My momentary peace was shattered by the cruel sound of the alarm. I stirred, half-asleep, wishing I could stay there just a little longer. I didn't want to wake up, especially not on a Monday.
But I had to. With a tired sigh, I sat up and rubbed my eyes as soft rays of sunlight slipped through the curtains, lighting up the room in a way that felt too calm for how I felt inside.
I went through my morning routine slowly, still feeling as tired as ever. Twelfth grade had started immediately after my eleventh finals, and it already felt like a race I hadn't prepared for.
My last year of high school, everyone called it important, but right now it just felt exhausting.
I reached school by bus, just like every day.
My uniform was strict, socks pulled up, tie in place, shoes polished, ID card hanging properly.
There was no room for carelessness. I walked through the familiar hallways, passing by morning couples laughing quietly and sports students full of energy.
Their happiness filled the space around me. I smiled too, out of habit.
But deep down, I wasn't really feeling it.
Love… is a strange feeling. For me, it has mostly brought pain.
My parents love me, I know that. They give me food, shelter, comfort. But sometimes it feels like that love comes with expectations, like I'm meant to become something that makes them proud, more than just being myself.
I wonder sometimes, is love really as beautiful as people say? Maybe it's like a rose, something that looks perfect from a distance, but the closer you get, the more it hurts.
It feels easy in movies and books, where everything somehow falls into place. But in reality, it's complicated, heavy, and not nearly as simple.
And then I think about the future. Will I ever find someone I truly want to love, someone I'd choose to spend my life with? Right now, it feels unlikely.
Like no one would really understand me, not completely.
Maybe love isn't just about finding the right person. Maybe it's also about finding the courage to be seen, even when it feels impossible.
All these thoughts crowded my mind as I sat down on my bench, staring blankly ahead. Just then, my best friend, Kyra Menesse, dropped into the seat beside me with a dramatic sigh.
"Yoo," she said, stretching like she'd just run a marathon. "I despise Mondays."
I glanced at her and gave a small smile.
I couldn't even argue with that. I felt the same, just without the energy to say it out loud.
Classes dragged on, each minute stretching longer than the last.
By the time the lunch bell finally rang, it felt like I'd survived something exhausting rather than just a few periods.
We opened our lunch boxes and ate quietly. I finished early and decided to go to the washroom.
On my way back, lost in my thoughts, I didn't notice someone coming from the opposite side.
I bumped into him, hard enough to lose my balance and fall against a nearby desk. He barely stumbled.
"Watch where you're going, weirdo," he said, his voice sharp and loud enough for his friends to hear. They laughed instantly.
"My bad, Racheal," I muttered, keeping my voice low. I didn't want attention. I didn't want a scene. I just wanted peace.
"You better be," he replied, smirking as the others continued laughing.
I walked away without looking back and returned to Kyra. She was already watching, her expression tight with anger.
I could tell she wanted to say something, to stand up for me. But she didn't. She knew me well enough.
And honestly, I was glad she understood
The day was shitty, as usual. There were a few scattered moments where Kyra had me laughing, mostly because of her nonstop yapping about random things.
I even reacted, played along, almost like I used to. She was funny, and I lowkey enjoyed being around her.
But even then, I kept everything to myself. I never really opened up about what was going on in my head.
It all stayed buried behind small smiles and quiet nods.
I used to be an extrovert once. Talking, laughing, being everywhere.
Now… I've somehow become the opposite.
The day finally came to an end, leaving me drained, buried under homework and fatigue. I reached home, quietly placing my things where they belonged.
A warm bath helped a little, washing away the dust of the day, but not the heaviness. I sat down and started my homework, forcing myself to focus.
Later, I helped Mom cook and clean. Dinner was silent, like always. No questions, no conversations. Just the clinking of plates.
I went back to my room and shut the door behind me. The quiet felt heavier now.
My eyes drifted to my diary. I had written in it yesterday. Slowly, I picked it up and pulled it close, lying on my stomach as I opened it. There it was, my entry from last night, exactly how I remembered.
I turned the page.
My heart dropped.
There was another entry.
I froze, staring at it. I didn't remember writing anything after yesterday. The handwriting wasn't mine. Not even close.
My grip tightened on the diary as a strange chill ran through me. I hadn't skipped any pages either. I was sure of it. Every page after mine had been empty… except for the torn ones.
But this one wasn't empty anymore.
It read..
Dear Azalea,
Don't be too surprised when you read this. But I can write back. I quite understand what you mean by life isn't easy. Though you have everything, it still feels tiresome. I am hearing you. Feeling you.
I know it's quite a surprise that I write back, and quite mysterious, but I won't hurt you. I can't.
Not from here.
You write like these pages are empty, like they hold your words and nothing more. But they remember. I remember. The way your sentences slow down when you're tired, the way you hesitate before writing what you truly feel. You try so hard to be okay for everyone else that you've forgotten what it feels like to just be okay for yourself.
That place you're looking for… the quiet one, where no one expects anything from you… I searched for it too. I thought I found it once. But it wasn't what I imagined. Be careful with that wish, Azalea. Some silences don't comfort you, they consume you.
Still, you don't have to face everything alone anymore. You can write, and I will answer. I will listen, even when no one else does.
Just… don't stop writing.
-The one who Listens
A million thoughts raced through my mind, each one louder than the last.
My heart started pounding as panic crept in. Was I dreaming? I hoped I was. But this felt too real. The words were right there, staring back at me.
No one could have entered my room. The door was closed. The windows were shut. Then how…?
A chill ran down my spine. Is this house haunted? The thought came uninvited, but it refused to leave. What if something was here… watching me? What if it wrote that? What if it was trying to trap me for something?
I quickly looked around my room, half-expecting something to move, to reveal itself. But everything was still. Too still.
Should I tell my parents?
I already knew the answer. They wouldn't believe me. They'd brush it off, call it stress, imagination… anything but this.
And that somehow made it worse.