Maybe the story had a moral. I learned that my actions have consequences. I learned that I need to think before I act. I learned to take responsibility. I learned many things. I have never been the same since.
But despite all the things I learned, I seem to have lost so much more.
I always was the dreamer. The kids in school thought I was silly. But I had my dreams, and I was safe there. And I could hope that one day my dreams would come true and I would take my chance. I would be the person I always wanted to be. Smart and brave. But when my chance came, there were two ways instead of one. Maybe I have taken the right one. By the measures of my world, I have. But then I have little in common with this world. For my own happiness, I chose the wrong way.
Like in a Greek tragedy, no matter what I did it would be wrong.
And I have never been the same since.

The young woman closed the diary and carefully put it in its hiding place underneath the mattress. She had always kept it hidden. Now that she lived on her own it didn't seem necessary anymore, but she couldn't help it. The years with her stepmother and her nosy brother had left deep marks.

She looked around in the room. It was scarcely furnished. The bed, a closet, a table, two chairs, two bookshelves. One held everything she needed for her studies. The other contained her novels and fairy stories. She should have gotten rid of those years ago, but she had never managed to take that step.

She was tired. She had been ill that past week and still felt weak. Something that usually led her to depressions and self-pity. All her energy was gone. Probably she should go to the library and do some research for her paper. The fresh air on the way would do her good. Probably she should do some shopping, she really needed to stock up on food. Probably she should take a shower. Probably she should do anything, no matter what it was. But the idea of getting out of bed was appaling. She got her diary out again and browsed through the pages. She didn't write regularly. This one book had lasted her for years already. She remembered every entry, remembered her feelings as she had written. Reading through them again, she found the same person mentioned on almost every page. She relived her change in feelings for that person. On and on she read, until she came to the entry she had made earlier that day. It was the first time she had expressed what she had felt for so long. She had made the wrong turn. She had done what was right but lost what she most wanted. She rolled over to lie on her belly and picked up her pen again.

I was too young to understand what you wanted to give me.

She put the pen aside, then took it again. She wrote a single line, changing the words she had spoken years ago, the words that had started it all.

Her eyes closed and she fell asleep.

A hand in a grey glove came from behind, pulling her long brown hair away from the diary. A blonde strand of hair fell over a pale face as it bent down to the page. A blue and a green eye read what she had written. Thin lips smiled.

A soft wind browsed through the pages of the diary, turning them.

The room was empty.