She Left Her Diary in My Drawer—Three Days After Her Funeral

She Left Her Diary in My Drawer—Three Days After Her Funeral

Written by Mirza

I didn’t cry at her funeral.

I thought I would. God knows I wanted to. But as the final shovelful of dirt landed on Emily’s casket, all I could feel was silence—a gaping absence that settled somewhere behind my ribs like a forgotten breath.

Three days later, I found the diary.

It wasn’t something she kept on a shelf or in a box. It wasn’t tucked away neatly. It was just there—sitting in the top drawer of my nightstand like it had always belonged there. And maybe, in some strange way, it had.

It was a small leather-bound book, deep blue, edges worn. A single rose was pressed between the last few pages. I recognized it immediately—it was from that picnic in early spring. The one where she laughed so hard she choked on lemonade and made me promise I’d never bring up her ugly snort-laugh again.

She made me promise a lot of things.

She made me promise I’d live boldly. That I wouldn’t turn into one of those sad, gray people who let the world happen to them. That if anything ever happened to her, I’d remember to still dance in the kitchen and drink cheap wine on Tuesday nights.

She never made me promise not to fall apart.

The first page was dated five years ago, the day we met.

> June 14th

He has tired eyes, but kind ones. I don’t know why I noticed him first, but I did. He sat alone, reading a book he probably didn’t want anyone to ask about. I asked anyway. He said it was boring. I think he’s lying. I hope I see him again.



We had met at a bookstore. That wasn’t a lie. But I didn’t know that moment had etched itself so deeply into her memory. I kept reading.

> October 2nd

He finally kissed me. I thought I’d feel fireworks, like in the movies. But instead, I felt calm. That kind of peace that creeps in when you stop running. I’ve always been running.



I paused. I remembered that kiss. It was raining. We stood beneath the awning of that little café on 8th and Main, and she tasted like cinnamon and hesitation. I didn’t know she was running from anything. I never asked.

I kept turning pages, and with each one, she became more alive. Her voice filled the room. Her words curled around me like the scent of her favorite sweater I hadn’t been able to throw out. There were pages about her fears—about cancer, about time, about leaving me alone.

> March 9th

The doctor said it might be nothing, but my gut says otherwise. I haven’t told him. Not yet. I don’t want to steal the light from his eyes.



> April 3rd

It’s not nothing. I knew it. Stage three. I cried in the parking lot for ten minutes, then ate a muffin like it was just a normal day. I’m good at pretending. I’ve been doing it since I was twelve.



> May 27th

I told him. He didn’t cry. But he held me like the world was ending, and for a moment, I let it.



God. I remembered that night. How quiet we were. How loud the silence was. How she stared at the ceiling for hours while I lay beside her, memorizing the rhythm of her breath like it might leave me at any moment.

She never let me read her pain.

But here it was. Bleeding ink on paper. Honest. Unfiltered. The kind of vulnerability she never showed in daylight.

And then I turned to the last entry.

> The day before my birthday

He’s sleeping beside me. I wonder if he knows I sometimes stay awake just to hear his breathing. That I count the seconds between each inhale. That I love him enough to let go.

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. And I’m sorry. Not for leaving—but for not telling you how much you saved me. You made life worth the fight, even when I didn’t want to fight anymore.

The diary is in your drawer now because I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye properly. You would’ve kept looking for closure in all the wrong places—in books, in songs, in old text messages.

So I’m giving it to you here. In my words. In these pages. In this love that doesn’t end just because I did.

Live boldly. Keep dancing. And know, wherever I am, I’m probably laughing at your terrible taste in music.

Forever your Emily.


I don’t remember how long I sat there after finishing. Maybe an hour. Maybe the whole night. At some point, my hand moved to close the diary, but I couldn’t bring myself to let it go.

She had written me a goodbye when I didn’t get one. She had left behind not just memories, but answers. Love in ink.

And for the first time since the funeral, I cried.

Not because she was gone. But because I finally understood how deeply I had been loved.