This is my story. A story of guilt, of mistakes, and of the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, I can make things right. It’s about a childhood friend, Miyu Tanaka, the girl I hurt, and the diary she left behind—a diary that found its way back to me, forcing me to confront the truth of what I did and who I’ve become.

  I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe it’s because I need to remember. Or maybe it’s because I need to forget. All I know is that the weight of my past has become too heavy to carry alone. So I’m putting it down here, in these pages, in the hope that someone—anyone—might understand.

  If you’re reading this, know that I’m not proud of the person I was. But maybe, by the end of this story, you’ll understand why I had to write this. Why I had to remember.

  This is my confession. My reckoning. My hiraeth—a longing for a home I can never truly return to, a pce that exists only in the whispers of what was.

  April 13th, 2015

  I’ve been scrambling—selling off everything I own, draining my savings, doing whatever I can to pay back my mom for everything she’s been through because of me, always picking up the pieces when I’ve messed up.

  But the guilt... it’s unbearable.

  Every time I hand over another bit of cash, thinking it might make things right-that it might make me feel better-well let me tell you it doesn’t. There’s always this looming feeling, pressing down on me, reminding me of all the times I failed her, of the mess I’ve made of everything. No matter how much I give, it never feels like enough. The debt will never be fulfilled.

  I keep wondering if there’s any way to fix it all. To stop being such a burden. But no matter how much I think, I never really come to an actual solution—aside from the st resort. And that is forsaking everything.

  I had forsaken my own feelings when I walked south to the bridge today, just standing there, staring at the edge. I thought about what it’d feel like to let go, to let the wind carry me over. I saw myself on the railing, feeling the cold metal under my hands, leaning forward, waiting for something—anything—to push me, but in reality, I'm just looking over the edge watching the river flow, Fireworks were going off in the distance.

  And for a moment, those feelings that I thought I had forsaken came back, and I thought to myself that maybe I’m not ready to let go. Not yet. At least.

  The night swallowed me whole, its loneliness walked me home. It felt like something inside of me was reaching out, longing for a connection I couldn’t quite name. Was it friendship? Love? Or just... myself?

  I thought about the people whom I used to call friends—the ones who turned on me when it mattered most.

  … the most, huh…

  Looking back, it didn’t matter, and those people weren't what you would call a friend.

  They were the ones who dragged me into it, but when the truth came out, they were quick to point the finger at me. ‘It was all Taro’s idea,’ they said. And just like that, I became the vilin in the eyes of everyone. The outcast.

  Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I was the vilin they made me out to be. But that doesn’t make the betrayal hurt any less.

  Even now, years ter, I see them around town sometimes. I don’t look at them, and likewise, they don’t look at me anymore. It’s like I’m invisible—a ghost haunting the edges of their lives. Maybe that’s what I deserve. But it doesn’t stop the ache, the hollow feeling that’s been growing inside me ever since that day.

  Sometimes, I catch myself gncing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone there. Watching. Judging. But there’s no one. Just the shadows of the past, following me wherever I go.

  I kicked off my shoes by the door when I got back. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made it feel like no one else was home—or maybe like I wasn’t. I climbed the stairs to the attic, each step creaking under my weight, a reminder of how far removed I was from everything downstairs.

  My room was as barren as ever—just a futon rolled up in the corner, a desk with nothing on it but a pen, a couple of schoolbooks, and a torn-up calendar. The air smelled faintly of dust and old wood, it reminded me of how long it had been since anything in this room felt alive. The single round window let in a sliver of moonlight, casting a pale glow over the room and painting the walls with shadows that seemed to stretch and twist like my thoughts. Rain tapped gently against the gss, the droplets blurring the world outside into a watery haze.

  I marked today on the calendar, the red X bleeding through the paper like an injury that wouldn’t clot. The sound of the pen scratching against the surface echoed in the silence, loud enough to make me wince.

  Then I colpsed onto the floor, the cold wood pressing against my cheek. My eyes wandered to the closet, its door slightly ajar, and for a moment, I thought about opening it—about digging through it, through the few things that still remained. But what was the point? There was nothing in there like a defibriltor that could jumpstart my life again.

  From the attic, I could hear the faint murmur of voices downstairs—Mom ughing at something, Hanako asking her about the flowers. It felt like listening to a life I wasn’t part of anymore. Dad’s been away for a while now, and the house feels emptier without him. Or maybe it’s just me.

  I turned my head toward the window, its round frame like a porthole to a world I couldn’t reach. Outside, the street was alive—a couple walking hand in hand under an umbrel, a group of kids ughing as they rode their bikes through the rain, the glow of streetlights cutting through the darkness. It all felt so far away, like I was watching it through a fogged-up lens.

  Sleep pulled me under before I could think about anything else.