My last Year

Day 3

A diary. A record for no one. The silence feels appropriate.

Installed this app on the first, a symbolic fresh start for a countdown. Seventeen years old, and already the world feels like a worn-out photograph, colors bleeding into a relentless grey. They say you haven't lived yet at this age. A cruel joke. I’ve lived enough to feel the architecture of my soul collapse.

It happened in August. The axis shifted. She’s gone.

She was the only gravitational pull that made sense in this chaotic orbit. Without her, I’m just… debris. Adrift. The silence now isn't peaceful; it's a vacuum, sucking the meaning out of every simple thing.

I don’t seek help. Not out of pride, but a profound, bone-deep acceptance. This isn’t a cry; it’s an observation. I’m just waiting now. Watching the clock hands move, not towards a future, but towards a final, quiet punctuation mark. Everything is mundane. I stare into the terminal void, and it stares back, indifferent.

I used to carry the weight. With her, it was a shared burden, a purpose. “Study hard,” I’d tell myself, “so you can take her to that stupidly expensive restaurant, buy a little house by the woods, repay a fraction of her light.” A naive, beautiful dream. Now the weight is just mine, and it’s crushing me into the earth.

I grew up without a father. That absence shapes you, leaves a hollow space that twists your perception. You become a question mark, constantly seeking the missing part of the equation. She was the answer. My brother… we’re like two different books on the same shelf, bound separately, telling different stories. We don’t speak. It doesn’t matter.

New Year’s was spent with the only constant company I have left: my own thoughts. The irony is almost funny. Seventeen, and I’ve already given up on myself. It sounds like a pathetic teenage drama, doesn’t it? A cliché. If only it were that simple. If only this was just a phase, and not the fundamental cracking of my foundation.

She used to wake me on careless Sundays. The smell of oatmeal, her gentle insistence to “eat, just eat, you can’t live on books and dreams.” I’d pretend to be annoyed. God, I would give anything for that annoyance now. For that love.

So this is it. The log of my final year. A chronicle of the mundane march to eighteen. Then, perhaps, a formal request. An application for silence. For peace.