Dear Diary,

I'm consumed by self-doubt, and I don't know how to escape it. Is this what it means to be normal? I've tried talking to Mom and Dad about my dreams, about how engineering isn't for me. But they're resolute, stuck on their vision for my future.

I want to make them proud, just like they want me to live a good life. But can't I do that on my own terms? Can't I find success and happiness in my own way? The arguments we've had about this have left me feeling unheard, unseen.

So I've made the painful decision to give up on my dreams of becoming a writer. It's a sacrifice I hope will bring Mom and Dad happiness, and eventually, me too.

Yours,

Nitibha

6 February 2017

A lone tear fell onto the page, a poignant reminder of the struggles my little sister faced.

I'm reading Nitibha's diary again, and the pain of losing her still feels like an open wound. Her bright smile, infectious laughter, and unwavering optimism – all gone. I'm left with only memories and the haunting question: what if?

I was chasing my own dreams in London, oblivious to the turmoil Nitibha was going through. My father's wealth couldn't save her, and I couldn't be there to support her.

My little sister Nitibha's diary lay open on my lap, its pages yellowed with time and tear-stained with the secrets she had shared with the empty space.

I remembered the day I received the news of her passing like it was yesterday. When my father's trembling voice on the phone told me that Nitibha was gone. The words cut through me like a knife, leaving me breathless and bewildered.

As I arrived home, I was met with a scene that I could never have imagined. The house, once filled with the vibrant colors of Nitibha's personality, was now a dull and lifeless space, devoid of the laughter and music that had once filled its rooms.

As I searched for answers why a girl like Nitibha took her life, I stumbled upon Nitibha's diary, hidden away in the secret recesses of her room. The pages revealed a desperate struggle with depression, a cry for help that had gone unheard. I felt a wave of guilt and regret wash over me, knowing that I could have made a difference, if I could have been there to support her.

Nitibha tried to fit into the mold they had created for her, but it was a poor fit. She struggled in her engineering courses, and her grades suffered as a result. Our parents, instead of offering support and guidance, grew increasingly frustrated with her lack of progress. They saw her struggles as a personal failing, rather than a sign that she was on the wrong path.

And then she took her life...

The cruel twist of fate was that I, a therapist trained to help others navigate the depths of despair, had been unable to rescue my own sister from the abyss of depression that ultimately claimed her life.

I vowed to honor Nitibha's memory by helping others who struggled with depression and feelings of hopelessness. I would be the listening ear, the supportive voice, and the guiding light that she had so desperately needed. Her story would not be in vain, and I would make sure that her memory lived on through my work.