I STOLE MY BEST FRIEND’S DIARY FROM HER HIDDEN BOX IN OUR CHILDHOOD ATTICI STOLE MY BEST FRIEND’S DIARY FROM HER HIDDEN BOX IN OUR CHILDHOOD ATTIC.
**Part 2**
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against the silence of the empty attic. Clutching the small, worn book, I scrambled down the pull-down stairs, the wood groaning under my weight. Back in my own room, I locked the door, the click echoing the finality of my act. I carried the diary to my desk, laying it down as if it were fragile, dangerous. Guilt coiled in my stomach, a venomous snake. What was I doing? This was a massive breach of trust, a betrayal of our years of shared secrets and silent promises.
But the curiosity gnawed at me, a persistent itch I couldn’t ignore. What secrets did she keep locked away? What thoughts did she have that she never shared, not even with me? My fingers trembled as I ran them over the faded cover. It felt heavy, not just with age, but with the weight of her private world. After what felt like an eternity of internal debate, my hand reached out, slow and deliberate. I opened the diary.
The first pages were filled with the looping script of a younger girl – entries about school crushes, embarrassing family dinners, our own silly inside jokes. It was like reading a history of our friendship from her perspective. I smiled at some entries, remembering the moments vividly. But as I flipped further, the entries became more recent, the handwriting more mature, the thoughts more complex. I read about anxieties she’d hidden, small worries I never knew she carried. And then I found entries about *me*. Some were warm, reaffirming our bond in ways she’d never said out loud. Others… hurt. Not mean, but critical in a way that stung, pointing out flaws or annoying habits I was oblivious to. There was one entry where she wrote about feeling overshadowed sometimes, or misunderstood when I was going through my own struggles. It wasn’t malicious, but raw and honest, the kind of truth you only write down for yourself. Reading her unvarnished thoughts about our friendship, about *me*, was like looking in a mirror and seeing a reflection I didn’t recognize, filled with both love and subtle frustration I’d never seen before. The guilt intensified, now mixed with a profound sadness. I had invaded the most private corner of her mind.
**Ending**
I snapped the diary shut, the sound sharp in the quiet room. My hands were shaking. The curiosity that had driven me was gone, replaced by a crushing weight of regret. I hadn’t found earth-shattering secrets or scandalous revelations, just the quiet, complicated thoughts of my best friend. And in doing so, I had committed an act that felt unforgivable. I sat there for a long time, the diary on my lap, the words I’d read replaying in my mind. I couldn’t put it back and pretend it never happened. The knowledge, and the guilt, would eat away at me, poisoning our friendship from the inside.
Taking a deep breath that did little to steady my nerves, I picked up the diary. I had to tell her. It was the only way to maybe, just maybe, salvage anything. I walked to her house, the short distance feeling like miles. When she opened the door, her smile was bright, the usual welcoming smile she reserved for me. It twisted the knife of guilt deeper.
“Hey,” she said, tilting her head. “What’s up? You look pale.”
I held out the diary, my voice barely a whisper. “I… I took this. From the attic box.” My eyes welled up despite myself. “I read it. I’m so, so sorry.”
Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of utter shock, then hurt. Her eyes widened, fixing on the diary in my hand as if it were a weapon. Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. It was the longest silence we’d ever shared. Just as I thought she might slam the door in my face, a flicker of something unreadable crossed her features.
“You… you read my diary?” she finally whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
I nodded, unable to speak.
She took a step back, leaning against the doorframe. “Why?”
“I don’t know!” I blurted out, tears finally spilling over. “Curiosity, I guess. It was stupid, and wrong, and I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have. I know I broke your trust.”
She looked at the diary again, then at me, her expression a mix of pain and confusion. After another agonizing moment, she pushed the door open wider. “Come in,” she said, her voice quiet. “Let’s… let’s talk about it.”
It wasn’t an easy conversation. There were tears, hurt feelings laid bare, and uncomfortable truths acknowledged. She was angry, she was wounded, and she asked questions I struggled to answer honestly. But we talked, really talked, about what I did, why I did it, and what I read. We talked about the things she’d written about me, and the things she felt she couldn’t say out loud. It was messy and painful, but in the end, it felt like lancing a wound. The pain was sharp, but necessary for healing. I had betrayed her, and the road to rebuilding that trust would be long. But sitting there, with the diary closed between us and the truth finally out in the open, it felt like maybe, just maybe, our friendship was strong enough to survive even this.