You usually went fishing first thing in the morning. I went back and forth between wishing you'd get eaten by a polar bear and praying that you didn't because I knew you were my ticket home. Whenever you went out, I tried snooping around the cabin for clues as to where we were exactly, but so far I had come up empty-handed.

But I did find a stash of paper and pencils when I was searching through the closet with the books in it, so I decided to make a calendar. I started to keep track of the days I'd been gone, how long I'd been missing.

It was December 3. My feet were healing well since I had been keeping them clean and bandaged. When you went out today, I was bound and determined to scour every last inch of the cabin until I came up with some information that would help me to get free. Maybe there was an atlas in the closet with all those books. Or maybe a loose map of Canada.

And what about weapons? If we were really out in polar bear country, I found it hard to believe that you didn't have a stash of weapons somewhere. I thought about finding a gun and holding you at gunpoint until you told me how to get out or led me to the plane so you could fly us out. But I found no guns, knives, nothing. 

I had looked through every inch of the cabin and the only place I couldn't access was one of the wardrobes in the loft, and that was because it was locked. I racked my brain, trying to remember if I had seen a key anywhere. Again, I went to the kitchen and searched through the drawers and cabinets and pantry, but to no avail. Grunting in frustration, I went to the stairs. Once I got up into the loft, I went straight to the locked wardrobe and inspected the lock. I wondered if I could pick it with anything – a bobby pin, perhaps? I'd noticed you had some stock in the bathroom, even though I never wore bobby pins. I sat down on the bed across from the wardrobe – your bed – and I pondered my options. Finally, it came to me. I could use the file on my nail clippers to see if I could pick the lock. I rushed into my bedroom and fumbled under the bed for my purse, and then I dug out the nail clippers. I went back to wardrobe and stuck the file into the lock and wiggled it around. I didn't know enough about how to pick a lock, apparently, because I failed. I screamed in frustration and threw myself back onto your bed. I laid there for a few minutes and then pulled my legs up and snuggled up to your pillow. I closed my eyes, not caring if you came home and found me sleeping in your bed. I ran my hand up under the pillow to snug it tighter around my head and then I felt it - something hard and small on the underside of your pillow. I sat up and dug my hand into the pillowcase and I was rewarded when I pulled out a small key.

I had the wardrobe open in seconds.

At first, it looked the same as the other wardrobe – clothes, blankets, a few odds and ends. Then I noticed a colorful book poking out from under a blanket. I pulled it out and inspected it. It was a journal, large and thick. The front had been painted by hand with various watercolors and there was one word written in the middle of the cover. A name, actually.

“River.”

I swallowed the sick feeling that was rising in my throat. I wasn't sure if I wanted to open the book. What were the chances that you had created a journal or a story about something – or someone – else called “River”?

With trembling hands, I opened it and read the first scrawled paragraph with horror.

May 27, 2011

I first noticed your swimsuit. It wasn't a bikini, and not particularly revealing. It was unique, a flowery little thing with a halter top and a high waist. You looked like you had just stepped out of a 1960's catalog. You had a peach scarf tied up in your long blonde hair, to keep it off your face. I'd never seen hair quite the color of yours before. I couldn't stop staring at it. It seemed to be made of spun gold or honey. I was captivated by your porcelain skin, your green eyes, your sweet smile. You looked so innocent, so happy.

Oh, my god! What the hell was this?

I was working at a hotel that summer in Leigh-on-Sea. You were on holiday with your mum and your brother. After that first time I noticed you, I spent all my spare time on the back veranda of the hotel, watching for you, watching you.

You didn't notice that I followed you and your mum one afternoon when you went to the shops. You bought a pair of earrings at one shop and you put them on immediately upon exiting the shop. They were some kind of blue gemstone; I remember because they looked so beautiful with your hair. Then your mum bought you a gigantic sun hat and you didn't want to wear it, but she insisted because she didn't want you to get a sunburn.

You stayed for exactly 17 days at Leigh-on-Sea. Every day, I watched you swim in the ocean. Frolic with your brother on the beach. Take lunch in your hotel suite. I watched you while you read your favorite books under the sun umbrella.

You took sailing lessons and I watched you even then. I took the hotel's catamaran and followed you from a distance. You're a natural, you know. You were made for the water. One afternoon you begged and begged until you convinced the instructor to let you swim out in the open water.

There was intense heat climbing up the back of my neck. I felt certain that vomit was rising up through my body, but I forced it down. My ears began to ring, but I took a deep, steadying breath and kept reading:

I felt like the breath was sucked out of my lungs the day I saw you dragging your luggage away from the hotel. I returned from my break and told my manager that I was ill and had to take the afternoon off. I went to my room and laid on my bed for hours. It felt like my reason for living had suddenly disappeared.

Then all at once, I knew what I had to do.

There was a break in your writing there. The next three lines looked like they were written at a later time, when you were in a different mood, scribbled in different ink.

I found you.

I followed you.

I watched you.

I was on the verge of hyperventilating. I couldn't believe what I was reading. Until then, I had thought you'd seen me around Grand Forks and became infatuated with me just from random encounters. But you had tracked me down, all the way from England. You followed me to my hometown; you moved to Grand Forks for me!

To watch me.

To stalk me.

To take me!

I think that maybe I passed out for a few moments because I opened my heavy eyelids and I didn't remember laying down on the bed and the book was on the floor. I laid there thinking about what had just happened, hoping it was a dream or praying that there was some logical explanation for how you could possibly have written those things about me.

Had you gotten your hands on some of my school assignments?

Did you know my uncle or had you talked to my friends about me?

