They found his diary under the bed.

I was so angry when he left. He’d gone without a word of goodbye. Why? What had I done to deserve such a cold brush-off?

I pretended that I didn’t care. Fine, just leave. He wasn’t the first who’d left me. There had been others.

I looked back at those very short months, the timeline of our whole story. He’d wanted to go all the way. I wasn’t ready. He got mad and left. That was it.

I’d seen him one night with her. Who was that other girl? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to. I didn’t care.

The owner of the inn where he used to stay called out to me that morning. I lived nearby, so that old man must have seen him and I together a couple of times.

“He left this for you.” I received that book from the inn owner. “We found his diary under the bed.”

I went back to my room with his diary. I sat down and opened it. The pages struck me speechless. My tears started.

God, I hate him even more!

The last page. There was a picture of us, laughing at each other, one night in the crowd of (my) friends. I forgot who’d taken it. There was his handwriting below:

“Remember us this way…”



(Jakarta, 22/4/2016 – from The Couchsurfing Writers’ Club Weekly Writing Challenge. The topic: “Random First Line: They found his diary under the bed.”)

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