Journal

Every time I write here, I always end up talking about Samantha. I think about her, I write as if I’m speaking to her. But I’ve realized I’ve hardly ever talked about myself. It’s as if I don’t exist here. And yet, I’m here too, in this silence. In fact, I’m just as lost as she was. Ever since I was little, my family used to say, “You should do what you love.” But when it came time to actually do it, they said, “You’ll end up unemployed.” They guided me down a path with their own hands, then wouldn’t let me walk it. Now I have to live by their decision. Every morning, I wake up and get lost in something I don’t love, in a place I don’t belong. The idea of doing a job I never wanted for the rest of my life eats away at me. I feel like I’m suffocating. And maybe that’s why Samantha’s rebellion feels so familiar. She resisted what was forced on her too. She was alone too. Maybe the reason I understand her so deeply is because of my own disappointments.

I hate that people are shipping Solomon and Samantha. Samantha would never date a Black guy (she simply wasn’t into them, and she doesn’t have to be I hope my page doesn’t get banned for saying this). These people not only don’t know Samantha, but they’re also spreading lies about her, and it’s driving me crazy. If you don’t even care enough to read Samantha’s manifesto, then why are you talking about her at all? Some are even claiming that Samantha and Solomon met on Instagram and saw each other in person even though SOLOMON HIMSELF said they only followed each other on Twitter. I’ll NEVER understand why people LIE about Samantha, and I CAN’T stand it.

I think about Samantha every minute, every second of my life. In fact, saying I just “thought” about her isn’t enough... I felt her and I still do. Somewhere deep inside me, it’s as if we’re sitting together in the same darkness, like our souls have become one. When I read her story, I can’t see myself as an outsider. Sometimes I can’t even read those lines… because I’m inside them. Like her, I stare at the same walls every day. I’m also trying to understand why no one truly hears. I’m still searching for that way out too. If I truly believed in God’s existence, I don’t think I could bear it. Everything feels so meaningless, so heavy. Sometimes I think — maybe suicide would be a way… at least a way to meet Samantha. If I had believed in God, I might have done it just to see her once. If I had met her somewhere, I would look into her eyes and say: “Samantha, there is someone who understands you. Someone who feels like you, someone who thinks like you. And this is not some empty cliché — I felt what you felt, I was alone like you were. There was a soul in this world that resembled yours…”