the princess diaries vii ♔ diana

Dear sponsor,

Some things take time to process. Time is a truth teller, a healer but it can unforgiving in some ways; blink and you'll miss it, because so much can happen in an instant. Focus on one thing for a moment and you'll miss something monumental happening out of your vision—time is a difficult thing, but ultimately it is the thing that dictates how we live our lives. I like to think that time is on my side, usually, and that even though I am fifteen, time has let me age beyond my years so that I am capable of doing things beyond the expected.

I do not think time was on my side today. Processing itself is a process, it isn't something that can be rushed. Join that with the fact a person is trying to come to the consequences of taking a life so cruelly and the Hunger Games simply does not allow for the required reflection to take place. The sun came down on Francisco's life and when it rose in the morning, I still felt that same pain that I saw in his eyes. The watchful eye of the sun in the sky did not give me time to breathe, a moment on my own to truly try and understand myself and my actions.

It burned the ground and I followed the flames; they led me to Ronan Keeni-Einfallen.

There's a part of a person that does not want to accept reality when it is so sharp and harsh. There's a fear that it will bite back, that it will only makes things worse and so we latch onto the idea of something softer, something that is only possible in dreams. But no dream lasts forever, nighttime coming to a close is the proof, and soon enough a person comes to the realisation that time will tick on, turning the world from technicolour to grayscale. I had thought I would be the first to make it through without doing great harm, maybe bruise an arm or leg here or there, but never write my name alongside the list of murderers who came before me.

Dreams cannot last forever, and I should have known this when Mackenzie told me the reality of the games. Perhaps I was blinded by my naivety, maybe love was getting in the way of seeing life for what it really is: something that, just like a dream, does not last forever. But unlike a dream, life retaliates against time fighting it: life holds on just that tiny bit longer, that tiny bit tighter and I think that is what makes taking a life such a difficult thing to cast aside and overcome.

And everybody knows how it goes; it's the same old story when you can count the number of tributes left on your two hands. They pull you together through slight of hand and before you know it, you're fighting again—I'm fighting again.

Love's power pushing and pulling—I felt it again today, not as bad as I did when it was Francisco—but I still felt it. I looked at Ronan and I saw someone who was hurting more than anyone else. It was like he had lost track of who he was in favour of pleasing everyone else, perhaps that is what an entertainer is, but there should still be a line drawn between your own person, and your person for the people. I didn't see that with him, in fact, I'm not sure I saw a person at all.

He is what I do not ever want to become. Humans are not supposed to be as hard as rock and as cold as ice, we are supposed to have heart and feel proud that love is the thing we can count on most when we expect it least. I think that Ronan felt love, initially, maybe only for a short period of time, and that when that had gone, he could not trust it again. Love can be good, too good—to have a taste of its greatness and for it to be gone the next—that must be hard for some.

First love is always remembered with a special tenderness. First love is always the purest, the most difficult to let go, and when it does go, I think that people think nothing will ever come close again. They shut off their heart, board it up, hammer and nail because they want to protect that first moment of serenity for all it is worth. Yet in the process of doing so, their heart becomes hardened, darkened under the shadows of the self-made restraints and that is when people never love again.

Ronan's eyes were clouded, his head was misted and his heart was gone. He needed the most love, and I tried to show him that it still existed and that it always would, but time was running out. He was glazed with the acceptance of life being short. I've always thought that the best performers were immortalised through their tragedies, and that dying young only enhances the emotion. It makes it more tragic, but more touching too.

He found his spotlight. I knew better than to invade because it was his moment to bathe in the glory of applause.

A moment passes and so does he—and it is better. I do not feel like someone who has killed twice, rather someone who has killed once and then understood mercy. He wanted me to do him a favour, he wanted to see the sun set a final time, and it turned the tragedy into something beautiful.

It felt like it was, at least—I imagine they had edited it for the television to make it seem far worse. It was precious, you know, I did what anyone would do when someone had made themselves terminal. I held his hand, made him feel okay, showed him that love can still exist in the most hateful of places.

I'm really alone now. I heard cannons in my ear just like Myrcella Hudson's, and I'm going to have to wait until tonight to know if Hisidro is still alive, but even if he is, things will not be the same. Time—that's what it does to people. It would turn Hisidro and I against each other because we'd fight for different things: for life, for bigger things, for love, for championship.

I hope that he's okay. Even if it does to come that, it would still be nice to see him again. Moments are short here, and I can't even remember the last things I said to him because it was fleeting. I guess that I thought I would see him again, my naivety getting the better of me as always, and I guess I thought we could both end up safe and sound.

The sound here is not safe, though: cannons, screams, broken bones, broken hearts. Love is still the only safety I know.

Ronan gave me a journal when he was dying. I do not want to look through it, out of respect, because it belonged to someone who has since died. Inside... who knows what they have said? It could be a collection of their madness, their loss of sanity and I'm not sure I have it in me to look through that without feeling something.

I've run my fingers over it a few times and I can feel the words it is trying to say, the stories it is trying to tell. It is tempting, one glance at the pages and there has been history made on the pages, but it does not belong to me. To intrude on something that could be personal would not be love at all, it would be malicious, destructive—I am not a destructive person.

It would be like if someone read what I have written in here without me knowing—I'd feel hurt. Of course, my diary is different because I am writing it as if it is meant to be read. I am writing to my sponsor, you, and at times I feel I have forgotten that because I have become completely lost in all the thoughts swirling inside of me. You can probably tell... it's all been just a collection of words rather than anything intelligent, but I'd like to think this is a diamond in the rough. A process, if you will, but one that I rule and that time does not.

Besides, the story is not over yet anyway.

I hope you're doing well because, for once, I feel like I am.