Dear diary, R.I.P. by planet p

Disclaimer I don't own Amas de Casa Desesperadas or any of its characters.

Love wasn't what it was cracked up to be in the novels, or magazines, or television programmes, Julieta Martini knew. She supposed she'd always known, in a way. Look at my parents, she thought, a perfect example. Love could be cruel, even vicious, and sometimes it could be sad, sad, sad.

She got out her diary and opened to the page for today, and wrote Susana y Esteban, R.I.P. She really meant to write Julieta y René, R.I.P. but she couldn't bring herself to put in down on paper like that, to make it truly true. She still dreamed of René, and in her dreams, he always came back; he always came back for her.

So much for love, she thought, her mama was with someone else now: Miguel Delfino.

She didn't like the name Miguel, she decided: she wanted her father back. She thought that if they could be a family again – without Miguel: Go away, Miguel – then everything would be better, everything would just be… okay again, she supposed. But, realistically, she was probably too old to still be wishing things like that; things that would never in a million, billion years ever happen.

Yeah, probably.

So she thought that, a couple of years ago, she might have gone around to Vera Sherer's house to chat with her daughter, Daniela, but now Daniela was "way" older than her, and she had no one's house to go around to, and no one to talk to. Once, she'd wondered if maybe she could talk to Lía, because she had kids, but then she'd decided not to; she didn't want to upset her mama like that.

A day before, she'd gone out to the picture theatre with a classmate from school and she'd fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of the picture. She thought that she would have dreamed about René, but instead she'd dreamed about Vera's first husband, Ricardo. She'd woken up suddenly with a scream, and the moment she woke up, she forgot everything that Ricardo had said to her, except that he'd said something to her. She'd been embarrassed and Romila had laughed. Of course, she'd laughed along, but she'd felt fake and she'd wanted to cry. Even more than shedding tears, though, she'd wanted René. René wouldn't have laughed; he'd have cuddled her and asked if she was alright. Romila didn't care, and Julieta had found herself thinking her mean. She'd decided, the next time Romila asked her to accompany her to the pictures, that she would say no, sorry, she had chores.

She hoped Romila didn't ask her again; she wrote this down in her diary, too.

She writes a poem in her diary, but it sounds silly. (She doesn't scribble over it, though, she'll keep it for when she's feeling really down and needs something to laugh at!)

What is love?

Love is the gladdened heart, and the saddened heart,

But, most of all, it is the saddened heart,

The tortured, pained, ignored heart,

The heart we tell to go away,

To bug someone else today,

But, outside of fairy tales, outside of the books that children read, and marvel at those pictures,

Love has no wings and cannot fly,

Peter and Wendy were doomed from page 1.

If René didn't return soon, she decided, as she closed her diary, she would just have to go after him, she would just have to run away and go to him. She had to know he was alright; she knew he worried about her, too.