[ WP ] The main character falls in love with the reader .

Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fighty-nine. Sixty. 
 
 I count them every time. I do n't know why. 
 
 It's a tough slog. Sixty stairs. I remember almost jumping up those stairs a year ago, when I first moved here. Everything was so fresh and hopeful. It was wonderful, in a way. 
 
 Anyway. I made myself a cup of tea tonight and just sort of... stared at the ceiling. It's been weird. I know I have n't kept this up as much as I used to. I do n't know. I guess things are different now. 
 
 Still lonely. The city's so emotionally hollow. Everyone seems so detached. I know I've complained about this before. I should n't rehash it. It's just that I went down to the book store again today. I stood around, wondering if someone might talk to me. Or even smile. I walked up and down the rows half pretending to check out the books. It just did n't happen. Not even close. Seems like it's been months since I've spoken a word to someone. 
 
 So anyway, I just left. Kind of wet out tonight. I just wanted to get home and relax. I turned the radio on for a while, but that seemed even more lonely somehow. Sitting alone, listening to the radio. So I turned it off. I said I'd keep this up and I have n't been, so I am now. 
 
 Sixty stairs, though. It's torture now. 
 
 *October 10th* 
 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 I know I said I'd keep this up. I know I always say that. I'll sit on my bed at night and stare at nothing in particular for hours, yet still not write here. I think about it sometimes. Mostly I've got other things on my mind. 
 
 I went back to the book store. Same thing. I do n't know. You think about stopping someone on the sidewalk when you're walking home at night. They do n't want to be bothered. They're all going about their business in this city with the same dead expression on their face. I would n't know what to say, anyway. 
 
 Not feeling especially well the last while. I do n't know how to ask questions at the doctor's office. I do n't want to know the answers, maybe. It's come to the point where I just feel sick all of the time now. They say it's normal. They say it'll pass. 
 
 Writing this diary seems therapeutic. In a strange way, I feel like someone is listening to me. Maybe I'm just talking to myself again. I wonder if I'll read all of this back some day down the road after all of this has passed. Kind of a nice thought. 
 
 *November 28th* 
 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 I'm back. Not so long of a lapse this time. 
 
 I talked to someone at the book store tonight. It was n't a long conversation. But it was something. It was... I do n't know. It was short, but it was something. The walk home did n't seem so long. The streetlights seemed... I do n't know, a bit brighter. The stairs were still exhausting But I'm pretty sure I jumped up one or two. 
 
 I guess I wanted to tell someone. I guess that's you. Whoever you are. 
 
 I do n't know. 
 
 *December 1st* 
 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 Another appointment today. They say I look like I'm in remission. It feels good, I think. It's hard to be optimistic when you're alone in a huge city like this. No friends, no family. 
 
 I have n't seen my friend from the bookstore since that night. I use the term friend loosely, but it's the closest thing I've had. I wondered if I'd see them again. I suppose I wo n't, but that's okay. I'm happy to tell this news to you. 
 
 It's weird, you know. Maybe it's a touch of narcissism. Maybe it's how I've come to look at writing this diary. But when I walk home late at night through those dark city streets... you know, the cars pass by and.. it's silly, but I sort of imagine I'm a character in a story. Sort of my own story. When I'm writing this down, I wonder if this is the story of my life and it's being read by someone. Maybe a family member in the future. Maybe a loved one. Maybe someone I do n't even know, maybe someone I never will. But whoever it is, if you're reading this, I guess you care for some reason. 
 
 It's kind of nice to think of it that way. 
 
 Anyway. I'll check in often from now on, since we're getting so close. That's a funny thought. 
 
 
 *December 28th* 
 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 How's it going? 
 
 I find myself wondering about you. Who are you? What's your name? What do you look like? I wonder why you're reading this. 
 
 Anyway. I said I'd check in and I am. It's actually a pleasure. The weather's terrible, but in a strange way I feel like I've got a friend to come home to now. Got boots soaked in the snow and slush. It's been snowing for days. The cars are really making a mess out there, but it's nice to get home and throw some fresh warm socks on. 
 
 I'm just sitting here with a big cup of tea and... kind of wondering about you, I guess. 
 
 *January 9th* 
 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 They call it a relapse. 
 
 I'm sorry I have n't checked in for a while. Things have n't been... I do n't know. 
 
 I had a checkup again a couple of weeks ago. I suppose it did n't go so well. So we're going to start treatments again. I guess I wo n't be jumping up sixty stairs for a while. 
 
 I'll still check in. I've just been a little off. The walk home is slow again. I still wonder about you. 
 
 *January 30th* 
 
 
 -- -- -- -- -- 
 
 Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. 
 
 I never remember it being this hard. 
 
 I'm perservering. Surgery scheduled next week. I do n't know what to think about it. I try not to think about it. I spend my time thinking of you, actually. It's easier that way. It's kind of like you're a person at this point. I can nearly imagine a face. 
 
 The bookstore felt especially lonely tonight. 
 
 I looked through so many books. They're just... hundreds of stories. Thousands of stories. They're stories about people, you know? I must have spent hours thumbing through pages. It's intimate. You read them and you feel like you begin to know these people. I thought of you reading this. I wondered if that's how you'd feel about it. 
 
 Anyway, I'm probably rambling. 
 
 I'll check in. In the meantime, I'm thinking of you. 
 
 
 *Feburary 16th, * 

