Last Page

I opened her diary only once.

Just once and nothing in my life stayed the same after that.

Each page whispered her pain, her secrets, her silent screams.

But the last page…

The last page was empty.

And somehow, that terrified me more than anything she had ever written.

She was the quiet type.

The kind who smiled politely, laughed softly, and disappeared into corners when the room got too loud.

But every night, like clockwork, she’d sit by the window, open her worn-out diary, and write.

Sometimes for hours.

Sometimes with trembling hands.

Once, I even saw her wipe away tears before picking up her pen.

That night three nights before she vanished was different.

I watched her from the hallway crack. She didn’t see me.

She opened the diary… stared at the page…

And broke down.

Not the silent kind of crying she used to do.

But loud, shaking sobs like something inside her had finally collapsed.

I wanted to go in, to hold her, to ask what was wrong.

But I didn’t.

Because part of me already knew:

I had missed the signs.

I had been too late.

The morning after she disappeared, her room felt like a ghost of her.

Everything untouched, except for one thing:

Her diary was left open on the desk, waiting.

I hesitated before touching it like it might bite, or bleed.

The first few pages were filled with harmless thoughts.

Daily routines. Favorite songs.

Then, as the months went on, her words changed.

Darker.

More desperate.

“I’m so tired of pretending.”

“They only see what I let them.”

“Sometimes I wish I could disappear without anyone noticing. Just fade.”

And then came the final entry.

A date.

A time.

Her handwriting shaky, as if her soul was slipping out with every letter:

“If I don’t write again tomorrow, it means I finally found peace.

I hope someone reads this and forgives me for not being stronger.”

And below that…

Nothing.

Just a blank page.

A last page.

Untouched, like it was waiting for a different ending.

Sometimes I wonder:

Was that empty page her final cry for help?

A sign that she wanted someone to find her in time?

Or was it a goodbye?

I don’t know.

But I kept the diary.

Not because I want to remember her pain—

But because I want to make sure no one else’s last page stays empty.