Dear Diary; July 21st

This morn I awoke and walked to Juliet's room, to braid her hair, as always. Oh, I had bought the prettiest ribbon for her wedding. It shamed the whiteness of marble. I pulled away the curtains of her bed. Juliet was lying their, sleeping like an angel in her white dress.

"Mistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she." I continued talking to myself as always. But she didn't wake up. I shook her a little. "I needs must wake her!" I motivated myself to find out the worst. Yet, it was in escapable. Juliet was, is, dead. "My lord, my lady!" I called out to the air. They needed to know.

The whole house was roused. My lord and lady, and even the Friar. "O woe! O woeful, woeful woeful day! Most lamentable day, most woeful day that ever ever I did yet behold!" I cried into the mixed chorus of laments. The friar was muttering something about divorced and being tricked. Maybe Romeo wanted to end their love because of his exiling. Could her depression be the cause of this untimely death?

But she seemed so happy… "Prodigious birth of love it is to me," she said after meeting Romeo. Too right it is Prodigious. Would this have happened if they were not in love? I should think not.