"I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again."

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Dear whatever,

I'm not gonna call it a diary because that's gay. Clary laughed at that and shook her head, murmuring something that sounded like 'boys'. I don't know what I should write but I took a few pictures today and I think I'll glue them on this book. Clary's favorite swing at the park. It was the last one on the bars. Red and scarred heavily. She had told me she had grown up with it. So I got out my camera carefully and flashed a quick picture of it while Clary was talking.

Then there was the one where she was giggling loudly, her hair flying out of place. The sky was a frustrating but beautiful grey. It was about to rain. The winds were heavy and seemed to threaten blowing us away at any moment. Her smile was crooked, her white teeth straight but with little imperfection. I managed to capture her reaction when I told her to promise that she wouldn't tell anyone I was using some diary. It was priceless. At the time, she wore a blue sweatshirt that reached her band-aid covered knees. No pants or shorts. The sweatshirt covered most of her body anyway.

The last one was of our feet. Sure, not very interesting. I had much larger feet than she did. We both owned Chuck Taylors; hers red, and mine a dirty black. The cement beneath us was cracked and small pebbles covered the ground. It was memorable. For some odd reason, I had to bring my camera out and take the shot. I guess I don't really know why.

The day was fine. Beyond fine, actually. Clary had decided to draw in the empty fields of the old park close to her house. We only had to walk. She even drew me. Although I wasn't really looking when she did. I suddenly jogged over to her, a football in my hand and she scrambled to a sitting position, her sketchbook stuffed behind her. I raised my eyebrows and because she was so incredibly short in height, I grabbed the tattered thing and ran by fingers across the paper. She squealed, her cheeks a bright red. It was too bad my camera was on the bench that time.

It was just a drawing of me. I was sitting on the grass, my face staring upwards at the sky, my legs crossed comfortably. My hair was laying against my forehead in long waves. A small smile was on my face, sketched almost perfectly. I turned to her and she had her fingertips in her lips. That was her bad habit. She was nervous. A grin spread across my features, one I couldn't hold in. "What?" She asked, her voice so quiet I strained to hear it.

"Can I keep this?"

The question must have thrown her off because her hands fell away from her face like she was distracted. "What?"

I repeated it again. "No way, moron." The attitude was back now. Her own knowing smirk illuminated his emotions. "Just take a picture of it. I keep all my drawings."

I did take a picture of it. Except I told her to hold it in her hands. She looked pleased to be in a photo.

I brought her ice cream later because she forgot her wallet at home. And I dropped her off an hour later. She gave me a tight embrace, like she always did, and darted to her family's front door, me watching her every step until she disappeared.

December 12, 2016

Jace Herondale