The hectic cleaning finally came to an end, As I wiped the last drop of sweat off my face. As I turned to leave, my eyes caught the dairy I deliberately set aside, to make sure I wouldn't forget it. I held the diary and walked up to my mom. "Mom, I'm done cleaning the attic. I'll go take a bath, I'm all sweaty," I said, exhaustion slipping into my voice without me trying. As expected, she scoffed, barely looking at me. "You got exhausted over such little work? How weak can you be?" I didn't say anything. I had already anticipated that response, so it didn't really matter. I just turned away and walked back to my room, her words following me for a moment before fading into the background like they always do.
I placed the diary on my study table and went to wash away the exhaustion. The warm water helped a little, and the familiar scent of soap lingered, calming in a quiet, simple way. For a few minutes, everything felt still. When I stepped out and changed into my comfortable night clothes, the tiredness hadn't fully left, but it had softened. I glanced at the time, it was already 6 p.m. I couldn't believe the weekend I had been waiting for all week had slipped by so quickly. Letting out a small sigh, I sat down on the chair by my study table. My eyes drifted back to the diary, and without thinking, I reached out, tracing the patterns on its cover absentmindedly.
I opened it slowly. The torn pages had little words clinging to their edges, as if they refused to be forgotten..... I tried to make sense of them, my eyes moving from one fragment to another, but nothing came together. It all felt incomplete, like something that had been broken and left that way. Then I noticed a date written clearly on one of the pages. 20th May 1986. I paused,... staring at it for a moment. So the old owner of this book existed almost forty years ago. The thought felt strange, distant, yet oddly close in my hands. I wondered what life was like back then, quieter maybe, or just different in ways I couldn't imagine. Was the owner a teenager like me too? I found myself thinking. The idea lingered for a second longer before I picked up my pen, feeling an unexpected urge to write something of my own.....
15th April, 2026
6:17 pm
Dear diary,
I know you won't speak back, but I'm still going to tell you a lot of things. I'm Azalea Lenizzec. I turned 17 three months ago. Life isn't as good as people make it seem. I have a house, food, comfort, and parents who want to educate me… but something really important is missing. No one actually listens to me.
That's why I'm here, writing to you. Kind of ironic, isn't it?
You know, I get tired without even doing much. I swear I'm trying… but it just goes unnoticed.
I don't understand what's so great about this life. Every day feels the same. I wake up, go to school, sit through classes, study, listen to lectures, get pressured… then I come back home and it just starts all over again. More lectures, more expectations. And if I say I'm tired, it's like I've said something wrong. Like I'm not allowed to feel that way, because apparently all I do is "sit" in school.
Sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, it's never enough.
I'm so tired of it lately. Not just physically… something else. Like I'm being pushed and pushed until I don't even want to study anymore. I don't even want to be here sometimes.
I just want to go somewhere far away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one expects anything from me.
…Does a place like that even exist? ;)
I sighed as I read over what I had written, then rested my head on the study table, closing my eyes for a moment, just to feel a little stillness. "Azalea! Come eat dinner," my mom called from downstairs. "Coming!" I replied, pushing myself up and walking to the dining area. I helped set the table like usual, placing plates and glasses without thinking. We all sat down to eat, and for a few seconds there was only the sound of utensils. Then my dad started, talking about his friend's son getting into a top university and how they were celebrating proudly. He wondered out loud when his turn would come. I just hummed in response, keeping my eyes on my plate. My mom quickly joined in, reminding me how much they were spending on my studies and how I should be more grateful.
"…Thank you," I said quietly, continuing to eat. She paused and asked where I had learned that kind of attitude. I shook my head slightly and said it was nowhere, that I wasn't showing attitude, apologizing without looking up. A heavy silence followed, the kind that made everything feel slower. Then came the question I had been expecting. She asked how much I had scored in the last unit test. I paused, gripping my spoon a little tighter, and answered, "I got 85 percent." She scoffed almost immediately, asking if that was even a score and why I had dropped from the 90s. I didn't reply this time, just stared down at my plate. The food suddenly felt tasteless, and the noise around me faded into something distant.
"Answer me," my mom said, her voice sharper this time. I swallowed and forced the words out, "I'm sorry… I'll try harder next time." She let out a small, sarcastic laugh, muttering something under her breath that still managed to reach me. After that, the rest of the dinner continued in silence, but it wasn't peaceful. Every bite felt heavy, like I was forcing it down along with everything else. I kept my eyes on my plate, pretending the food needed all my attention. This was exactly why I hated dinners. It was never just about eating. It was always something more.
When I finished, I quietly got up and started clearing the table, stacking plates and carrying them to the sink. I helped wash the dishes without saying a word, the sound of water filling the silence I didn't want to break. After wiping the table clean, I went back to my room, closing the door softly behind me. The moment I was alone, everything I had been holding in came rushing back. At this point, crying didn't even feel new anymore, it had become a habit. I lay down on my bed, staring at nothing, and before I knew it, I had fallen asleep with tears still on my face.