I heard rumors. Whispers here and there.
That you were pathetic.
An attention seeker.
Jealous.
Too clingy.
I never understood what they meant.
Sometimes I'd overhear girls in class talking about you when they thought no one was listening.
"She acts like she's traumatized for attention."
"She's weirdly obsessed with him."
"She's always trying to make people pity her."
I hated hearing it, but I never defended you the way I should have. Maybe because part of me thought they were exaggerating. Maybe because I didn't fully understand you myself.
And you never explained anything.
You just stayed quiet.
Always quiet.
My childhood friend fell sick one evening.
It wasn't serious at first, but she had a high fever and her mother was worried. Since they had only recently returned, they still didn't know many people around. So I stayed close. I bought medicine, helped her home, and spent most of my time with her.
I told myself it was the right thing to do.
That she needed me more.
That you would understand.
That was the lie I kept feeding myself.
That day, I was on my way to her place again when I heard hurried footsteps behind me.
Before I could turn properly, someone grabbed my sleeve.
You.
Your breathing was uneven, almost frantic. Tears streamed down your face so heavily I could barely understand what you were trying to say.
Your hands trembled violently as you clung to my arm.
"Please," you whispered brokenly.
"Please walk me home."
I stared at you in confusion.
You looked terrified.
Not upset.
Not emotional.
Terrified.
You kept glancing behind you repeatedly like you expected someone to appear at any second.
"I think someone's following me," you said, voice shaking badly. "I'm scared… please don't leave me alone."
Even now, remembering it makes me sick.
Because I remember exactly what I did.
I tried to explain that I couldn't. I told you my childhood friend was sick and needed me. I told you maybe you were overthinking things.
But you kept begging.
Crying harder.
Your grip tightened around my sleeve desperately.
"Please," you cried. "Just this once… please."
And something inside me snapped.
Maybe I was tired.
Maybe I was frustrated.
Maybe I had grown irritated without realizing it.
But none of that excuses what I said next.
"Stop it!" I yelled.
You froze instantly.
People nearby turned to stare.
"I can't keep doing this with you!" I shouted. "Why are you always clinging to me?!"
Your eyes widened.
I kept going anyway.
"You're exhausting," I spat angrily.
"Not everything is about you!"
The moment the words left my mouth, I wanted them back.
But it was too late.
You stared at me silently.
Your hand slowly slid away from my arm.
And for the first time since I met you…
You looked at me with something worse than fear.
Hurt.
Pure hurt.
You opened your mouth slightly like
you wanted to say something.
But no words came out.
Then you stepped back.
And I walked away.
I walked away while you stood there crying.
That memory would later become the thing that destroyed me.
My childhood friend eventually got better.
A few days passed before I noticed something strange.
You weren't in class.
At first, I thought maybe you were sick.
Then another day passed.
And another.
Four days.
No sign of you.
No messages.
No one had seen you.
At first, people barely cared.
"She probably transferred."
"Maybe she finally got tired of acting weird."
But something inside me felt wrong.
A horrible feeling settled in my chest that wouldn't leave.
I started replaying our last conversation over and over again.
The way you cried.
The way you begged.
The fear in your eyes.
And worst of all—
The way I left you there.
By the sixth day, I couldn't sit still anymore.
I asked around until someone finally gave me your address.
A tiny place near the edge of town.
I remember standing outside the building in disbelief. It barely looked livable. The walls were old and cracked, the hallway smelled damp, and the lights flickered weakly overhead.
How long had you lived here?
How long had you suffered like this while I stayed oblivious?
I walked toward your room slowly.
Then knocked.
No answer.
I pushed the door open slightly.
The room was empty.
Small.
Cold.
There was barely anything inside besides a thin mattress, old books stacked neatly in one corner, and a broken chair near the window.
For a moment, I just stood there staring.
Then I noticed someone else nearby.
An old woman from the neighboring room watched me quietly with confusion in her eyes.
"Who are you?" she asked carefully.
I swallowed hard before answering.
"I'm… her friend."
Even saying that felt painful.
Because what kind of friend abandons someone like that?
The old woman's expression changed instantly.
And somehow, before she even spoke, dread flooded through me.
"You didn't know?" she asked softly.
My chest tightened.
"Know what?"
