i pushed myself so many times to finish this book. i found it boring at first. next thing i knew, i felt reading my own diary when i was teen. i felt so seen, yet privileged to read this. her diary lit a fire in me, that had been asleep for a while. there was a kid in 1944, just like me, dreaming and figuring out her life. the only difference is, she was living through a war, while i’m lucky enough to be born in the country without it. how many children like her endured the same agony? and how many kids right now are going through the same agony because of war? goddamn, i am one lucky bitch. rest in peace, anne. you touched so many lives.