Dear Friend

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of depression, self-harm, grief, and death, including references to mental health struggles and traumatic experiences.

Dear Emma Marghareta,

I see you've been using the Ouija board again. You must understand: this is not a game. It can be dangerous, even deadly. But tonight, you’re fortunate. I am the one who answered. I mean you no harm, though others might not be so kind. I came to you because there’s something you need to know. A story that must be told. My story.

I was once a girl, just like you, kind but painfully ordinary. I had a vast inner world I longed to share, yet a shyness I could never quite shake off. I was quiet, introverted, always watching, noticing life’s smallest details, the tiny flower struggling for sunlight between two cracked pavement stones, the odd flourish of my aunt’s hand as she described her latest recipe discovery with far too much enthusiasm. She rarely cooked, though she knew each recipe by heart. Only on special occasions would she unlock her guarded trove of dishes she’d long intended to try, surprising us all with something new she’d been saving for just the right moment. 

But what else was there to say about my life? I always felt a pang of jealousy watching others live so fully, going on adventures, travelling, finding success. My stomach twisted with desperation every time I saw their bright, happy faces on Instagram, each photo a reminder that my own life would never be as thrilling, as magical, or as vibrant as theirs.

Emma, when people call you a failure enough times, it starts to seep into you, until one day, you wake up and realise that you are one. Pathetically, undeniably, a failure. The sunrise that once whispered hope every morning began to mark the cruel passing of time, a reminder of all I never become. I had words but no confidence, no comfort, no security. Over time, I grew to despise myself. My life seemed to slip beyond my control, leaving me trapped in cycles of anger and frustration. Sometimes, I would hide for hours, curled up in the dark of my wardrobe, waiting for the shadows to swallow my tears. In the distance, I’d hear the shrill cries of seagulls—relentless, piercing, and hungry—a sound that made me tremble in agony. 

That’s when I began to pray each day, begging God to end my life, pleading for his mercy to release me from this existence I loathed. I asked his forgiveness, spoke to him when I had no one else left to listen. Have you ever felt that way? I had become a burden to those closest to me, and I heard, with a dull ache, that it might have been better if I’d never been born. I knew that if I disappeared, they would move on. I wanted that. for their sake and for mine. But I was always a coward. A coward too afraid to take destiny into my own hands, to write the final line of my story. A coward, terrified of pain, desperately craving a quiet, painless end. I wanted death to come softly, to take me in the night, like a gentle embrace, to whisper comfort and lead me away. The way my mother used to do when she’d take me by the hand for an evening walk after school to buy me my favourite croissant, guiding me with love and steady warmth. 

No, Emma, I didn’t kill myself. How could I? The cowardice that gnawed away at my dignity always held me back, sweeping in whenever I dared imagine how to sever my own ties. Do you remember that empty classroom chair one Monday? The one that seemed to hold an echo of all the memories left behind? I remember it vividly. I’ll never forget it, the lazy greetings exchanged every morning, the scratch of a pen rushing through assignment after assignment. It all felt surreal, hollow, haunting. Everyone spoke in whispers, their faces weighed down with something unspoken, solemn. Until, as always, life moved on. Someone new filled that space, someone with their own dreams, and soon her name faded. We were swept up in exams, then graduation, thinking only of the bright and colourful future as we released those balloons into the sky. Looking back, it all felt so pointless. You do know what I am talking about. 

No, Emma. I didn’t kill myself. Perhaps somewhere within the suffocating darkness, through the fog of depression clouding my mind, a faint instinct to live lingered. I found refuge in the imaginary world we had shared since childhood. I took solace in ghosts of my own creation, in characters who brought me comfort with their strange antics and tangled lives. William, who began as a man hopelessly in love, later grew weary of his marriage but clung to his vows, stubbornly faithful. And her? She never stopped loving Stephen. It was meant to be this way, not like the perfect family portraits or rose-tinted dreams, but a web of unfulfilled promises and fragile devotion. A love triangle, even a rectangle of yearning. I convinced myself that I couldn’t leave before telling their story. It was important, far more interesting than my own life. Until I became too tired, too drained to write another line. And slowly, reality crept in, stark and unforgiving, I wasn’t talented enough to give them the life they deserved. And those who might have done it justice were long gone.

No, Emma. I didn’t kill myself. Someone else did. 

In the end, destiny laid down its final card.

Once, I had a chilling premonition that I would be murdered. I tried to laugh it off, dismissing it as a wild notion fueled by all the crime documentaries I devoured whenever I took a break from studying. I was washing the last of the dishes that day, telling myself it was just a fleeting idea, a strange thought that came and went, like a cold breath brushing the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine before vanishing as quickly as it appeared. I told myself I was being foolish. And yet, a certainty lingered. Deep within, in the shadowy corners of the mind where reason fears to tread, I knew it would happen someday. Somehow. I just didn’t know when. 

I am glad to say I never had much love for this world, or its inhabitants. Perhaps that is what saves me now. Perhaps that is why I don’t feel as much anger or hatred as I should, rightfully, feel. 

It all started when we left behind the little village that had sheltered me since my earliest childhood and moved to the capital. I knew, at that moment, that there was no turning back. Fear crept in at times, while at others, a strange calm settled over everything. And then, one day, it happened. I wasn’t supposed to be the target, but I became the victim. They called it a mistake—a tragic, senseless mistake. The young girl, gone too soon, with her life ahead of her. For a while, people spoke about the city’s dangers, glancing over their shoulders, constantly imagining shadows lurking, ready to strike. It all happened so fast. Blood pooled slowly on the pavement, spreading in dark rivulets. The sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer, as pedestrians gathered in shock and horror. The police arrived. And then came the pain—raw, searing, and unstoppable. Darkness closed in, and I felt my vision slipping, my eyes staring blankly into the horizon, wide and glassy, frozen in a final, panicked gaze, devoid of life.

And that was it—my dull life shattered into countless, irretrievable pieces.

Now, I am alone again, searching for companionship, yet lost in the shadows of memories I cannot escape. How terrible it all feels! I relive each moment, chained to this absence, condemned to wander a path I have already walked. I am dead—yes, a lifeless rotting corpse beneath the flickering candles left at my grave where withered flowers rest beside a faded photograph, a silent testament to a life cut short, whispering to the curious who pass by of mysteries left unanswered. 

There is nothing left to say. 

You will understand. One day. Perhaps a day too late. This is not a warning—nothing can be done now. The future has been written. Someone else will find this letter. Someone else will gasp in disbelief and, at last, come to understand too. Understand that we are all, in the end, one and the same.

Your loving friend, 

Emma Marghareta.