Mara had always been a quiet girl, the kind who preferred the comfort of books to the chaos of people. Her best friend, Lila, was the complete opposite—vibrant, loud, the kind of person who made the world bend just a little to accommodate her light. They were inseparable. Or at least, they used to be.

It started with a letter. Mara wrote it one rainy afternoon, heart sore and raw after weeks of feeling invisible next to Lila. She didn’t plan on giving it to her—just scribbled thoughts in a notebook to ease the ache. “Sometimes,” she wrote, “I wish you’d just disappear so I could finally breathe.”

It was a fleeting, bitter thought, never meant for anyone’s eyes.

But the notebook slipped out of her bag at school. And Lila found it.

She didn’t confront Mara. She didn’t ask what she meant or why she wrote it. She simply stopped talking to her. Cold, sharp silence replaced the laughter. Mara, confused and hurt, tried asking what was wrong, but Lila always brushed her off. Eventually, the silence grew roots.

Rumors spread. Someone saw the letter. Whispers began—Mara hates Lila. She’s jealous. She’s obsessed.

Teachers noticed the tension. Friends picked sides. Mara withdrew, suffocated by the guilt of a sentence she never meant to speak aloud.

Then came the final blow.

One day, Lila didn’t come to school. Then another. On the third day, a counselor visited Mara in class. Lila had been in an accident—crossed the street without looking, headphones in, lost in thought. She was in critical condition.

The last words Lila ever heard from Mara were written in that notebook, full of hurt and misunderstanding.

At the hospital, Mara stood outside the room, too ashamed to enter. The letter —the misunderstanding—hung between them like a closed door.

And some doors, once shut, never open again.

K