Collin and Caroline’s Ten-Day Post-Grad Journal-Documented Takeover of Australia. There is a ring to it, a certain stylistic touch when written in your scrawling handwriting on the first page of the leather-bound journal – though every sentence with our names next to each other sounds professionally brainstormed. Collin and Caroline.

Thirteen days after high school graduation – and I remember that because it was the day we left for Australia – you said if we didn’t write down everything we did each day, we might as well not have gone.

I’m writing you this letter, Collin, because I wrote in the journal as you insisted, but you left anyway. Got on a plane six days into the trip and never told me why. I’m writing this because we were, excuse the expression, like two peas in a pod. Because between the days and nights there was a sort of half-brightness to the sky in Sydney and only you noticed. Because when you say a word enough times it quickly loses its meaning, and this happened to us with “platonic” and our relationship. Because I brought a mug for my Earl Grey tea and you put coffee in it and I could never wash out the taste but I didn’t care. Because I have not once made fun of you for having two “l’’s in your name when it’s supposed to be “Colin.” Because you took pictures of the buildings in Melbourne and said I was annoying when I told you to capture moments with your mind instead. Because I thought you would like the koalas at the zoo, but you said they seemed like “lazy idiots,” and I realized you were right.

But you left this four-year, perfectly platonic friendship. I don’t want these written words. It’s the least you could do to take them off my hands. I never read them and I never will; here are the pages, the journal, the trip. We promised we wouldn’t read them until we were 25, pinky-swore on that fateful bench, and I kept that promise. I don’t expect you to keep it. In a manila envelope, I send you my painstakingly scrawled and your likely flowing sentences. You always were the more willing writer.

Collin: June 20, airplane to Venice

Planes are metaphors for transitions to change – I don’t like them. We start out somewhere, either anticipating or dreading leaving (I was the former; God, I couldn’t wait to leave home), and then we find ourselves suspended in the air, nowhere in particular, no ground to identify with. I don’t mean to be overly philosophical – Caroline always says I am – but aren’t we locationless in a plane? Excuse my unavoidably foul language, but there is no way in hell that I would allow someone to put “above Missouri” as my place of death if the plane were to crash.

Caroline is trying to read over my shoulder (even though she isn’t “into” this journal thing). This morning when I bought it, she said, “I know you’re a good writer and everything, but I’m not really into this.” Caroline, get into this! With every beat of my heart, every cell of my being, I pray that you will get into this. Or else we won’t remember Collin and Caroline’s Ten-Day Post-Grad Journal-Documented Takeover of Australia.

I’m sure you wrote wonderfully in the journal, Collin. You have a way of perceiving the world that I didn’t know was possible. When we first met, during freshman orientation, you said I seemed like the type of person who would collect stamps or rocks – objects no one wants. After I picked up an old pen cap I saw on the floor, you said that I probably saw excitement in unimportant things because they’re more simply understood. I laughed at the idea that I would be a trivial stamp collector. But I was, and I am, and I lied.

Caroline: June 21, hotel in Melbourne

I never lie. So I told Collin I hate his shirt. That short-sleeved, button-up blue shirt with the huge birds – it’s the worst. I never lie – he looks kind of cute in it. I can say that because he won’t read this until he’s 25. Today we’re going to the opera and hopefully to an aborigine art museum (I have yet to convince him on that one). I have a good feeling about this trip, especially since Collin is in charge of the schedule. After sitting next to him in homeroom and witnessing his color-coded planner every day since freshman year, I don’t doubt his organizational skills.

Collin: June 24, outside touristy gift shop selling cheesy souvenirs

At our high school, people who were just friends suddenly became couples at the end of senior year. Everyone said Caroline and I would be one of them. We laughed. We’ll probably laugh again when we read this in seven years. Our peers thought we would date. But whatever they think, and whatever we think, right now, we care about each other. So I simply cannot allow someone I care about to buy this dreadful glass s***-show – excuse my unavoidably foul language – that is being thrust in my face. Caroline is about to buy a snow globe with the Sydney Opera House inside. I have transcribed the conversation that is currently unfolding so that she will one day regret every word.

“Collin, I’m going to buy this. It’s the most charming thing I’ve seen.” Yes, Caroline, you used “charming” to describe that thing.

“I will not let you spend twenty dollars on fake snow,” I said.

She didn’t listen, or didn’t care.

“It’s charming! Look at all the little puff balls–”

“Snowflakes?”

“Yeah, look at all the snowflakes, look at them getting caught on the windows, just a little spot to rest their legs.”

“Snowflakes have legs. You’re absolutely correct.”

It’s almost true, though. Caroline had a point. The tiny snowflakes got caught in the ridges of the building on their way down, like a detour, a pit stop, a place of solitude. It managed to be true and cheesy all at once.

Collin, I hope you’re reading this journal. We promised we wouldn’t and I didn’t, but I want for me to have kept that promise and for you to have broken it. As a symbol.

Collin: June 28, street corner

Today we ate Vegemite on toast. Even more off-putting than the name is the smell, but we opened our minds, arms, and mouths to Australian culture, and for that I am grateful. We met our guide, Bernard. He is undoubtedly after Caroline. I can sense it, and it takes all that I have not to scream “Just tell us about the goddamn paintings!” when he flirts with her in the museums. One of those mouth-breathers, he is. Caroline, when you’re 25 and reading this, I hope you laugh harder than you did at the bad jokes told by this poorly named man.

Collin, I lied when I said I never lie. But I am not lying when I write that I do not know why you booked that ticket. I know that you ate pretzels while packing, because you left crumbs on the bed, but I do not know why you were packing. Why you got on that goddamn plane, Collin, I couldn’t tell you.

Caroline: June 29, taxi to the “club” and “normal teenage scene”

Today we decided to be more like post-grad teens. Thus far we had just been going to museums and cafés, and we were content with that. Tonight, though, we’re going to a club downtown where Bernard will show us “nightlife.” But to breathe life into the night is the least we expect to do, treading with our heavy feet from the bus, wallets heavy with coins so we can ride it.

I remember Bernard kissing me on the cheek, you catching my eye from across the club. I mouthed for you to come upstairs with us to get a drink, Collin, but you turned away. From the window in the top floor of the club, I remember very little – the steam worked wonders in the fog of my memory, for which I am not grateful – but I remember looking outside, wishing you and I were sharing the same steam-filled moments. Across the street you were getting into a cab, some beautiful Australian girl next to you, and in the hotel that night all you left were those pretzel crumbs.

Collin: June 29, hotel room

Sometimes I think that fate has me marked like a bull to be slaughtered. Caroline, if you read this journal tonight, before we’re 25, which I know you will, which is why I left it, know that shock drove me away in that cab. Shock that you went upstairs with Bernard. I hope you read this tonight when I leave it on the bed – he kissed you, and you looked at me and mouthed “go away,” so of course, how could I not?

Caroline: June 30, hotel room

Collin looked away and left, so of course, I left, too. How could I not?

Collin, I hope you read the journal and my letter. I hope you break another promise and read them and scavenge up an explanation from the hill of excuses piled upon each other you’ve probably given yourself. Hell, I’ve scavenged plenty of explanations on your behalf since then. How could I not?