**Set somewhere around the start of season 4, after Faith comes out of her coma. I haven't seen any season four, so this is just my mind creating a little something – absolutely no real basis. It's a sorta diary entry/letter to Buffy, from Faith; based off the song 'Dear Diary' by

P!NK.**

Dear diary, -No, that's not right. I'll start again:

Dear Buffy,

You said I went bad. Crazy. Pitched myself right off the deep end. An' they agreed. Had the right to, y'know. None of you knew me. Can't trust me. 'Cept you, B. You got so close. Too close. I don't do trust. Yeah, I pushed you away. You guessed though, didn't ya? Smart little blondie. Saw past the lies, that night you tried to coax me back. I was too far gone, had all this baggage, thought I didn't give a damn, thought I could cope. Well, I proved myself wrong there. Ended it with a knife in the gut... I'm sorry I led you to that. That last fight though... man, it was something, eh B?

/Dear, dear diary, I wanna tell my secrets. 'Cause you're the only one that I know will keep 'em/

All the shit I've done, God, I'd backtrack if I could. The death, betrayals... the running. I'm scared stiff and too fucking 'strong' to admit it, y'know the drill. You've felt it. Xander, Giles, Red – they all understand. They're on the edge of darkness all the time, feeling what we've felt. And you've got them, B. Friends. But I – well, I got no-one. Once, maybe I coulda...

/I've been a bad, bad girl for so long; don't know how to change what went wrong/

When I close my eyes, I don't see the bodies. I don't see the blood, the faces caught in painful spasms as I drive the blade home. That shit don't hurt me any more. No. I see the crappy high school library. Giles pushes his glasses higher up his nose and drags a hand through his hair as he translates some spell from ancient Egyptian; Red glares at the computer screen, 'resolve face' firmly fixed while she tries to hack the latest morgue records; Cordelia's gaze drifts, bored, from a book to Xander's lips, and the boy in questions daydreams about you and Cordy in succession; Oz strums a tune on his guitar while he looks encouragingly over Willow's shoulder, trying to help her somehow. And you, B – you recline in the overstuffed armchair, tryin' to come up with a half decent plan. You're biting your lip, your hair's a mess, your make-up half done. You look like you've been up half the night, and still you take my breath away. There, I said it. Me, Faith, 'rogue Slayer', got the hots for 'miss perfect' Buffy Summers.

/I've been down every road you could go. Made some bad choices as you know/

I don't know why I let it slip through my fingers, but y'know me: always the screw-up.

Is this making sense? I wouldn't expect it to. It's a mess, like my head. You said so yourself, once. I just need to say all this before I went. It's the stuff that I'd never say out loud, and the stuff I know you need to hear. You complete me, B, corny as that sounds. Light and dark, yin and yang. We're not meant to co-exist and yet we do, and we make a balance of sorts. You're the only reason I kept fighting it... the darkness inside. I'm sorry I gave up. I tried. I want you to know that, K?

/I gotta guardian angel tattooed on my shoulder, she's been watching over me/

I'll be long gone when you get this, on the run again. It's all I know. And when you read what I wrote, maybe you won't care. Maybe you'll throw it away when you see my name on the envelope. That's OK, I guess. I've done worse, y'know. But inside, where I can barely admit it to myself, I hope you'll miss me. I want you to miss me, to love me. Coz I love and miss you, y'know. You'll never know how hard it's been for me to write this, 'cause like everyone else you only see the shell.

I'm five by five, I don't care, livin' large: Want. Take. Have.

Maybe you think that's a lie. It is. I'm yours, B, and I care. Of course I care, my little blonde Slayer.

Now and always, remember me-

Faith.

/Dear, dear diary, I wanna telly my secrets. 'Cause you're the only one that I know will keep 'em/