Tears of cold eyes

Chapter 3

C.~Diary

Chianell

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December 17th

Dear Future Self (whoever you are, hopefully someone less allergic to cold!),

If you're reading this, it means I, your thirteen-year-old self, have survived another day in the bizarre world of cold-allergy hell. I'm writing this on my birthday, a few days late, because, well, let's just say the whole "winter wonderland" theme was slightly less magical and slightly more "sneeze-a-thon" than anticipated.

Remember that time I tried to build a secret escape tunnel out of blankets and pillows? Yeah, that didn't go so well. My parents now have a baby monitor in my room. A baby monitor. I'm thirteen! The indignity!

But enough about the parental surveillance. Let's talk about the grand adventures (or, at least, mildly rebellious escapades) of this past week. Operation: Freedom from the Fluffy Prison is still in full swing. I've developed several highly sophisticated (and equally ridiculous) escape plans, involving pulleys, blankets, possibly a small army of squirrels, and a whole lot of wishful thinking. I'll update you on the progress (or lack thereof) in future entries.

Remember that time I tried to sneak out to get ice cream? Let's just say it involved a near-death experience (from the cold, obviously) and a very disappointed thirteen-year-old. The ice cream was worth it, though. (At least, for about five minutes before the sneezing started.)

The library remains a tempting target for future escape attempts. I'm contemplating a disguise. Perhaps a ninja outfit? Or maybe a full-body snowsuit… wait, that's redundant.

Anyway, future self, I hope you're doing better than I am right now. I hope you've conquered the cold, found a cure for this ridiculous allergy, and maybe even managed to sneak out for ice cream without ending up looking like a shivering, sneezing mess. Until then, stay warm (and rebellious!).

Your perpetually chilly,

Thirteen-Year-Old Me

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Christmas Eve

Dear Future Self (who I sincerely hope has either a) found a cure for this ridiculous cold allergy or b) developed some seriously impressive escape skills),

It's Christmas Eve, and the festive spirit is currently being actively sabotaged by a combination of my allergy to cold and my older sister, Ciara, who seems to have a personal vendetta against my enjoyment of the outdoors (and possibly all forms of fun).

My carefully constructed escape plan this morning – a daring attempt to build a snowman, despite the obvious allergy-related challenges – was foiled before it even began. Ciara, with the speed and efficiency of a highly trained surveillance drone, spotted my covert operation of layering up in enough thermal gear to survive an Antarctic winter. The ensuing shriek of "Mom! Dad! Chianell's trying to go outside! It's snowing!" was both timely and devastatingly effective.

The argument that followed was, to put it mildly, less than festive. I tried reason ("It's Christmas Eve! A little fresh air is essential for the holiday spirit!"), I tried bribery (offered to… well, I would have offered to do the dishes, but let's be honest, my hands are perpetually cold and therefore incapable of such tasks due to my allergy), and I even attempted a heartfelt plea based on the inherent injustice of it all. Nothing worked. Ciara, armed with her superior height, impeccable timing, and the irrefutable fact that I was attempting a potentially hazardous excursion into the freezing wilderness, won. Again.

The lecture that followed from my parents was a well-intentioned but ultimately suffocating reminder of my allergy and the importance of staying warm. Valid points, yes, but hardly conducive to Christmas cheer.

Operation: Christmas Eve Freedom is, however, still very much underway. My current plan involves a complex system of pulleys (made of blankets), a carefully placed distraction (possibly a rogue gingerbread man?), and a whole lot of wishful thinking. Wish me luck, future self. I’ll need it. This Christmas Eve is shaping up to be less “peace on Earth” and more “war against the cold, my overprotective family, and my incredibly annoying older sister.” And definitely a large mug of hot chocolate.

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New Year's Eve

Dear Future Self (hopefully a significantly less sneezy, more cold-tolerant version of myself),

It's New Year's Eve, and my New Year's resolution is… ambitious. I've resolved to conquer my allergy to cold. Or, at the very least, to endure it with significantly more grace and considerably fewer dramatic sneezing fits. Wish me luck; I'm going to need it.

Our New Year's Eve celebration is already delightfully chaotic. Mom's attempting a gourmet, five-course meal while simultaneously trying to keep the dog from stealing the appetizers. Dad's attempting to assemble a ridiculously complex fireworks display that involves more wires than a spiderweb. And Ciara? Well, Ciara's busy meticulously observing and remembering the entire chaotic scene, ready to regale everyone with her detailed account later. She has a phenomenal memory.

