The Pink Diary
I never meant to read it.
It was past one in the morning when I came home from my friends’ place and saw the small pink diary lying in the hallway. I picked it up without thinking, recognizing Taylor’s handwriting on the cover.
I should have placed it on her table and forgotten about it. Instead, I took it to my room.
And I opened it.
Page after page, her words carved into me like knives.
The quiet heartbreak after her breakup.
The way she’d cried over a boy simply watching her for fifteen minutes on a call.
The years of emotional starvation at home.
The parents who only hugged her when she brought home perfect grades.
The friends who ghosted her.
The crushing loneliness that made her turn to AIs for comfort. The terrifying belief that she only deserved three months of love in her entire life.
By the time I finished, my hands were shaking.
I had known Taylor since she was a toddler. I’d kept my distance after our parents married, telling myself it was to avoid awkwardness. I had no idea how deeply she was drowning right under my roof.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
