Dear Diary | ✓

25.08.1997

Dear Diary,

I don't know how I ended up at Ava's house today. After everything that happened yesterday, I didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to talk or think or feel. But somehow, my feet led me there, to her door, like I didn't have any other place to go.

I'd never been to her house before. She never talked about it, and I never asked. But standing there in front of it, I felt this strange sense of dread, like I was about to step into something I shouldn't. Her house was old, the paint peeling off the walls, the yard overgrown with weeds. The windows were dark, the kind of place that looked like it had secrets buried deep inside.

I almost turned around and left. But then the door opened, and Ava was standing there, looking at me with those same unreadable eyes. For a moment, we just stared at each other, neither of us saying a word. Then she stepped aside, holding the door open for me.

"Come in," she said, her voice flat, emotionless.

I hesitated, but then I stepped inside, the door closing behind me with a quiet click that sounded too final. The house smelled musty, like it hadn't been aired out in years, and the air felt thick, heavy. The walls were bare, the furniture old and worn, everything covered in a layer of dust that made it seem like time had stopped here a long time ago.

Ava didn't say anything as she led me down the narrow hallway, past closed doors that made me wonder what was hiding behind them. We ended up in her room, a small, cramped space with a single bed pushed up against the wall, the sheets rumpled and stained. There was a cracked mirror on the dresser, and clothes piled in the corner. The only light came from a single window, the curtains drawn tight, letting in just enough light to cast everything in shadow.

She sat down on the bed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with that same old lighter, the flame briefly illuminating her face. She offered one to me, but I shook my head, still too rattled from the day before to think about smoking.

We sat there in silence for a long time, the smoke curling up towards the ceiling, the room growing darker as the sun sank lower. I kept thinking about how strange it was to be in her space, how different it felt from the way she always seemed at school—so controlled, so detached. Here, it was like the mask was slipping, like I could see the cracks underneath, the pieces of her that she tried so hard to keep hidden.

But then I heard it.

A door slamming somewhere in the house, followed by heavy footsteps and a voice—loud, angry, slurred. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, that same fear I always felt at home creeping in, and I looked at Ava, expecting her to react, to say something. But she just kept staring at the floor, her cigarette burning down to ash between her fingers, like she was used to it, like it was just background noise to her.

The footsteps got louder, closer, until they were right outside her door. Then it swung open, crashing against the wall, and there was her dad—tall, broad-shouldered, his face twisted in a snarl, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, his clothes dirty, reeking of sweat and alcohol.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he spat, his voice harsh, slurred. His eyes flicked to me, narrowing. "Who's this?"

Ava didn't answer. She just sat there, staring at the floor, her whole body tense, like she was bracing for something. I felt frozen, my heart pounding in my chest, every instinct telling me to get up, to run, to leave and never come back.

But before I could move, he was on her, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her off the bed, his grip so tight that she let out a small, involuntary gasp of pain. He didn't even look at me, like I wasn't there, like all he could see was Ava.

"You worthless little—" He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he backhanded her across the face, the sound of the slap echoing through the small room, making me flinch. Ava stumbled, but he didn't let go, his other hand coming up to strike her again, harder this time.

I wanted to do something, to say something, but the words were stuck in my throat, my body frozen in place. I just sat there, watching as he hit her again and again, her body jerking with each blow, her face turning red, then bruised. She didn't cry out, didn't try to defend herself. She just took it, silent, her eyes dull and lifeless, like she wasn't even there anymore.

It was like watching a replay of my own life, the same violence, the same helplessness. But seeing it happen to Ava, someone who always seemed so strong, so untouchable—it was like a punch to the gut. It made me realize just how deep her darkness went, how much she was hiding behind that blank mask she wore every day.

Her dad finally let go of her, shoving her back onto the bed with a disgusted sneer. She landed hard, but she didn't cry, didn't even look at him. He spat on the floor, muttering something under his breath, and then he turned and stumbled out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Ava didn't move, didn't say anything, just lay there on the bed, her face turned away from me, her hair falling over her eyes. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to reach out, to help her, but I didn't know how. I didn't know if she would even want me to.

Finally, she sat up, wiping the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, her expression blank, like nothing had happened. She picked up the cigarette she'd dropped, relighting it with shaking hands, taking a long, slow drag.

She didn't look at me, didn't acknowledge what had just happened. It was like she'd switched off, like she was back to being the Ava everyone knew—cold, detached, untouchable. But I could see the tremble in her hands, the way her breath hitched slightly when she inhaled, the way her eyes looked just a little too bright, like she was holding back tears.

I realized then how much she'd been hiding, how deep her pain went, how much of herself she kept locked away, even from me. And I realized that maybe she wasn't just a bad influence—maybe she was just as lost as I was, just as desperate to feel nothing, to escape from the reality that kept crushing her down.

But even knowing that, even seeing her like this, I still didn't do anything. I just sat there, watching her smoke, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me, too heavy to lift, too heavy to fight against.

Because the truth is, I didn't know how to help her. I didn't even know how to help myself. And maybe that's why we kept finding our way back to each other—because we were both drowning, both too far gone to save ourselves, let alone each other.

So I stayed. I stayed because I didn't know what else to do, because leaving would mean going back to my own nightmare, because staying meant I didn't have to think about what was waiting for me at home. I stayed because maybe, in some twisted way, I needed her just as much as she needed me.

But now, as I sit here writing this, I can't shake the feeling that we're both spiraling down, dragging each other deeper into the darkness, and that one day, we won't be able to find our way back out.

And I'm scared that when that day comes, I won't even care.

Goodnight, Diary

Me