I FOUND MY SISTER’S DIARY IN THE ATTIC, AND NOW I CAN’T LOOK AT HER
I was halfway through the page when the floor creaked behind me, and I froze, the diary’s brittle pages trembling in my hands. Her handwriting was frantic, slanted, and there it was — my name, over and over, with words like “guilt” and “stolen” and “June 14th.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Her voice cut through the dusty air, sharp enough to make me flinch. I turned, the diary still open, and her face went white. The smell of mothballs clung to the attic, and I could feel the old wood digging into my knees. “You think you have the right to just go through my things?” she spat, her hands shaking.
I didn’t even know what to say. June 14th was the day he left. The day she told me she didn’t know why. But her diary screamed the truth — she’d told him to choose her. Her own sister.
She snatched the diary from my hands, her nails scraping my skin, and that’s when I noticed the photo tucked in the back.
It was him. And her. And the gun she kept in her nightstand.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*The photograph, grainy with age, showed them smiling, young and vibrant, a stark contrast to the venomous atmosphere now choking the attic. His arm was around her, the gun barely visible tucked into his waistband. My breath hitched. I wanted to scream, to demand an explanation, but the words caught in my throat.
She clutched the diary to her chest, her eyes blazing. “Get out,” she whispered, her voice thick with a pain I’d never witnessed. “Get out, and don’t ever come back.”
I stumbled backward, the attic suddenly too small, the air too thick. I fled, the image of the gun burned into my memory. I spent the next few days locked in my room, the echoes of her voice and the weight of the diary’s words swirling in my head. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. I was lost in a maze of betrayal and grief.
Finally, I knew I couldn’t hide. I had to face her, to understand. I found her in the garden, pruning roses, her movements slow and deliberate. The air hung heavy with the scent of blossoms.
“I… I need to talk to you,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
She didn’t look up, her shears clicking rhythmically. “There’s nothing to say.”
“There is,” I insisted. “About June 14th. About… him. About the gun.”
She finally turned, her face etched with lines I’d never seen before. “You think you know everything? You think you understand the choices people make?” Her voice was still sharp, but beneath the anger, I heard the tremor of vulnerability.
“I don’t,” I admitted. “But I want to. I need to.”
She sighed, dropping her shears. She led me to a small bench, the silence between us heavy. “He was leaving. He was going to leave me for someone else. I begged him to stay, but he wouldn’t. He loved her more.” Her voice cracked, and a single tear traced a path down her cheek. “I didn’t want to lose him. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“The gun…” I whispered, afraid of the answer.
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the ground. “I threatened him. I never meant to… I just wanted him to stay. But he laughed. He said I was pathetic. So I…” she trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
I sat beside her, finally understanding the depth of her pain, the desperation that had led her to such a dark place. I could never condone what she had done, but I could understand the brokenness that had driven her.
“What happened after?” I asked, my voice soft.
“He left,” she whispered. “He just left. He didn’t believe I would do it. He never took me seriously.”
I looked at the roses around us, at their thorns, at the way they could draw blood and still be beautiful. “You didn’t shoot him,” I said, realization dawning. “The date in the diary, the gun… it was all a bluff. A desperate act of a desperate person.”
She finally looked at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of relief and grief. “Yes,” she breathed. “I was so broken. I was so lost.”
“He left you broken,” I said.
She nodded, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t turn away. We sat in silence, the setting sun casting long shadows across the garden. The past would always be there, a scar she’d carry forever. But the diary had revealed the truth. And though our relationship might never be the same, we had a new foundation, a shared understanding of the pain that had shaped us both. I couldn’t forget, and I couldn’t forgive everything, but as I looked at her, I knew that somehow, we would find our way forward, together.