Things took a turn when Grandma and my cousin Nyx arrived. Grandma, bless her heart, is convinced that the best cure for a cold allergy is a large bowl of her homemade chicken soup and a generous helping of unsolicited advice. Nyx, on the other hand, is a whirlwind of energy and mischief, already plotting some elaborate prank involving glitter and the aforementioned dog.

The countdown to midnight began. I'd bundled myself in enough layers to resemble a walking, talking, slightly overdressed marshmallow. As the clock ticked down, I braced myself for the inevitable. The cold air hit me, and... surprisingly, nothing happened. No sneezing, no sniffling, no sudden onset of shivers. I actually felt... okay.

Then Nyx decided to unleash her glitter bomb. It was a spectacular display of sparkly chaos, and the dog, predictably, decided to join in, rolling around in the glitter like a furry, four-legged disco ball. Grandma, in a valiant attempt to save the carpet, tripped over the dog, sending a wave of hot soup flying through the air. It landed, with impeccable aim, directly onto Ciara's new party dress.

The New Year arrived amidst a flurry of glitter, soup, and laughter. My New Year's resolution might be a long shot, but the start of the year is already a memorable (and slightly messy) adventure. Here's to hoping the rest of the year is equally chaotic and fun. And maybe, just maybe, a little less sneezing.

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My Dearest Diary,

Sunday's events have left me quite flustered and utterly captivated! Ciara, in a most unexpected turn of events, suggested a visit to church. I, ever the creature of habit myself, found myself agreeing, little knowing the adventure that awaited.

Imagine my surprise, dear Diary, to find myself seated beside a gentleman of such remarkable charm! Dimples that could launch a thousand ships, eyes the colour of a summer sky, and a smile that could melt the coldest heart – including, I confess, my own. The service itself was a blur of whispered prayers and covert glances, my attempts at discreet observation utterly failing.

The offering plate, however, proved to be the scene of my greatest embarrassment. In a moment of spectacular clumsiness, I sent my hymnal tumbling – directly onto his foot! My apologies were stammered, my cheeks burning, but he responded with such a delightful chuckle that my heart performed a somersault. As he helped me retrieve the fallen book, our fingers brushed, sending a surprising jolt through my very being.

Later, Ciara, bless her utterly clueless soul, revealed that this captivating stranger was bother of her classmate. She even remembered his name this time! Diolu, she said. Diolu. The name is as charming as the man himself.

And so, my dear Diary, I find myself facing a future filled with both excitement and trepidation. Next Sunday, I shall don my finest attire, hoping to catch his eye and perhaps, just perhaps, engage him in conversation. I shall endeavor to be less clumsy this time around. Future me, I implore you, report back on whether this burgeoning infatuation blossoms into something more! I have a feeling this is only the beginning of a most delightful, and possibly disastrous, adventure.

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Dear Future Self,

The rain is coming down in sheets, a relentless, unforgiving downpour that perfectly matches my mood. I’m stuck in my room, a prisoner of my allergy, and utterly miserable. Ciara, bless her well-meaning but clueless heart, is trying her best, but she just doesn’t understand. She can’t understand the pull, the almost desperate need, to see Diolu again after last Sunday.

That day – the accidental hymnal incident, the fleeting touch of his hand, his laugh – feels like a lifetime ago, and yet it's so vivid, so overwhelmingly present. It’s a constant, painful reminder of what I’m missing today. My frustration is building, a simmering resentment against my allergy, against the rain, and, yes, even against Ciara, for her inability to grasp the depth of my longing.

But Mother… Mother is here. She’s sitting beside me, her hand resting gently on mine. She doesn't lecture me about my allergy or the dangers of going out in this weather. She just understands. She understands the frustration, the disappointment, the yearning. She’s quietly humming a familiar tune, her presence a soothing balm against the turmoil within. She’s offering me tea, warm and fragrant, a small act of comfort in this deluge of misery.

It’s not the same as seeing Diolu, of course. Nothing could be. But Mother's quiet strength, her unwavering support, is easing the sting of my disappointment. The rain continues to fall, but somehow, with her beside me, the storm inside feels a little less intense. I hope, future self, you remember this moment of quiet comfort amidst the chaos. I hope you remember Mother's gentle strength. For now, it's enough.

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