The apartment had been completely wrecked. Still, despite the utter destruction, there had been a few salvageable things, all of which had been carefully packed away in plastic crates. One of those things had been a red leather journal. It was pretty, and looked expensive, but no one showed up to claim it. So, it sat on the shelf of the woman who'd taken it. She had no personal connection to its previous owner except helping to clean out her vacated home, but it seemed wrong to throw it out. She had no doubt that it had once held great sentimental value. Besides, no matter what she did she couldn't open it, which must be good luck, or magic or something. So the journal-and the words inside it-sat unread. This is what is said:
Dear Wesley,
God, I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm not even a diary girl. I never even tried to keep one when I was eleven and told the "stars" and "God" about my crush on Jimmy Dallas. (Stay on topic, Lilah…) But here I am, writing in a diary. To you. Anyway, I hope you don't expect to get a bunch of details about my day or anything. This is gonna be brief, I'm gonna write what I wanted to write, and then I'm gonna toss this is the trash and pretend it never existed.
It's not even like you'll read this anyway. Lord knows I'll never show you. And I don't think you'll ever hear any of this, either. Trust me, Wesley, I know how my story ends, and it isn't in a penthouse. I've read this story: I'm the villain. And not the villain who sometimes wins, either. I'm the villain that either gets redeemed or dies, and we both know which I'm never getting.
Don't think for one second this is me complaining or looking for pity. I'm not a damsel in distress. I knew what I was getting into when I joined this company. I traded my soul for comfort and I stand by it. Besides, even when I die it's not like I'll really die, anyway. I just...won't be able to see you anymore. Or you know, breathe.
I don't know. Maybe I'm being stupid. Maybe I'll survive. Maybe I'll join Angel's little squad and live as a hero until I'm 90 and die peacefully in bed. But even if I do, you and I, we aren't endgame. You're a conflicted angel, I'm a devil who likes to play with matches. We may be grey, but we're totally different shades.
And anyway, you've got your little Texan Mary waiting on you. I think it's bullshit, personally. You're infatuated. You like the sweet, innocent girl, and you prey to god that someday it'll work out and you'll be Angel's little power-couple. But I'm the one you want, and it kills you. I don't know. Maybe I'm totally off. Maybe I sound like a charlatan psychologist. Again, evil. But you see the world as black and white. You fight for one and are drawn to the other. It's why you hate me and love me, why you want her and feel nothing at all. Maybe you should stop pretending Brownilocks and I are anything but people.
...And anyway, I see your future, too, and it isn't happy. Even if you get Fred-and who knows, maybe you will-have you looked at your life? Simple fact, hon, most people who know about the things we know about don't get to attend their grand-kid's third wedding.
I bought a fucking journal to write this, and I still don't why. Maybe it's hitting me. Maybe I just realized that we never get a happily ever after, even though I...care about you. Maybe love you. Can I love? ...Yeah, I think I can. And I think I did, sometimes, at least. It was good, wasn't it? The sex was great. I liked having someone to laugh with. You were...god...you were comfortable. I loved you sometimes. Maybe all the time. Hell, maybe you even loved me. I think you might have, sometimes, even if you hated to. (Hey, I wasn't thrilled to love you, either.) Maybe we'll never know. Yeah. Maybe we loved each other. Maybe. But you're no Prince Charming, and I sure as hell ain't Cinderella. And life is the farthest fucking thing from a ball.
I think something's coming, Wesley. Something big. And I think if my curtain call comes it'll be soon. And then, when I'm dead, no one's gonna...know me, not here. Except you. Not even you, since you won't read this. But I want you to know me, Wesley. I loved Disney when I was little. My mom used to make the best chocolate chip pancakes in the world. I went to law school to impress my dead-beat son-of-a-bitch father! (Hell, I actually wrote that…) I still listen to the Spice Girls, Wesley, and I'm gonna die. And then there will be...nothing. No one but a crazy mom and an ex to know I was here at all. Well, consider this a last gift from me. I won't tell you any of that. And I won't tell you I love you, and if you wanna grab Ms. Physicist Pigtails and get hitched I promise not to curse you from the grave. And I don't need anything to tell this world about me. After all, I have this mess of a journal entry and a signed dollar bill.
Yours,
Lilah Morgan