I THREW MY SISTER’S DIARY OUT THE WINDOW AFTER READING THE FIRST PAGE
I slammed the book shut, my hands trembling as the pages’ edges dug into my palms, and hurled it out the open window into the rain-soaked backyard. The sound of it hitting the wet grass was muffled, but it echoed in my head like a gunshot.
“Why would you even touch it?” she screamed, her voice cracking as she stormed into the room. Her face was pale, her hair stuck to her forehead from crying. I could smell the faint scent of her lavender lotion, the same one she’s used since we were kids.
“Because I didn’t think you’d lie to me about something like this!” I shot back, my chest tight, the words spilling out before I could stop them. She froze, her eyes wide, and all I could hear was the rain hitting the windowsill, each drop like a ticking clock.
“You weren’t supposed to know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the storm. The diary had explained it all — the lies, the betrayal, the reason she’d been acting so strange. I felt the weight of it pressing down on me, my stomach churning.
Then the doorbell rang, and I wasn’t expecting anyone.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*I stared at the door, the chime still ringing in the tense silence. My sister and I remained locked in a standoff, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between us. Against the backdrop of the storm, the doorbell felt intrusive, unwanted.
“Who is it?” I finally managed, my voice hoarse.
My sister didn’t answer, her gaze still fixed on me, a mixture of hurt and defiance in her eyes. Slowly, she walked towards the door, her movements deliberate and measured. I watched her, my heart pounding, wondering what awaited us on the other side.
She opened the door, and my breath caught in my throat. Standing there was a woman, perhaps in her late thirties, with kind eyes and a sympathetic smile. Beside her was a man, tall and imposing, his face etched with concern. They held a large, muddy box, and their faces were drenched.
“We’re so sorry to intrude,” the woman said, her voice soft and reassuring. “We saw the diary, and… well, we’re your neighbors. We saw it come flying out, and we thought…” she trailed off, gesturing to the box. “We thought we should try and salvage it. We live next door.”
My sister’s expression softened, her initial anger replaced with a flicker of surprise and something akin to relief. I, still reeling from the revelations in the diary, could only stare at the muddy box, the rain continuing to fall, the weight of the situation bearing down on me.
“Thank you,” my sister whispered, finally breaking the silence. She took the box from the woman, her fingers brushing against mine in a moment of unexpected, shared vulnerability.
The neighbors offered a quick explanation – they had a penchant for rescuing things that needed help. They offered their home to our rescued diary. We politely declined, however, deciding that we should finally talk to one another.
We closed the door, the sound of the rain a constant reminder of the storm raging outside, and, perhaps, within us. The muddy box sat on the floor between us, a silent witness to our turmoil.
“Maybe we should read it together,” I said softly, the words a bridge across the chasm that had opened between us. “And then, we can talk.”
My sister looked at me, her eyes searching, as if trying to understand what I was truly feeling. After a moment, she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
We both knelt down beside the box, our hands hovering over the muddy cover. The storm raged on, but in that moment, I felt the first glimmer of hope, a fragile promise of understanding, and the possibility of mending what was broken. The diary lay open on the bed.
And so it started.