Dear Diary,

Did you know that people used to collect tears? Ancient Egyptians stored them in little bottles and left the bottles inside the tombs of the dead. I guess so that the person who died would know he had mourners. Or something.

I wish I could put my tears in a bottle and seal it. Send it to wherever they-

Oh, god.

Can I write it? I have to, I think. I have to make it real… but it is real. It's too real for paper and binding. If I put it down in these pages, that won't help anything.

I want to send my tears to his tomb. Wherever they buried him. Maybe then I could get over this and move on with my life. Maybe then I wouldn't have any tears left. God knows I've shed enough to fill a bottle. Would he even care that I mourn for him?

He's dead.

He died alone, I think, because who would have gone back for him? Is that what he wanted? To… to be free. He's free now. But that's bull, I know. He's not free. He's just dead.

Lachrymosa is a state of being. To be lachrymose. From the word lachrymator. Or is it the other way around? A lachrymator brings tears, and to be lachrymose is to be terribly, terribly sad.

That's my word of the day. Of the month. It's how I found out about lachrymatories. They're the tear bottles you put in graves. God, how I wish I knew where his grave is.

I just want closure, I guess. To be able to go there, sit where he's buried, and lay down my sorrow wrapped in glass and goodbyes. Let it go. I want to let it go. Why can't I let it go? We weren't even dating, really! He never would have gone back for me. I never could have stopped him.

Saved him.

And why do I care so much? What is it about him that holds me so tightly? My mother once told me to pay attention to what draws me. What drew me to him? I want to know so I can rip it out of me. Make it go away. Make it leave me alone and take my heartache with it.

He wouldn't care that I cry for him. He wouldn't even remember me, I bet. I could hear ever single one of the cries he let out in his sleep, because he sleeps below me. Slept below me. He couldn't hear any of mine. Or could he? Did I scream in my sleep the way he did?

I do now.

Storm thinks I cut myself.

I have to go, now.

Good night.