Like...what if I’d stayed quiet? What if I’d smiled differently.. Y'KNOW like to recover better...?What I've now come to realize is it is better to be forgettable than to be embarrassing.Sometimes I wonder if he even remembers me.
Sometimes I hope he doesn’t.I still think about him more than I should. Not because I want him back, but because that was the first time I realized how badly I wanted to be seen by someone else.

ENTRY 4

I went to the lake today because I had thirty minutes and nowhere else to put them.The water was calm.
It just sat there, doing what it’s always done.I skipped a rock and it sank immediately.
No drama... no fussing.
I liked that.The air smelled clean in a way downtown never does. Felt healing to my usually shaken lungs.For a minute... I forgot what my body needed from me. I felt like I was watching myself sit there instead of actually sitting, like an out of body experiencing peeking at myself in the water's reflection...but I didn't panic this time...it felt peaceful.I NEED to unplug and relax more often... but I rarely have the time to do so.I always wondered if people come here to feel something...or to feel less?
I think I came for the second one.When my break ended, the lake didn’t care. She continued doing what she usually did, not letting my plans effect her.
I think that’s why I’ll come back.

ENTRY 5

Sorry for lack of entries recently...
I crashed the scooter earlier.It was one of the old ones with the cracked mirror and the brake that screams through the street.I had only been working at Four Slices of Heaven a few weeks. I didn’t know which roads dipped suddenly or which ones only pretended to be flat.I was thinking too hard. I am usually when things go wrong.The road tipped without warning. Gravel slid under the tire and the horizon folded.Sound came first...the nasty scrape, a clunking sound... the dull impact...I had the understanding that my body had landed before I could even gather my thoughts of what had just happened...Owwww....I whacked my thunker on the concrete.My arm also bent wrong. Thank god it wasn't torn open. Just misaligned. Metal doesn’t bleed, it bends, but it sure did feel like I was about to start gushing blood.I stayed on the ground and counted clouds. Cars passed. One slowed, then kept going. I don’t hold that against them. But sure did wish someone cared, at least a little bit.I heard of the story of a lady who was being attacked on the street, it was seen by at least a hundred people. Nobody called the police because everyone thought someone else had already done so.That story haunts me. I always wonder what I would do in a similar situation, would I call the police or would I just be a bystander hoping someone else would?... I don't know, I would hope I'd do the right thing.Edna found me before I figured out how to stand.She didn’t raise her voice.
Didn’t ask what I’d done or who was at fault.
She knelt beside me in the gravel, and said, “Well, sugar, that don’t look comfortable?”She brought me inside, sat me down, wrapped my arm with what she had.I told her I couldn’t afford the hospital.She nodded once. No judgment. Said we’d wait and get my arm welded as soon as possible.Edna assured me the damage to the company property wasn't too much, as she planned to get a new scooter for the rebranding.Thank god. I couldn't take a cut from my check this week... I got bills to pay.I started crying. How humiliating.
Edna noticed and handed me a napkin, she didn't make me feel bad about it.I got pulled off deliveries until my arm could be welded back together. Edna kept me on anyway with the register and phone calls. I was still useful.Bristles didn't really say anything when I came home.
Didn’t ask how bad it was. Just said I should’ve been more careful, as if care were something I’d misplaced instead of something I ration off every single day.I don’t think he understands how close I came to losing my footing completely. Not just dying. I could've genuinely disfigured myself or bonked my head so hard I wasn't myself anymore.I don’t know how many times the world will let me hit it this hard and still get back up.That day, at least, someone was there to help me off the pavement.That's all that matters.

ENTRY 6

Uh..
Can't really get this out of my head so I'm just going to write it all out.The way mom and Tristan talk about my dad always bothered me.Tristan always says what he did was cowardly.
Mom complained he just wanted an easy way out.I remember at family gatherings... whenever it was brought up, nobody else would argue with them. Nobody would stand up for him... They just would nod and change the subject.I think about him more when I’m tired. When the days start blurring together and my body feels heavy in a way sleep won't ever fix. When my soul claws and scratches at my chest, begging to be let free.I wonder if he felt that weight too.I don’t think he was brave for what he did, but I also don’t think he was weak either.I think he was exhausted in a way that doesn’t show on the outside.Sometimes I catch myself understanding him in flashes. Not agreeing. Just… recognizing the shape of the thought and that scares me a bit.Coward.
Selfish.
Unforgivable.I don’t want to be remembered like that.So I keep going.
Not because I’m convinced things get better. Just because I don’t have the energy to disappear and leave that kind of mess behind.But maybe that’s cowardly too.I wish someone had asked my dad what he needed before it got quiet.

ENTRY 7

I don’t like it when people shorten my name.
Y’know, to things like “Cal” or “Vinny.”It makes me feel like they don’t really respect me or take me seriously at all. I don’t tell anyone how much it bothers me because it would probably just sound like I’m complaining for no reason. It’s hard to explain without sounding petty.I don’t even know if I have the right to feel that way anyway, because my name doesn’t really feel like it’s mine.My dad was Calvin Torres Sr.
Everyone knows that name. He was a famous director and writer, so when I introduce myself, people tend to freak out and immediately ask about him.Being named after him feels… complicated. I’m not proud of it in the way people expect me to be, but I don’t hate it either.
It feels like I’m carrying a huge weight on my back, like I have to be just like him...or end up even more successful, just so I’m not always standing in his shadow.
I don’t want to be him.
I don’t want people to look at me and expect anything just because of who my father was.Sometimes I wonder if the Jr. is supposed to mean continuation. Like I’m the sequel or the echo... proof that something important didn’t end when he did, and that I’m supposed to carry his flame or something like that.I don’t know.
I just want my name to be enough.

