I storm toward the desk but come up short when my eyes catch on what’s sitting on top. The book cover has a pattern of butterflies in a field of flowers. They dance along the tops of the blooms. The hard cover was shiny once, but it’s a little water-stained now. A little dirty in one corner. I place my hand on my chest, rubbing it in slow, firm circles as I stare back at my diary. The same one I threw out the window all those years ago. The steel clasp is broken, but the heart-shaped lock still clings to the two rings meant to hold it shut. But now, it might as well be wide open.
