From Twinkle, with Love

by Sandhya Menon

This diary was a birthday present from Dadi, by the way. She was all, “Take this, Twinkle. Put the words of your heart in the pages as you put the images of your heart in your movies.”

Being a human belonging to the wallflower genus, I’m kinda used to swallowing my words instead of speaking them.

When people love something so much it fuses with what they wear, I feel this instant connection to them. The melding of passion and fashion is the song of my people.

Oso was at the fence, sniffing at our canine neighbor, Maggie, this little white creature that’s more fur than dog. (They have an epic romance that will never be requited because neither of them have opposable thumbs and therefore will always be thwarted by the gate. Legendary.)

Girls regularly swoon over him like he’s . . . oh, what’s that character who died because Kate Winslet wouldn’t scoot the hell over on that door? Oh yeah. Jack.

She was beautiful in an earthy kind of way, like she enjoyed messy things that made you sweat—gardening and rock climbing and stuff.

All I can say is that Roger Ebert said it best: First love is sweet and valuable, a blessed, if hazardous, condition.

You know that shirt you have that says, “I am my ancestor’s wildest dream”? That’s what I’m trying to do here; I’m changing the narrative. I so badly want to earn the right to wear that T-shirt one day.

“Our best friends, the ones we love the most, are the ones who can hurt us the most. Because look.” She pointed down to the powders. “We have had so many interactions with them, deep, meaningful interactions, that we cannot separate their pieces from ours. And if we try, we would only be getting rid of some of the best parts of ourselves.”