The curtains fell slowly, the echo of applause still rippling across the auditorium like aftershocks from a fading storm. Amelia stood center stage, heart pounding—not from the performance, but from the bitter emptiness beside her.
David wasn't there.
He hadn't shown up. Not backstage. Not during rehearsal. Not when the spotlight hit the stage and the silence begged for his first line. Ms. Parker had covered for him, improvising a scene change with grace only years in theatre could teach. But to Amelia, it hadn't mattered. Every word she spoke felt hollow, every breath a betrayal.
Because this wasn't just any play. It was their play. The final act they wrote together. The one they whispered into each other's ears under moonlight rehearsals, each word soaked in meaning only they could understand. The one where he promised, quietly, that he'd be there. No matter what.
But he wasn't.
She stormed out after the final bow. Past the crowd of smiling faces and congratulatory hugs. Past Ms. Parker's proud nod. Past the confetti and the compliments and the camera flashes. She didn't say a word. She didn't even look back.
David missed it.
He missed everything.
And she was furious.
---
The next morning felt stale. A Saturday, supposedly, but there was nothing soft about it. The sun was up too early, the wind too loud, and Amelia's chest too heavy.
Her room still smelled like the hairspray from the night before, and the bouquet she got from Ms. Parker sat wilting on her desk, petals curling inward as if mourning on her behalf. She hadn't slept. Just stared at her phone for hours, waiting for a message that never came.
Maybe he was sick. Maybe something happened. Maybe…
But none of those maybes dulled the sting. Not enough to stop the ache that bloomed across her ribs whenever she replayed the empty stage in her mind.
Still, she needed closure.
She walked back to school by herself. The hallways were empty, just the soft hum of vending machines and the distant creak of the janitor's mop echoing down the tiled corridors. The locker room still smelled like sweat and stage makeup. She wasn't even sure why she'd gone there—until she saw it.
David's satchel.
Sitting right beneath the bench where he always tied his laces. Slouched over like it had been dropped in a hurry, the strap still looped halfway around a bench leg.
Her heart stumbled.
She didn't mean to touch it. She really didn't. But her fingers moved anyway, tracing the worn edges, the familiar ink stain near the zipper. She sat down beside it, the silence thick.
Maybe he left a note.
Maybe he just forgot it and everything was fine and this was all a misunderstanding.
She unzipped the main pocket.
Books. A crumpled hoodie. A granola bar. Loose papers.
And then—beneath it all—a paperback.
Managing Chronic Illness: Understanding Invisible Battles.
Her breath caught.
She froze.
He had been reading about her illness.
He was trying to understand her.
Her fingers trembled as she opened the cover. Lines were underlined in neat black pen. Margins filled with scribbled notes. There were dog-eared pages—dozens of them. A sticky note on one page read:
"Can this explain what she's not saying?"
Her stomach twisted.
He cared. He was trying.
She closed the book, eyes stinging. The anger drained from her like a punctured balloon. In its place came a hollow guilt that echoed inside her.
She needed to find him.
Now.
---
David's house wasn't far. She remembered the way. Past the old bookstore with the faded awning. Left at the street with the rusted traffic light that blinked red even when no one was around. The world felt oddly quiet, like it knew something she didn't.
When she rang the doorbell, it wasn't David who answered.
It was his mother.
And the look on her face wasn't confusion. It wasn't even surprise.
It was sorrow.
Immediate. Soul-deep. Final.
"Amelia," she whispered. Her voice cracked like broken porcelain.
"Is David home?" Amelia asked. Her voice sounded small, like she was a child again. "I just… I found his satchel and I thought maybe…"
She couldn't finish.
David's mom stepped aside. Her eyes were red, skin pale, like she'd spent the whole night weeping and had nothing left to give.
"He passed away last night," she said. "He… he didn't tell anyone how bad it had gotten."
Amelia didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't understand.
"He was found this morning. His heart just… stopped." Her voice broke. "He left something for you."
She didn't know how she got inside. Didn't remember walking. One moment she was at the door. The next, she was on a couch, the weight of the world settling into her bones.
David's father placed a book in her lap.
It was a diary. Hardbound, black cover. Faded gold initials on the front: D.K.
Amelia stared.
Hands trembling.
And then she opened it.
---
The first page was short.
> She smiled for the world... then for me... then for herself. That's all I've ever wanted.
She let out a sob she didn't know she was holding.
He knew.
He had always known.
She flipped to the next page.
> I was ten when I realized love was killing me.
> Every time I loved something—really loved something—it felt like I lost a piece of myself. I thought I was being dramatic. Maybe I was. But the doctor called it "Affectional Regression Syndrome." The more I care, the quicker I go. Every crush, every warm moment, every glimpse of something beautiful… it all adds up.
> I used to think I'd just avoid love. Stay distant. Numb. It worked for years.
> And then she smiled at me.
> That was the beginning of the end.
Amelia couldn't read anymore.
Her tears blurred the words, smudging ink and memory into something sacred.
He hadn't told her.
Because he was scared.
Because he loved her.
And it was killing him.
She wanted to scream. To rewind time. To undo the anger, the silence, the day she chose not to check on him because she was mad.
He loved her.
And he died thinking she didn't love him back.
---
She didn't go home that night.
She stayed with his parents, curled up on the couch with the diary clutched to her chest, rereading pages until the words etched themselves into her soul.
Every sentence was a confession. Every paragraph a goodbye he never had the courage to say aloud.
He loved her. Quietly. Deeply. Desperately.
And she had loved him, too.
She just didn't know how to say it in time.
---
The next morning, Ms. Parker arrived at the doorstep, eyes already damp with mourning.
"I heard," she whispered, hugging Amelia tight. "I'm so sorry."
Amelia didn't say anything. Just handed her the book. Let her read the words of a boy who had found his voice too late.
Ms. Parker's hands trembled as she flipped through.
"He wrote truth like poetry," she said quietly.
Amelia nodded.
"I want to do something," she said.
"Anything," Ms. Parker replied.
"I want to put this on stage. Our story. His words. My words. All of it."
Ms. Parker's gaze softened.
"It'll be the performance of a lifetime."
Amelia looked down at the diary one last time.
She touched the final page.
> If love is remembering someone the way they wanted to be seen... then remember me smiling. That's how I saw you. That's how I want to stay.
She closed the book.
And this time, she didn't cry.
This time, she smiled.