ENTRY 8

I always need to be doing something with my hands.When I was bored, I’d twist and twist at my bristles until they fell out. It was hard to find things to distract myself with because the urge came in waves.When I’m trying to read or fall asleep, my hand has a mind of its own.It pulls and pulls until I wake up with a bald patch. Half the time, I don’t even notice I’m doing it.After that ...thing... with Medas, I kept wondering if people were looking at me differently. So the bristle-pulling started to worry me."What if others saw the patches in my hair?""What if they pointed it out?"I really didn’t want anything else making me the center of attention, so this new habit drove me INSANE.To be honest, my opinion of myself warped a bit too.I kept wondering why my own body would betray me like that and HURT me in such a quiet.... embarrassing way.Sure, after pulling I’d feel less stressed for a moment, but there had to be another way to deal with it… right?Right.I told myself I just needed better distractions.
This guy....Devonte.He had quietly broken through the walls I’d put up around myself.I met her at a literature club meeting.We actually had a class together, but I’d never noticed him before.I had started going to clubs so I wouldn’t have to spend more time at home.I didn’t talk much at first, but I guess Devonte took a liking to me.She was tall with locs... she put jewelry in her hair and wore colorful clothes. She loved historical literature and making conscious art. Stories about politics, social issues, and the world at large... Y'know... the heavy stuff.Safe to say I envied him a bit.Not in a bitter way.I just wished I was that aware of my surroundings. You know, with being mixed and all, I sometimes feel like I’m supposed to have stronger opinions about everything.I don’t read the news much or watch TV, so I’ve always felt a little out of the loop.Devonte had heard of my father before, but she didn’t make a big deal about it. Devonte said he’d seen some of his films and they weren’t really his style. After that first mention, she never brought my dad up again.It felt good...A friendship that didn’t orbit around someone else’s name. For once, I wasn’t standing in my dad’s shadow.Devonte and I would hang out after school sometimes.He’d play music in his room, it was really really loud but I enjoyed it. We’d just vibe for a while on her bed and talk until her mom told me it was time to head home.We got really close.One time he invited me to the Gildsborg City Fair.It was actually really fun. We stuffed our faces with funnel cake and ice cream. I had to pretend I liked it. I’m not that big on sweets, but sometimes keeping the mood light is worth it.After riding rides all day, we were somehow not tired at all. Devonte was practically bouncing off the walls, probably from all that sugar.On the way home, we stopped at a store to grab drinks. While we were wandering the aisles, we saw a box of hair dye.Ever since I’d seen Devonte’s dyed red tips, I’d wanted to try it myself. She offered to help, but we had to hurry before her curfew.We ran to my house, turned on some music, and popped open the bottle. I was bent over the sink forever while Devonte tried to rinse my hair out perfectly.To be real, I was getting increasingly nervous as the clock ticked-ticked on ... I was sooo worried about how it would turn out.We absolutely destroyed my bathroom. The sink was stained for weeks. Towels permanently dyed green along with Devonte's hands...But when it was all said and done, I looked in the mirror and saw… me.I felt happy with my appearance for once. It made me feel different."Intentional."I had chosen something for myself for once.I thanked Devonte and walked him out. Seeing how good I looked....How right it felt. It woke something up in me.I tried to pull at my hair less after that. I started finding other things to do with my hands instead like listening to music, dancing, and doodling like Devonte would when we hung out.Pretty soon after that, he moved away. Something about his family sending him to private school because his lifestyle was “too out there.”
It sucks how family can shut you down for being your authentic self.But I’ll keep living the way he did, even if he can’t right now.Some days I hope I’ll bump into him again. I keep the green streaks in my hair so he’ll recognize me when that time comes.

ENTRY 9

I think my reading wires are fried.Words used to sit still for me...
Now they don’t.
It feels like I'm trying to grab a fish in a river. Every time I think I’ve got one, it slips right out of my hands.Something happened a couple days ago at the café.Boss asked me to make a drink I hadn’t done before.No big deal.Usually I just read the instructions off one of the cards behind the counter.I stared at it for a while.The words were there.I could see them.Just black letters on white paper.The words were right in front of me, but the pieces in my brain couldn’t connect together anymore.I tried sounding it out in my head like I did when I was at school. Childish, I know but there was still...Nothing.My thunker started spiraling and my compass started spinning... I could barely stand...First the letters and moving now the room is twisting.Something like this... just doesn't happen on it's own right????RIGHT?I ran to the bathroom. I sat there on the dirty floor and cried like an idiot.WHY GOD?
WHY GOD?!
WHY ME!!!Boss was pissed when I came back out."You can’t just disappear in the middle of a shift like that".I didn’t know what to say to him.What AM I supposed to say?"Sorry, I forgot how to read."Something similar happened again today. At the pizza place. I always write the delivery addresses down before I head out so I don’t forget them.Tonight I looked at the paper and it took forever to make sense of what I wrote. I know it’s my handwriting but it looked like someone else wrote it in a language I don’t speak.I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I keep thinking maybe I’m just tired?I am tired.Three jobs will do that to you.Maybe my brain’s just cooked.Maybe if I sleep more it’ll fix itself.But it’s been getting worse.Even this journal is hard to look at.I think about the nickname Dad gave me. Booker. Despite my distaste for being called names that arent my own... that one meant a lot coming from him.Now it feels like the name doesn’t mean anything anymore.Booker who can’t read.if I can’t read anymore… I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep any of these jobs.I don’t even know how I’m supposed to read this again tomorrow.