No, there was no way you could have written such a detailed account of my time in Leigh-on-Sea from just speaking to others. You had been there and you watched me, just like you wrote in your journal. 

You sick son of a bitch! 

As much as I didn't want to continue reading about your insights into my private life, I had to.

May 31, 2011

I found you. At least your first and last name, and your hometown. You don't know me, River, but I want you. I can't explain what happened inside of me when I first saw you, but I know for certain that we're supposed to be together. I don't know how I will convince you, but when I find you, I will.

When you were here, love, I heard you talking with your mum and your brother and your uncle about your grandmother. I'm so sorry that she's gone. I wish I'd been with you when you lost her. It almost killed me when my parents died, and I had no one. At least you had your family to help you through your loss. And you and your mum seemed so close. It made me miss my mum so dearly.

I scoffed after reading that. You had no idea how alone I was when I lost my grandmother. You didn't know that my mother had been in a mental hospital, incapable of dealing with anything until shortly before we went to England. You thought you knew me so well, but in your second journal entry, you had already proven that you didn't know me like you thought you did.

I don't know how, River, but we will be together one day. But first, I have to get to you. I will find a way.

That entry was written only four days after I had left England. It was chilling to think you found out all that information about me after only a few days of searching.

June 14, 2011

I've thought of you often, my love.

I cringed that you called me that.

I've never been in love, darling, but I know this is love. I love the way you move, the way you smile, even the way you swim. The way you chew on your lip when you're thinking. The way you tuck that stray hair behind your ear. I know the sound of your laugh and I can't wait to hear it again. I love that you love books, for I, too, love to read. When we're together, we can discuss our favorite literature.

You might be surprised to hear this, but I am also a swimmer. I used to swim on my school's team. Before my parents died anyway. After that, I lost my love for it. I lost my love for everything. Until I saw you.

I sat and read for a long time, completely absorbed in the words, wavering between horror and intrigue. I didn't even notice you coming up the steps until your sharp words snapped my attention away from the journal.

“There's a reason that was locked away!”

I looked at you, feeling embarrassed at first, but recovering quickly. “How could you?!” I screamed, throwing the book at you and then rushing at you with all my weight. I wasn't very big, but when I rammed into you with my arms shoving hard against your shoulders, you fell with a loud thud into the door frame off the smaller bedroom.

You regained your footing quickly and a flash of rage showed in your eyes. I was frightened for a moment, but then my own rage immediately replaced any fear.

“You followed me! You watched me for years, you invaded my life and you think it's wrong for me to be reading your stupid journal! What the hell is wrong with you!?!” I screamed louder than I'd ever screamed before, pounding my fists into your chest over and over again.

“Do you know what that's like?” I continued my rampage, slapping and hitting and punching you in any place that you weren't desperately trying to shield. “I feel violated! You violated me! You put my life on display for your own sick obsession, your disgusting...fetish with me!”

I kept ramming against you, trying to push you toward the opening in the floor that revealed the staircase. I wanted to push you into it, hoping you'd fall and break your neck. I didn't care at the time that you were my only way out of there. I was so infused with rage that I couldn't see straight. I felt as if the last three and a half years of my life had just been snatched away from me, like you made them into some twisted story for your own sick purposes.

I pushed and I pushed and I pushed and you pushed back hard against me. Finally you grabbed my wrists hard and tight and shouted, “Stop!”

I didn't realize how strong you were until that moment. You stopped me in my tracks as I stood there, seething, probably foaming at the mouth and looking like an absolute mad woman.

“Go to hell!” I spat at you with my words, and then I summoned all the saliva in my mouth and I literally spat at you.

I looked into your eyes, expecting another flash of rage toward me, and maybe some physical retaliation. But your eyes showed hurt rather than anger.

You were hurt? You had the audacity to feel insulted by my actions? After what you had done?!

I couldn't summon anything else. I was empty after I had vomited all of my pent up emotions on you. I stopped pushing, I stopped raging, I stopped seething. You let go, eying me warily. I just pushed past you into the small bedroom and I slammed the door.

I laid on that gingham-checked bed for hours. I didn't sleep. I didn't move. I didn't really think. I just laid there like a zombie.

Hours later, you knocked lightly on the door.

“What?” I spat.

“Are you hungry?” You asked.

“No!”

I heard you go back downstairs. I laid there all night. I pulled the covers over myself at some point. I eventually drifted off and when I woke up, I was in the same position as I had been when I fell asleep.

I still had no thoughts.

No courage.

No hope.

The sunlight poured into the room for hours before I heard you knock again. I didn't say anything. You just opened the door cautiously and then you came in and sat in the chair next to the bed. I didn't look at you. I was facing the wall, looking at the slanted logs over my head.

You sat there for a long time and then you finally spoke. “You should drink some water.”

I didn't move. I didn't respond. I just heard the soft clunk of a tin cup on my night table. And then you left, closing the door behind you.

I laid there all day, I think. Or maybe it was two or three days. I didn't know and I didn't care. I sipped at the water, and I never had to go to the bathroom. You came in once in a while and filled my cup with water.

Finally, you came in and sat next to me again.

“River?”

I didn't answer.

“River, you have to eat something.”

I wondered if it would hurt to die of starvation.

“River,” you said more firmly.

When I still didn't answer, you gently grabbed my shoulder and rolled me onto my back so that I was looking up at you.

“Why do you care?” I spoke vehemently.

“River, don't you understand?” You asked, your voice pleading.

“Understand what?”

 “I love you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The photo on the side is the swimsuit that River was wearing when Zayn first saw her.