Dear Diary,

That’s how she always started. Dear Diary. As if she was talking to me. As if I could hear her.

She’d always follow it with How was your day? Every day was better when she wrote to me. I should have told her that.

Her days were hard. Her days were sad. 

I never do anything right.

That was her favorite; she wrote it a lot. 

The best part of my day was when she’d pull me out right before bed to get her final thoughts down.

Writing helps me sleep.

Sometimes she missed a day. Sometimes she missed a lot.

I wish things were different.

Me too. 

It hurts. I don’t want to hurt anymore.

I understood. 

I knew I wasn’t her first, but I still loved her so much. When she took me out of her drawer, I could see the shelf filled with all those who’d come before me. The shelf I’ll never know. 

I wasn’t her first, but they weren’t her last.

Dear Diary,

How was your day?

Mine could have been better. You know, sometimes I think you’re the only one who understands me.

I tried. Her honesty helped. 

Dear Diary,

I miss that. Dear Diary. So simple.

It had been coming for a long time—my whole life. I knew when she wrote it I’d never see her again.

Dear Diary,

I’m sorry.

Me too.

___________________
Prompt: write a scene from the point of view of an inanimate object.