The problem is that my parents see only what they like to see. When I'm bubbly, they share my delight and seem amiable and understanding. When I'm sad, they stay at arm's length and avoid me like the plague. My mother says I'm a zombie, I listen to funeral music, and the only thing that amuses me is to shut myself up in my room and read books (she doesn't actually say this, but I can read it in her look). My father knows zilch about how my days unfold, and I haven't the slightest desire to tell him anything about them.

Love is what I'm missing, an affectionate caress is what I want, a sincere look is what I desire.

School was also hellish today: twice I was caught unprepared (I've lost the desire to study) and I had to put up with the Latin lesson. Daniele torments my brain day and night and even inhabits my dreams. I can't reveal to anyone what I feel for him, they wouldn't understand, I'm certain.

During the lesson the classroom was silent and dark because a lightbulb burned out. I left Hannibal crossing the Alps and the well-trained geese in the Campidoglio waiting for him. I turned my gaze toward the steamed-up windows and saw my opaque, hazy image: without love a man is nothing, Diary, nothing at all (nor am I a woman).

25 January 2001

Today he turns nineteen. As soon as I awoke, I grabbed my cell phone, and the beep-beep of the buttons resounded in my room. I sent him a happy birthday message. I know he won't respond with thanks; maybe it'll give him a chuckle. He won't be able to restrain himself when he reads the last sentence I wrote: "I love you, and that's the only thing that matters."

4 March 2001 7:30 A.M.

So much time has passed since last I wrote, but nearly nothing has changed. During these months I dragged my feet, burdened by my sense of the world's inadequacy. Around me I see only mediocrity, and the mere idea of going out makes me feel ill. Where would I go? With whom?