Silence.
Then the words came.
"She's dead."
Everything stopped.
The world.
The sound around me.
My breathing.
"She was murdered," the old woman continued quietly. "Right outside this room."
I stared at her blankly.
No.
No, that wasn't possible.
You were supposed to come back.
You were supposed to walk into class quietly again like always.
You were supposed to lower your head and avoid everyone.
You were supposed to still be here.
Then suddenly, it hit me.
That day.
Your tears.
Your begging.
"I think someone's following me."
You knew.
You were scared because someone really was stalking you.
And I left you alone anyway.
My legs gave out beneath me.
If only I had listened.
If only I had walked you home.
If only I stayed.
Would you still be alive?
I don't remember how I got home.
I only remember sitting on the floor beside my bed, staring blankly at the box resting in my lap.
The old woman had given it to me before I left.
"She kept these carefully," she said. "I think she would've wanted you to have them."
Inside was the book I once gave you.
The corners were worn from being touched too much.
And beneath it—
Your diary.
At first, I hesitated.
Then slowly, I opened it.
And piece by piece…
I finally learned who you really were.
Things you never managed to say out loud.
Things no one should ever have to survive.
Your mother died giving birth to you.
Growing up, you were violated by a man who should have protected you.
And instead of being protected afterward, you were blamed.
By family.
By relatives.
By people who should have loved you.
They called you disgusting.
Ruined.
Worthless.
Eventually, they threw you out completely.
You lived on the streets for years.
Worked different jobs just to survive.
Skipped meals.
Endured things no child should endure alone.
I sat there shaking as I read every page.
The flinching.
The fear.
The silence.
The lowered head.
The bruises.
Everything suddenly made sense.
And I felt sick.
You weren't rude.
You weren't strange.
You were surviving.
Honestly, I don't know how you survived that long.
But you were strong.
The strongest girl I've ever met.
You carried pain that would've destroyed most people and still managed to smile sometimes.
Still managed to trust me eventually.
And I failed you.
Then I reached the final pages.
The handwriting became shakier there.
Sadder.
And I finally understood why you once asked me:
"If you find out about my past… would you still stay?"
You already expected abandonment.
You were just waiting for it to happen again.
And it did.
Because of me.
Now standing before your grave, I can't help but cry.
The sky above is gray, cold wind brushing against my face as I stare at your name carved into stone.
It feels wrong.
You were here.
You existed.
You suffered.
And now all that remains is silence.
"I'm sorry," I whisper shakily.
My voice breaks immediately.
"I should've never left you alone."
Tears blur my vision.
"I should've stayed… I should've listened… I should've tried harder."
The guilt is unbearable.
Because no matter how many times people tell me it wasn't my fault—
I know I could have changed something.
Maybe not everything.
But something.
You left quietly.
The same way you came into my life.
Quiet.
Gentle.
Trying not to take up space.
And I hate myself for realizing too late that all you ever wanted was someone who wouldn't leave.
"I'm sorry," I whisper again.
"I didn't know."
And maybe that's the cruelest part.
I really didn't know.
_________________________
HER
I've worked hard.
Life has never been easy for me.
I tried my best every day, even
when I was tired.
Even when living hurt.
Then I met someone.
At first, I didn't trust him.
I couldn't.
People always hurt me eventually.
But he stayed.
He was patient.
Gentle.
Safe.
For the first time in my life, someone looked at me like I mattered.
And slowly, without realizing it, he became important to me.
More important than he probably knew.
He became something close to the family I always wished I had.
I got attached.
Too attached maybe.
But how could I not?
He was the only place that ever felt warm.
The only person who touched me without making me afraid.
The only person who stayed long enough to see me.
So I wished quietly that maybe…
Maybe this happiness would last.
But it didn't.
Still, I don't blame him.
Maybe I became too much.
Maybe broken people are hard to keep around.
But even so—
I was happy.
Truly happy.
Even if it was only for a little while.
He became my safe place.
But maybe he was also proof that happiness was never meant for me.
Because every good thing I've ever had was eventually taken away.
Still…
I think there are good people in this world.
And I'm grateful I met someone who saw me as important for once.
Someone who cared.
As I finally closed my eyes, I wished him happiness.
And if there's a next life—
I hope I'm never born again.