If You Are Reading This, I Am Dead.

"If you are reading this, you'll know what I'm talking about."

I whispered the words to myself, cutting the silence of my room, tracing the words delicately as I spoke. My voice was cracked, and I had to strain my ears to even hear it through the raspy tone left from sobbing and lack of speaking.

In fact, after twenty-four hours, I had almost succeeded in forgetting the sound of my own voice. Not like it matters, Danny isn't able to call it words like 'melodic' and 'spirited' anymore.

I didn't know if I wanted to keep reading, not so soon, not yet, not with a cold, dry book as my only connection to Danny.

And yet, my mind started to slow. Not the painful, thoughtless racing. My heartbeat had finally subsided into a slow, easy rhythm.

The more I read the words, the smoother I could breath.

I knew that this was Danny, writing this words with all of his passion and emotion. It was more than he showed me, much more, in fact quite the opposite. The words were the music that I had been searching for, and reading them made me feel like I was talking with the Danny that I loved.

Correction, I love him still. My mind just feels as if I should resent him for not thinking about me, not wondering how I would feel.

These journals might have been his one great thought about me.

These journals might be the glue I need to get back together.

I took a deep breath. The first I had taken today without choking. My throat hurt, and the air clawed at its walls, but I could take a deep breath.

I held the edge of the page between my fingers, and flipped it over.