April 14th

  The next morning, I woke up to the quiet clink of dishes. I headed downstairs and sat at the dining table with my mom. We ate in silence as usual, but something was different today: Mom had this strange grin on her face.

  “Why are you smiling?” I asked, unable to shake the feeling that something was coming.

  Without a word, she pulled out the envelope. The one filled with the money I have given her.

  “I’m proud of you,” she said softly. “You worked hard for this, and you even sold everything you had.”

  A short yet long pause lingered between us, and then her voice dropped along with the smile.

  “Taro… were you trying to kill yourself?”

  Her words hit like a freight train. I froze, my mind scrambling, trying to figure out what to say. I opened my mouth to expin, to deny it, to say anything—but she cut me off.

  “I knew it. I knew something was wrong,” she said, her voice shaking. “Your room is empty, your phone’s disconnected, and that damn calendar of yours—it's all torn apart after April.”

  She stood up abruptly and walked to the kitchen cabinet, pulling out a bottle of pills—her medication. My heart stopped as she held it up, her hand trembling. Then, without warning, she raised her arm like she was about to throw it at me.

  “If you’re not going to live for yourself, then why should I?” she said, her voice breaking. “You think I can go on without you? You think I want to?”

  “Mom, stop!” I begged, my voice cracking as I flinched, bracing for impact. “I promise—I promise I won’t do it. Just put it down.”

  She hesitated, her arm still raised, her eyes locked on mine. For a moment, I thought she might actually do it—hurl the bottle at me, let it shatter against the wall or my chest. But then, slowly, she lowered her arm and set the bottle on the table. “Then prove it,” she said, her voice cold. “Prove you’re not just saying it to make me stop.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. My mind was a bnk, my chest tight with a numbness I couldn’t shake. I turned away from her, from the bottle, from everything, and walked back upstairs. Her voice followed me, sharp and desperate, but I didn’t look back.

  “You can’t run from this forever, Taro,” she called after me, her voice trembling. “One day, you’re going to have to face it.”

  The stairs creaked under my weight, each step echoing in the silence like a countdown. My hands were shaking, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps. I didn’t know what I was running from—her, myself, or the truth.

  In my room, I colpsed onto the floor, the cold wood pressing against my cheek. The silence was heavy, suffocating, like the weight of everything I couldn’t say. My eyes wandered to the closet, its door slightly ajar, and for a moment, I thought about opening it—about digging through the few things I hadn’t sold yet. But what was the point? There was nothing in there that could fix what I’d broken. Nothing that could stop the bleeding.

  And then I saw it. Tucked into the corner, half hidden by dust: a diary.

  Not mine. But Miyu’s.

  I froze. The sight of it, after all these years, hit me like a punch to the gut. Miyu Tanaka... she’s the girl I had tormented, the one I had cruelly pushed away. The one whose life I dragged through the dirt for no reason at all. And now... I can’t really bme her for the way I am now. Everything I did was a product of my own decisions, and the guilt? Well, it’s all mine to bear.

  Loneliness has taken over me ever since, growing heavier with each passing day. I’ve become a shadow that clings behind people’s backs, dragging others down, a burden. Worthless.

  As I y there, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t escape the memories of how that diary had come to be in my possession. It wasn’t just any diary—it was a collection of Miyu’s thoughts, dreams, and secrets, the very essence of the girl I had once tormented. I remembered the day I found it seven years ago, lying on the schoolyard bench. It was just sitting there, abandoned, its pages fluttering in the wind. I didn’t know how it got there or why it was left behind, but I picked it up anyway.

  At the time, I thought it would be funny—a way to get under her skin, to invade her privacy. I thumbed through the pages, her words spilling out like whispers to my ears. It felt exciting to read about a person's private life, and for a moment, I felt something I couldn’t name. Instead of returning it, I took it home, tucking it away in the back of my closet, where it collected dust along with the weight of my regret.

