Dear Diary,
It hit me today.
Not like a crash.
Not like a scream.
But like watching someone you love dissolve slowly into shadow, and realizing you've been pretending not to notice.
But I see it now.
I see everything.
And I'm terrified.
Because I think I'm already starting to lose him.
And he hasn't even said the words yet.
1:12 PM
We met at the park.
He texted me to meet him on the bench near the koi pond — our bench. The one that leans a little to the left and catches the sun just right through the leaves.
I got there first.
And when I saw him walking toward me, I froze.
Because he looked smaller.
Not in height.
Not in presence.
But in body.
His hoodie hung looser than before.
His jeans — the ones that used to fit snug — were bunching around the waist.
And his shoulders, which I used to rest my head on so easily, looked sharp. Bony.
His smile came slow.
Like it cost him something.
But he still gave it.
Because that's who he is.
Even when he's hurting, he wants me to feel okay.
2:01 PM
We sat in silence for a while.
Birds chirped.
The water rippled.
Children laughed in the distance.
And I felt like I was watching the world happen from inside a glass box.
Eventually, I asked: "Have you eaten today?"
He nodded.
Too quickly.
"What did you eat?"
"Toast."
"That's not food."
He shrugged. "It counts."
I didn't argue.
But my heart screamed.
Because the boy who used to bring me homemade porridge and talk about the perfect tea-to-honey ratio is now surviving on toast and evasive smiles.
And I don't know how to fix it.
2:26 PM
I reached out, took his hand.
His fingers were cold.
Thin.
He didn't pull away.
But he didn't grip mine back the way he used to.
It felt like holding a paper version of him.
Still him. Still beautiful.
But fading.
2:42 PM
"Are you tired?" I asked.
He nodded.
Then said, "Always."
That word sat heavy between us.
Always.
Not "just today."
Not "lately."
Always.
Like this exhaustion lives in his bones now.
Like it's become part of him.
3:03 PM
I tried to keep things light.
Told him about a dream I had — something ridiculous involving a talking cat and a hallway full of vending machines that only gave out advice.
He laughed.
Sort of.
But it didn't reach his eyes.
And that's when it hit me:
The boy who used to smile at me like I was the sun now looks at me like he's trying to memorize me — like he's afraid I'll be gone when he blinks.
And I wonder if he knows…
That I'm looking at him the same way.
4:11 PM
We didn't talk about the blood.
Or the tests.
Or the silence that's been growing between us like a wall of glass — clear, invisible, but so sharp it cuts every time I reach for him.
Instead, we talked about movies.
Books.
Anything else.
Everything else.
And I let it happen.
Because sometimes love isn't pushing.
Sometimes love is sitting beside someone while they build the courage to open the door on their own.
But inside me, something is screaming.
Please. Let me in.
5:05 PM
He walked me home.
Slowly.
Slower than usual.
Like his legs hurt.
Like he was trying to make each step matter.
I asked if he was okay.
He said yes.
I didn't believe him.
But I nodded anyway.
Because maybe he's not ready.
Because maybe pretending is the only strength he has left.
Before we reached my door, I stopped.
Turned to him.
Took his hands in mine and looked up.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said.
He didn't reply.
His eyes glistened.
And then, almost too softly to hear:
"I don't want to be the reason you break."
And that's when I knew — he already knows.
He knows something is wrong.
And he's trying to protect me from it.
But what he doesn't understand is…
Not knowing is breaking me faster.
6:38 PM
He left after that.
Didn't kiss me.
Didn't say goodbye.
Just looked at me like he was trying to hold every detail in his mind — the shape of my mouth, the way I tilt my head when I'm worried, the tremble in my chin when I'm trying not to cry.
And then he walked away.
And I watched him go.
And I let him.
Even though every part of me wanted to run after him and scream: Please tell me what's happening.
Please stop shutting me out.
Please don't disappear.
8:03 PM
Back in my room now.
His hoodie is still draped over my chair.
Still smells like him.
Still soft.
Still here.
But it's not enough.
Because I want him.
Whole.
Breathing.
Smiling the way he used to.
Laughing like he believes in tomorrow.
But I don't know if we have a tomorrow.
And that's the part that's killing me.
9:15 PM
I started writing a list tonight.
Of all the things I want to do with him.
Things I haven't told him yet.
Not because I'm afraid.
But because I didn't think I'd need to rush.
Visit a bookstore in every city we go to.
Dance in the rain. Without shoes.
Make him breakfast in bed — messy, burnt, full of love.
Watch the sun rise together after staying up all night.
Hold his hand while he sleeps and whisper the story of us into the dark.
But now… I'm afraid I won't get the chance.
10:02 PM
I lit another candle tonight.
Same scent.
Same flame.
And I whispered a promise to it.
I will not leave.
Even if it hurts.
Even if he grows colder.
Even if he tries to push me away.
I will stay.
Because I love him.
Not the version of him that's strong and smiling and full of energy.
But this version.
The one who's scared.
The one who's fading.
The one who still holds my hand even when it shakes.
10:41 PM
I don't know what's coming.
But I know what I'll say when he finally tells me:
"I already know."
And then I'll hold him.
And I won't let go.
Even if the world falls apart.
Because love doesn't run.
It remains.
And I'll remain.
– Mi-Chan