I really did delete my entries. I wanted to erase everything, as if the feelings, the memories, and that heavy, lingering exhaustion would disappear along with the pages. I opened each entry, said a silent goodbye… and still, I reread them. I couldn’t walk away without looking into myself one last time.
It became clear: those entries weren’t just words. They were my breath in the darkest moments, my smile in the brightest. I had forgotten why I started writing… and now I remember. Not because I wanted to share my pain, but because in those pages there was at least some kind of echo. Some kind of presence.
Yes, it hurts. The loneliness that lingers even among people. The unspoken wounds, even when I said “it’s fine.” The silence that rings louder in my head than any word. The uncertainty that drains me more than any drama ever could.
I deleted the entries… But strangely, I didn’t feel any better. It still felt like I left a piece of myself behind somewhere. And maybe, I’ll start writing again. Not as deeply, not as openly, not as vulnerably. Just so something inside me doesn’t die completely.