Chapter 37: The Diary’s Revelation

The corner of Megan’s closet held more than just clothes.

A shoebox sat tucked behind a stack of old textbooks, the lid not quite closed. I’d been reaching for a pair of heels when my fingers brushed against the cardboard. The weight was wrong for shoes. Curiosity pulled the box into the light.

A diary. Leather-bound, worn at the edges, the pages yellowed and soft.

I stood there, Megan’s black micro mini dress draped over one arm, the diary in my other hand. My sister had never mentioned keeping a diary. We weren’t close enough for that kind of confession. But here it was, her secrets bound in cracked leather, begging to be opened.

I took it to my room.

The bed creaked as I sat down. The lamp cast a warm glow across the covers. I opened the diary to the first page and started reading.

High school is the worst. I hate everything about it. The girls are fake, the boys are stupid, and I don’t fit in anywhere.

I recognized the handwriting. Megan’s, but younger. Loops and curves that hadn’t yet settled into the efficient scrawl I knew from her postcards. The words were familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.

I spent lunch in the library again. Mrs. Patterson asked if I was okay. I said yes. I’m not.

Page after page painted a picture of a girl I barely recognized. Shy. Awkward. Desperate to be noticed but terrified of being seen. She wrote about boys who didn’t look at her, about friends who forgot to include her, about the hollow ache of being invisible.

My parents don’t notice. They’re too busy with their own lives. Dad with his newspaper, Mom with her garden. They look at me but they don’t see me.

The words blurred. I blinked hard.

Megan had been me. The same loneliness. The same hunger to be seen. The same ache of parents who loved but never looked too closely.

I turned the page.

ProfessorPleasure messaged me again tonight. He’s so weird. He found me in some chat room and started asking about my sex life. I told him I’m a virgin and he got even more interested.

My blood turned cold.

The words swam on the page. I read them again, slower, willing them to change.

He tries to convince me to do things. Degrading things. He wants me to meet strangers and let them use me. He says it’ll make me confident. He says I’ll finally feel seen.

I stopped reading. The room tilted.

Megan knew the professor. He had contacted her. The same person who whispered in my ear, pushed me toward degradation, he had tried to do it to my sister first.

I turned more pages, my hands shaking.

Megan wrote in jagged lines: He’s disgusting. He keeps sending me messages telling me to take it in the ass. To swallow cum. To let homeless guys use me. Who does that? What kind of sick fuck gets off on that?