My Diary , His Eyes のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 7

The last day of high school felt like the last day of something much bigger, and Isla couldn't figure out if that was good or terrifying.She stood at her locker pulling out the last of her things one by one, slower than necessary. A French quiz she'd gotten a B-minus on and kept for no real reason. Three pens that had stopped working months ago. A scrunchie she didn't remember putting there. And a photo of her and Sofie from sophomore year, taped to the inside of the door so long the edges had curled and gone yellow at the corners.She looked at the photo for a moment. Sofie was mid-laugh in it, head thrown back, completely unbothered by the camera. Isla was looking slightly to the left of the lens, like she'd been caught thinking about something else entirely. Which she probably had been.She put it in her bag and closed the locker for the last time.The hallway was doing its thing. People signing yearbooks, taking pictures, crying in that loud performative way that felt more like a

Isla woke up to her phone buzzing.Not the alarm. The other kind of buzzing — the rapid, relentless kind that meant multiple notifications arriving at the same time. She reached for it with her eyes still half closed and squinted at the screen.Seven texts. Three missed calls. A string of notifications from Instagram ,an app she barely used.She sat up.The first text was from a number she barely recognized. A girl from her chemistry class sophomore year. They hadn't spoken since.“Isla. your diary. it's everywhere.”She stared at the message for a long time trying to grasp it.Then she opened the next one. Same thing, different person. Then another. Then another. All of them saying some version of the same sentence in different words — ‘have you seen’, ‘are you okay’, ‘oh my god isla’ and she was reading them but not processing them, her brain doing that thing where it received information and refused to believe it at the same time.She opened the app.Screenshots. Pages and pages of

She opened it.She didn't mean to. Or maybe she did. Either way her thumb moved before her brain finished the debate and the message was open and she was reading it and there was no taking it back.“Isla. I know you're probably not checking these. But what I read — I need you to know that I had no idea. About any of it. About how you felt. About how long you'd been feeling it. And I know this is the worst possible timing and you're probably somewhere far away trying to forget everything and I'm the last person you want to hear from right now but I can't just pretend I didn't read it.“I should have seen it. I should have paid more attention. And I'm sorry I didn't.”“When you're ready to talk — I'll be here.”“Marcus.”She read it three times.Then she put her phone face down on the bed and stared at the ceiling of Room 14 and thought about the specific cruelty of getting the message you'd spent a year and a half wanting at the worst possible moment in the worst possible way.Marcus h

The café was called Café de Flare, she didn't quite grab it and didn't bother to ask the second time.It was small — four tables inside, two outside on the pavement under a green awning,a chalkboard hung behind the counter, listing the day's roasts in a warm, swirling cursive script adorned with tiny chalk doodles of steam clouds.The man behind the counter was maybe sixty and looked like he'd been making coffee in this exact spot since before Isla was born. He didn't greet them. He looked up, assessed, and went back to what he was doing, which felt less rude than honest.Theo ordered in French.He said something short and direct and the man behind the counter nodded and that was that.Isla ordered a coffee by pointing at the chalkboard and saying un café, s'il vous plaît and the man looked at her for a painfully long beat, blinking as if trying to decipher a completely foreign dialect, making her instantly regret opening her mouth.They took one of the outside tables.Paris at six-thi