Day 45

Dear Diary,

Today is my forty-fifth day on this strange planet. The natives call it "the Hospital."

The food here is not unlike that from my home, but it is strangely flavorless.

Despite having access to a variety of dishes, many of those who live here choose a diet made mostly of pudding, jello, orange juice, and ice chips.

Some of the natives do not eat at all but are fed homogenous liquids through holes in their stomachs or a needle in their arm.

I have observed that the people here seem to belong to several different tribes, identifiable by their distinctive clothing.

The men and women in ill-fitting, matched shirt-and-pants sets are in tribe called "Nurses."

Some people wear similar attire to the Nurses but with the addition of a sort of stiff, white coat. These are Doctors. Some Doctors wear suits or dress shirts and slacks under their coats.

There are a small number of adults with a constant look of worry on their face. They are typically in comfortable, soft clothing and do not bathe or change their attire as frequently as they probably should. They wash their hands far more than I would deem "normal." These are Parents.

Members of all three tribes work together to serve small beings of a different tribe: the Patients. They spend much of their time in bed, often wearing simple dresses.

I fear that I am succumbing to Stockholm Syndrome, dear Diary, for though I hate it here I will not leave until my captors, members of the Doctor tribe, tell me I can go. I am free to leave, Diary, and yet I will not. I am afraid even to leave this room long enough to shower or eat food. I am going crazy, Diary. Why am I doing this? Why am I behaving so strangely?

Oh, I know.

It's because I'm in love.

I'm in love with a little girl with gigantic eyes and a beautiful, rare smile.

My Maisie girl.