Men are just so different to us. They don’t feel in the same way, or even if they do they won’t ever admit it.

Although there are always exceptions to the rules and Gigi seems to have found one, slap bang in the middle of Italy. A man who is neither handsome, nor suave, but he is gentle and kind and he absolutely adores her. He also makes her laugh like no one else can and she does seem to be so very, very happy.

Part of me hates her just that little bit more because of it—jealousy is such an ugly emotion—and I think she knows it, which is why she showed me the library. Over two hundred thousand ancient books and little, old me. It’s so peaceful in here, so stuffed full of history, that whenever I come inside, I can feel the beat of my heart slow, just a little.

I have been working on something new. Gigi has read the opening chapters and told me it was good, but I need to try something more gutsy, more honest. I’m not entirely sure what she means, given how much of its main character is based on myself. I have a feeling she means Noah. But I’m not sure if I trust myself to ever put down on paper all the myriad of feelings I have toward him.

He sent me a letter. Via Paris and then to Antoine, who kept it from me. Which is what the argument was about. As in the big argument. The kind you don’t know if you can ever come back from argument. I do understand he did it out of love, believed he was saving me from a whole heap more pain, but it wasn’t his decision to make. He was being selfish, thinking only of what he wanted me to do. I’m so fed up of other people deciding who I am, where I should go, what kind of writer I should be. What kind of life I should live and with whom.

I’m angry with Gigi because of this (isn’t it amazing what comes out of your mind when you simply sit down and write—I hadn’t admitted this to myself until I saw the words on the paper in front of me). She’s supposed to be my friend. Supposed to support me. And yet she can’t bring it upon herself to encourage my writing. There are a million books out there, a million more still to be written. Not all of us are meant to become the next Shakespeare, or Keats, or Hemingway. Not all of us will become famous or rich as a result of our work. Although it would be nice, perhaps for a few weeks, but then I know I’d want to run and hide away in a cottage by the sea, where no one could find me, unless I wanted them to.

What is it I’m craving? What is it I want but cannot seem to find? Is this normal, to be so distracted by everything the world has to offer and yet have absolutely no idea how you fit into it all?