Dear Diary,

How have you been since the last time I confided in you?
I hope you haven't been lonely when you were alone;
I hope you have been well even when events occuring around you weren't;
I hope that you feel loved and be happy.

Because you are merely a figment of my memory, all that I hoped for you reflects my utmost desires.

I have finally understood how it feels like to long for somebody;
I have finally understood how it feels like to be wanted by somebody.
Regrettably, I have also understood how it feels like to have lost the person you cheerish most not because of incompatiability, but because of silly worries, jealousy, rashness, shyness, and above all, stupidity.

I am but a man blind to the very person I like, oblivious of the chances and opportunities I have been given; I am but a fool smitten and clusless about love.

As I scrolled through those electronic pages that stored my boyish memories, I recalled how I used to consider girls as emotional creatures with silly wants and how their breasts were the only reasons why I did not hate them. Now, I want more than breasts -- I pine for their emotions, I pine for their love. In a way, I found that I have become less independent as I grew out of my boyish self.

I crave for affection, I crave for companionship, and most desperately, I crave for love -- not from any person, but from just that one girl. The girl I dreamed of but never expected to exist; the girl who stood before me, and gave me the chance that I wasted.

I feel out of love, and I am unhappy;
I have been unwell even when people around me have been very well indeed;
I feel lonely even when I am among a group of affable personalities.
I have been forlorn and pensive since the last time I confided in you, my Dear Diary.