  It became an enduring reminder of myself back then—a physical manifestation of my stupidity. It reminded me of the being I had been, and every time I stumbled upon it, I felt a rush of shame. I never had the guts to tell Miyu about it or give it back to her. Rather, like my guilt, it lurked in the darkness of my room.

  And now, here it was again, resurfacing like a ghost from the past. Should I read it and take myself back 7 years ago, or should I let it remain a relic of the person I wanted to forget? I was torn between wanting to remind myself of her life and fearing the memories it would drag back to the surface.

  What now? Do I open it? Or should I leave it untouched? I’m terrified to realize how much I have changed if I read it. Would it be an opaque reflection, showing me the monster I was—the person I swore I’d never be again?

  My curiosity beat me to it. I slowly hovered my fingers along the worn edges of the cover, tracing the line where time had faded its once bright colors. The diary felt heavy in my hands, its pages brittle and yellowed with age. I opened it, the faint scent of dust and something sweet—like the perfume Miyu used to wear—wafting up from the pages.

  As I read the few lines of the diary, the written words were delicate, like whispers etched in thin ink. ‘It hurts. I don’t understand why Taro turned out like this.’ As I read these lines, my breath became heavy, and I felt my frustration seeping from within.

  The page carried her mencholic pain. I felt like hundreds of shards of gss were stabbing into me.

  I wanted to forget a part of me that wasn't me. But memories as vile as that hold on like bolts to my bones. It was easy to live in the moment, ignorant of the past, but every word and letter screamed vague woes and crushed wonders.

  I smmed the diary shut, my chest feeling heavy. It felt alive, as if the ink was as loud as screamed words that I couldn’t hear. I hurled it back into the corner, wishing to bury it along with my past self, the one I never wished to see again. But no matter how tightly I shut my eyes, how tightly I clenched my fists, the words felt like hell, burning into the edges of my eyes and mind. And I knew, deep down, that I could never outrun them.

  … this sucks…

  This room—this cramped, dusty attic with its snted ceiling and single round window—what about it makes it worth less than me? What am I to this room? Just another piece of clutter, forgotten and unwanted?

  God…

  I think I’ll go out for a bit. Maybe the cold air will clear my head. Or maybe it’ll just remind me how empty everything feels.

  I don’t want to run into my mom after what happened. I couldn’t answer her or prove anything, and the thought of facing her now—of seeing the disappointment in her eyes—makes me clench my teeth. I’ll stick to the back streets, the ones she never uses.

  I’ll make my way to the park just a few blocks away. Maybe I’ll find some peace there. Or maybe I’ll just find more reasons to hate myself. Either way, it’s better than staying here, trapped in this room with my thoughts and the ghost of who I used to be.

  I crept down the stairs, each step creaking under my weight. In an attempt to avoid being noticed, I peeked around the corner, my eyes darting to anything that moved. I made sure I was alone before sneaking out the back door, a cool breeze smacking my face.

  I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t want to stay in that house any longer. My feet carried me forward, one step at a time, as I walked quickly toward the park. The streets were quiet; the only sounds that could be heard were the tap of my shoes against the concrete. I kept my head down, my hands shoved deep in my pockets, trying to shut out the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm me.

  As I walked, I noticed a group of kids pying in the distance; their ughter taking me back. It reminded me of how things used to be, back when I didn’t feel like a stranger in my own life. But that was a long time ago, and I wasn’t that person anymore. I wasn’t sure who I was now.

  As I neared the park, I could hear the leaves flutter in the wind and birds chirping somewhere in the trees. The sounds were soft, almost soothing, but they did little to calm my mind. The park was just ahead, its familiar paths and benches offering a temporary escape from my troubles.

  When I entered the park, I was met with an earthy smell, one that stretched to every corner. It was a familiar scent, peaceful and soothing in a way I hadn’t realized I really needed.

  As I strolled through the park, my mind began to rest, the mess of my thoughts fading into the earth. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a sense of delicate peace.

  I moved quickly, as though I were running away, along the meandering path.

