What They Don't Know

Dear Diary,

Ms. Fairchild says, “It’s just a stage.” That’s what adults say when they’re afraid to admit something’s wrong. I smiled and thanked her. Smiling makes them relax. But smiles are just skin stretched over teeth.

The school counselor asked me if I still miss Daddy. I said yes, and she gave me a sticker. I didn't tell her I keep his watch under my bed, still ticking. He was the first to see what I am. I think that’s why he had to go.

Today, I caught a bird. I didn’t mean to—it flew into the glass. I picked it up, twitching. Its heartbeat was like a tiny drum, fast and afraid. At first, I held it gently. And then… not so gently. I buried it next to the roses. Mom thinks the neighbor’s cat got it.

She’s always shifting blame.

I wrote a poem in class about shadows that whisper secrets. The teacher clapped. She called it “mature.” Funny—if she knew what the shadows really say, she’d stop smiling. Maybe even scream. I wonder what her scream would sound like—just before the silence folds over her like a warm, wet blanket.

They all think I’m sweet. A little strange, sure—but quiet, polite, “bright.” That’s the thing about masks, Diary. If you wear them long enough, even you forget what’s underneath.

Until the cracks show.

Anyway, I’m starting a new list tonight. Just their names for now.

I can’t wait to grow up.

Love always,

Janey xo