At the time, I thought the illness had confused her. I missed the profound disappointment in her eyes. The way the light behind them had finally gone out.
Guilt clawed at my throat, sharp and suffocating. I gripped the pen tighter, desperate to write more.
That's when I noticed something strange.
This pen was a cheap freebie from the shop where I bought the diary twelve years ago. It had been clipped to the cover ever since. The ink should have dried up a decade ago.
Yet when I pressed the nib to the yellowed paper, it flowed smooth and dark.
*"I'm begging you, don't confess to her! Let her live a good life without you!"*
I bore down so hard the nib tore through the page.
As the final stroke landed, the full weight of my regret crushed the air from my lungs.
But there was nothing I could do.
No way to undo what I had broken.
I curled up on the floor and howled—raw, animal, inhuman.
*Dominic Delgado, you really are a monster.*
*The one who should be dead is you.*
When I finally lifted my head and wiped the grime from my face, new words had bloomed on the page.
*"Who are you? How are you writing in my diary?"*