The Diary In The Attic (Part 7)

[Timl1980]

Part 7: The Weight of Silence

 

Sometimes silence is heavier than words, pressing down until you can hardly breathe.

 

Anna’s return to school was short‑lived. She lasted through first period, but by second she was dizzy, her vision swimming. She excused herself and sat in the nurse’s office until her mother came to pick her up.

 

As they walked down the hall, she heard whispers behind her.

 

“She’s so pale.” “Why does she even bother coming?” “Bet she just wants attention.”

 

Anna kept her head down, but the words cut deep. She wanted to turn and shout, I’m not pretending. I’m fighting for my life. But she didn’t. She just kept walking, her mother’s arm steadying her.

 

That evening, her phone buzzed. A message from Daniel lit the screen:

 

Don’t listen to them. They don’t get it. I do.

 

She stared at the words, her heart twisting. He was the only one outside her family who spoke to her like she wasn’t fragile glass. The only one who didn’t flinch at her scarf, her thin frame, her tired eyes.

 

She typed back: Thanks. Then deleted it. Then typed it again. Finally, she set the phone down without sending anything. The unsent word glowed in her mind long after the screen went dark.

 

In the kitchen, her brother Michael slammed a cupboard. “It’s not fair,” he muttered. “You’re seventeen. You should be planning college, not…this.” 

 

 

Anna leaned against the doorway, her body aching. “Michael...”

 

“No,” he snapped, his voice breaking. “Why would Jehovah let this happen to you? You’re the best person I know.”

 

Anna swallowed hard. She wanted to cry, to scream, to agree with him. But instead she crossed the room and put a hand on his arm.

 

“Jehovah hasn’t forgotten me,” she said softly. “And he hasn’t forgotten you either.”

 

Michael shook his head, tears in his eyes. “I wish I had your faith.”

 

Anna squeezed his arm. “Then borrow mine for now.”

 

The words hung between them, fragile but real. For a moment, Michael let out a shaky laugh, as if her quiet strength had steadied him more than he wanted to admit.

 

That weekend, the congregation organized a letter‑writing campaign. Anna insisted on joining, even though her hands trembled from fatigue. She wrote slowly, carefully, each word deliberate:

 

Jehovah promises a time when no one will say, ‘I am sick.’ I hold onto that hope every day. I hope you can too.

 

When she finished, she leaned back, exhausted but smiling. For the first time in weeks, she felt useful. Her words, shaky as they were, might reach someone else who needed them.

 

That night, lying in bed, her phone buzzed again. Another message from Daniel:

 

If you ever need to talk...really talk...I’m here. No judgment. No preaching. Just me.

 

Anna stared at the screen, her heart pounding. She thought of the diary, of Emil’s courage, of Clara’s trembling hands holding up forbidden words. She thought of Daniel, kind but restless, always circling the edges of faith but never stepping inside.

 

She whispered into the dark, “Jehovah, help me choose You.”

 

And she set the phone face‑down on the nightstand, the glow fading into silence.