Dear Diary 1977 : Homecoming - Vol 2
Copyright© 2026 by Emily Wendling
Chapter 1
Dear Diary
The morning began as the others did, with a jolt from a dream that left my body slick with sweat and another, more telling moisture. I woke with a gasp, my nightgown clinging to my breasts and stomach, the fabric between my legs soaked through. I did not move for several minutes, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom in the sprawling manor. The silence of the mansion, usually a comfort, felt oppressive today. It was a silence that allowed the echoes of my dreams to resonate, images of flesh and motion that made my cheeks burn even in the solitude of my room. I threw back the covers and stood up, the cool air on my damp skin causing me to shiver. I felt a strange duality within me, a war between revulsion and a dark, burgeoning curiosity that I dared not examine too closely.
Then I remembered, I had a meeting with Kristy. I had not seen her since we walked across the stage at high school graduation. I had not heard her voice in ten years. I had not looked into her eyes since we hugged in the parking lot and promised to stay in touch. We both knew we would not. Life moved forward. College took us in different directions. I did not blame her. I did not blame myself. We were young. We were busy. We were not as close as we once had been. Our friendship had healed after our falling out, but it had never returned to the depth it once held. It had become polite and warm, but not intimate. I remembered that clearly. I remembered the way we smiled at each other during those last months. I remembered the way we avoided certain topics. I remembered the way we both tried to pretend that everything was fine. It was fine. It simply was not close.
I sat at the edge of the bed and let my feet rest on the floor. The wood felt cool. I took a deep breath and tried to steady myself. I felt excited. I felt nervous. I felt curious. I felt a strange mixture of emotions that I could not fully separate. I had agreed to meet her because I wanted to know who she had become. I wanted to know if she had changed. I wanted to know if I had changed. I wanted to know if we could talk without the weight of the past pressing between us. I wanted to know if we could laugh again. I wanted to know if we could sit across from each other and feel comfortable. I wanted to know if she remembered the same things I remembered. I wanted to know if she had missed me. I wanted to know if she had thought about me at all.
I stood and walked to the window. The morning light had grown stronger. The sky looked pale and soft. I opened the curtains and let the brightness fill the room. The mansion felt less heavy when the sun reached inside. I’ve been here for almost three months. My parents died four years ago. I was too busy in France to come home back then. I still felt strange writing that sentence. I still felt strange thinking about it. Their absence had become a part of my daily life, but it had not become easier. The house reminded me of them in every corner. I grew up here and walked through these halls as a child. I used to run down the stairs on Christmas mornings. I used to sit at the dining table with them during long conversations. I had listened to their voices echo through the rooms. Now the house belonged to me. I kept it clean. I kept it organized. I kept it quiet. I did not know if that was what they would have wanted. I only knew that it was what I could manage.
I dressed slowly. I chose a simple outfit. I did not want to look like I had tried too hard. I did not want to look careless either. I wanted to look like myself. I brushed my hair and tied it back. I looked at my reflection and tried to imagine how Kristy would see me. I wondered if she would think I looked older. I wondered if she would think I looked tired. I wondered if she would think I looked the same. I wondered if she would recognize me immediately. I wondered if I would recognize her. I wondered if she had changed her hair. I wondered if she had changed her style. I wondered if she had changed her smile. I wondered if she had changed at all.
I grabbed my keys and walked downstairs. The house felt large as I moved through it. The staircase curved gently. The walls held framed photographs that I had not taken down. I passed the living room and glanced at the piano. I had not played it in years. I walked through the foyer and opened the front door. The air outside felt crisp. The sky had brightened. The driveway stretched out before me. My car waited at the end. I locked the door behind me and walked toward the car. I felt a small flutter in my chest. I felt excited. I knew it was also something else. I could not name it.
I got into the car and started the engine. The sound broke the quiet of the morning. I backed out of the driveway and turned onto the road. The neighborhood looked familiar. I drove on these streets many times. I had walked on them as a teenager. I had ridden my bike along these sidewalks. I had talked with friends under the streetlights. I used to live a different life here. I felt that life press against me as I drove. I felt the weight of memory. I felt the weight of time.
I turned onto the main road and headed toward the city. The traffic was light. The sun rose higher. The sky turned a deeper shade of blue. I passed the grocery store where my mother used to shop. I passed the park where my father taught me how to ride a bike. I passed the library where I studied during high school. I passed the old movie theater where Kristy and I had gone on Friday nights. I remembered the way we used to sit in the back row. I remembered the way we whispered to each other during the previews. I remembered the way we laughed at the same jokes. I remembered the way we shared popcorn. I remembered the way we felt comfortable together. I wondered if she remembered those nights. I wondered if she thought about them at all.
The closer I got to the city, the more my excitement grew. I felt a small knot of nerves in my stomach, but it did not overwhelm me. It felt like the kind of nervousness that comes before something good. I had not felt that in a long time. I have spent the past few years dealing with grief, responsibility, and the quiet routines of adulthood. I had not allowed myself many moments of anticipation. I had not allowed myself many moments of joy. I felt grateful for this one.
I reached the city limits and merged into heavier traffic. The buildings rose around me. The sidewalks filled with people. The noise increased. I felt the energy of the city. I had missed this feeling. I have lived in quieter places during the past few years. I had spent most of my time in the rural parts of France. I had not ventured into the city often. I felt a sense of renewal as I drove through the streets. I felt a sense of possibility. I felt a sense of connection to the world again.
I found a parking garage near Union Square and pulled inside. I parked on the third level. I turned off the engine and sat for a moment. I took a deep breath. I felt my heart beat a little faster. I felt the anticipation rise again. I opened the door and stepped out. The air inside the garage felt cool. I walked toward the elevator and pressed the button. The elevator arrived quickly. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. The elevator doors closed. I watched the numbers change as I descended. I felt a small tremor of excitement in my hands. I clasped them together to steady myself.
I stepped out of the parking garage and felt the shift in atmosphere immediately. The air outside carried the layered scent of the city. I smelled roasted coffee from a nearby cart. I smelled car exhaust drifting from the street. I smelled the faint sweetness of a bakery that must have opened early. The sounds of traffic and conversation blended into a steady hum. I paused for a moment to take it in. I had missed this energy. I had missed the way the city felt alive even when I felt quiet inside.
I walked toward the sidewalk and joined the flow of people moving through Union Square. The sun had risen high enough to cast long, bright reflections across the windows of the surrounding buildings. The light felt warm on my face. I looked around and tried to absorb every detail. I wanted to remember this moment. I wanted to remember how it felt to return to a place that had once been familiar.
A bus painted in the iconic red and orange of the Muni line hissed to a stop at the curb. Its broad side was a canvas for a movie advertisement. It was for a new comedy I thought something light and innocuous. The poster featured the film’s star a handsome actor leaning against a vintage sports car with a charmingly goofy grin. He held a bucket of popcorn aloft as if offering it to the city itself. The title was splashed across the bottom in bubbly yellow letters. I looked at it, but I did not really see it. My eyes were focused yet my mind was a million miles away adrift in the strange currents that had been pulling at me lately.
Then the image began to change. It was not a sudden shift like a light being switched on. It was a slow insidious bleed like ink dropped into clear water. The actor’s grin did not vanish. It warped. The charming amusement in his eyes curdled into something predatory something cold and triumphant. His hand was lowered by the one holding the popcorn bucket. The bucket itself seemed to melt its red cardboard softening drooping then dissolving into nothing. His fingers curled into a tight fist.