[Diary Entry]
Dear Diary,
I didn't cry today.
But my chest felt like someone was sitting on it.
Like a sadness I couldn't name just moved in and unpacked its things.
I wonder if the little girl I used to be still lives inside me.
And if she does… is she scared of me now?
⸻
It happened around 3:12 a.m.
Aarohi had been tossing in her bed for hours, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly like time that refused to pass.
The room was still. The kind of still that wasn't peaceful — but heavy.
Her sketchbook lay untouched on her desk.
Her diary was closed.
And her heart… was loud.
She didn't remember falling asleep.
But suddenly, she was standing in a hallway — dim, endless, walls painted with soft greys and old memories.
At the far end stood a mirror.
She walked slowly toward it. And as she did, the air grew colder, tighter. Like regret wrapped around her lungs.
She stood in front of the mirror.
And she saw her.
A little girl.
About 7 years old.
Hair in two messy braids.
Wearing a worn-out yellow dress with one sleeve hanging loose.
Eyes too big, too quiet — holding the kind of sadness no child should ever know.
Aarohi froze.
The girl in the mirror stared back.
And then… the girl spoke.
"Why did you stop drawing for me?"
Her voice was soft. Like cracked glass.
Aarohi opened her mouth to answer, but her throat was dry.
"I waited," Little Aarohi said. "I waited every night. But you stopped showing me your pretty colors. You forgot how to dream."
"I didn't forget," Aarohi whispered, voice trembling. "I just… got tired of being told my dreams were worthless."
The little girl tilted her head. "But you promised me. You said one day we'll create our own world with colors that no one could take away."
A tear rolled down Aarohi's cheek.
"I'm sorry," she said.
The mirror flickered.
Little Aarohi took a step closer — placing her palm against the glass.
"Do you still love me?" she asked.
Aarohi broke.
She fell to her knees and cried. The kind of cry that sounded like breaking. Not loud — but true. The kind that wasn't meant for anyone else to hear.
"I do," she whispered.
"I just forgot how."
Little Aarohi smiled. A small, sad smile.
And just before the dream faded, she whispered:
"Then remember. Not for them. For me."
⸻
Aarohi woke up gasping — hand over her chest, tears already on her cheeks.
She looked toward the desk.
And for the first time in days, she reached for her sketchbook.
Then her diary.
⸻
[Final Diary Entry — That Night]
Dear Little Me,
I saw you tonight. I think you've been waiting for me all along.
You were braver than I ever gave you credit for.
I'll try again. For you.
Because if I give up, you disappear.
And I can't lose you too.