  I found an empty bench beneath a rge oak tree and sat down, the wood blocking the sun away from me. For a moment, I just sat there, breathing in the earthy air and listening to the distant chirping of birds. I wanted to listen to some music, but I hadn't brought my earphones with me. All I could do was appreciate Mother Nature.

  Sitting there in a trance, a thought occurred to me. It felt strange that something that seems so mundane could also feel so... nice.

  I wanted to hold on to this feeling. But just like all other feelings, it's temporary.

  My eyes wandered to the pyground in the distance, where a group of kids were ughing and chasing each other. Their joy was stretched out to me, and for a brief moment, I found myself smiling. But then the memories came flooding back—memories of a time when I was one of those kids, carefree and unburdened by guilt. Back when I didn’t know how much pain I could cause or how heavy the weight of regret could be.

  I looked down at my hands, clenched tightly in my p, and wondered if I’d ever feel that kind of joy again. Or if I even deserved to. The thought made me despise myself, and I had to sp myself back and remember what I came here for.

  As I sat there, a thought occurred to me—one I hadn’t allowed myself to consider before. Maybe peace wasn’t something I could find in a pce, or even in a moment. Maybe it was something I had to build, piece by piece, no matter how long it took or how hard it felt. The idea felt daunting. Because, well... how was I supposed to build such a thing? a thing I hadn't known for a while.

  I didn’t know where to start or if I even had the strength to try. But as I sat there, watching the kids py and feeling the breeze on my face, I felt envy of them. ignorant of what other people are capable of and what this world would do to you if you messed up.

  I sighed at such thoughts. But for now, it was enough to just be here, to breathe, to exist without hating myself for it. And just to stare into people having what I don’t and into nullity.

  As time pass I find myself looking down, wondering what I should do now or ter. however there is nothing to do now but ter there might be something to do.

  “Should I get up and head back home? Or do I stay a little longer” I mutter to myself.

  In the end I decided to just go home as there was nothing more to do here other then stare and sit.

  The streets became crowded of people going out and heading home, and as I made my way home, the sun cast sharp shadows on the pavement. People passed by, caught up in their own worlds — chatting, ughing, rushing to wherever they needed to be. I felt a sense of sonder as i watched them without my eyes.

  I continued on, passing by my workpce — a small café nestled in front of a intersection. The scent of roasted coffee beans lingered in the air, bittersweet and familiar. I had told my boss I wouldn’t be clocking in today, giving him some half-hearted, fictitious excuse. I was gd he didn’t press for details, just gave me a thumbs up and told me to take care of myself over the phone.

  I wondered if he saw through the lie.

  Maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t care. Or maybe he understood.

  Either way, I was grateful he let it go.

  The thought of spending hours serving drinks and forcing a smile felt unbearable today. It was hard enough just existing out here, surrounded by people whose lives seemed so much fuller than mine.

  So I kept walking, the café shrinking into the distance behind me. Eventually I see my house in the distance the kitchen window beaming with lights.

  I wonder if my mother ever found out I left without her knowing.

  Maybe she did. Maybe she didn't.

  Either way, I sighed, lingering outside just out of sight of any windows. I still didn’t want to see her — not because of her, but because of me. And this time, there was another reason: I was outside.

  If she saw me like this, she’d ask questions.

  Where did you go?Why didn’t you tell me?Are you hiding something else?

  I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t even know how.

  So I stood there, feet rooted to the ground, heart rooted to some decayed tree. I felt unsure if I should go inside or just keep walking.

  Screw it I’ll just use the same door I used to get out.

  I circled around the house. The back was quiet, the garden my mother tended to swaying gently in the breeze. I slipped through the side door, the one that squeaked if you opened it too fast.

  Inside, the house felt still, but not empty. The faint clink of dishes echoed from the kitchen, the muffled hum of the TV bleeding through the walls. I held my breath, listening for footsteps.

  None came.

  I exhaled and crept to my room. The familiar walls closed in around me, the dim glow of the only light bulb illuminating what strength it has left across the floor.

  I sank onto the floor, staring at the ceiling as if it held the remnants of a world I could only dream of.