As I sit here, pen poised over the blank pages of this journal, I can't help but reflect on the events that brought me to this point. My name is Alex Grant, and I'm not your average 16-year-old. Some would call me a genius, others a prodigy. But none of that matters now, not when I'm about to confess to a crime I didn't commit.
It all started with her—Lily. She wasn't just the girl of my dreams; she was my sun, the reason I dragged myself through each day. Watching her from a distance felt like enough, as if her laughter could water the dry, cracked parts of me no one saw. She made life bearable, gave me something to look forward to. But life isn't kind to people like me, and sometimes, the things you treasure the most are the first to slip through your fingers.
And then everything shattered.
It was a chilly October evening, the kind where the air smells like frost and the leaves crunch underfoot. I was home, half-heartedly scrolling through my phone, when the call came. The words on the other end didn't make sense at first—Lily. Dead. In the woods behind our school. Beaten. My mind refused to believe it, clinging desperately to denial. But the voice on the phone was unrelenting, hammering reality into me one blow at a time. She was gone. Gone in the most violent, senseless way possible.
I dropped the phone and just... sat there, numb, as if my brain had shut down to protect me from the weight of what I'd just heard. But the numbness didn't last. It never does. Soon enough, panic and sorrow welled up inside me, swirling into a storm I couldn't control. My chest felt tight, my breath shallow. I wanted to scream, but the sound was trapped somewhere deep inside, unable to break free.
The police arrived like vultures to a fresh corpse, tearing through our town, searching for answers. And the thing about small towns? Everyone knows everyone—and everyone has something to say. Whispers started immediately, theories and accusations blooming like weeds. It was only a matter of time before their eyes landed on me.
Because I had been with her that night.
We weren't supposed to be in the woods. It started as a simple study session—something we'd done before. She was struggling with calculus, and I liked helping her. I liked being the one she relied on. But she never showed, and that's when the unease began to gnaw at me. I sent her a few texts, but she didn't respond. That wasn't like Lily. She was punctual to a fault, always texting back within seconds. So I went looking for her.
I wish to God I hadn't found her.
The scene is burned into my mind, and no matter how hard I try, I can't unsee it. Her body, twisted and broken, lying in the dirt. Her golden hair tangled with leaves, her skin pale as the moonlight filtering through the trees. Blood soaked the ground beneath her—so much blood. It felt like the world stopped spinning the moment I saw her, like time froze just to trap me in that awful, endless second.
I dropped to my knees beside her, my hands hovering uselessly over her body. I wanted to save her, but it was too late. She was gone. And in that moment, everything inside me shattered.
I should've called the police. I should've stayed with her, held her hand, done something. But all I could think about was what would happen to me. They'd never believe me. They'd see me with her body and jump to the worst conclusions. I could already picture the headlines: Teen Genius Turned Killer. In a town starved for scandal, they'd crucify me before I had a chance to explain.
So I ran.
It wasn't a conscious decision. My legs just moved, carrying me away from the horror, away from the mess. I ran until my lungs burned, until the muscles in my legs screamed for mercy. I ran because running was easier than staying. Easier than facing what I'd just lost.
And now, here I am, locked in my room with nothing but this journal and my guilt for company. I can't stop thinking about what might've happened if I'd stayed. Could I have saved her? Could I have found help in time? Or at the very least, could I have given her the dignity of being found by someone who cared? Instead, I left her to be discovered by strangers, cold and alone in the dark.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Not the face of the girl I loved, full of life and laughter, but the lifeless mask I found in the woods. The guilt is unbearable, a constant ache that settles in my chest and never leaves. It clings to me like a second skin, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to sleep.
I didn't kill Lily. I swear I didn't. But it doesn't matter. I might as well have.
In the court of public opinion, I'm already guilty. The whispers have grown louder—"He was obsessed with her." "He was jealous." "He was the last one to see her alive." I can hear them through the walls, through the silence of my own thoughts. They don't need proof. They just need someone to blame. And I handed myself to them on a silver platter the moment I ran.
I write this not to clear my name—because there's no redemption for someone like me. I write it because the weight of the truth is too heavy to carry alone. I loved her, and in the end, I failed her. I let fear dictate my actions, and now I'm paying the price.
This journal is my confession. Not to the police, not to the town, but to myself. I failed Lily in life, and now all I can do is tell the truth.
I've made my peace with what's coming. Whether it's prison or something worse, I won't fight it. Maybe I deserve it. Maybe this is justice, in a twisted, backward way.
I only wish I could tell her I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a coward. I'm sorry I wasn't there when she needed me most. I'm sorry I loved her from a distance when I should've told her every day how much she meant to me.
But it's too late now.
All that's left is the silence—and the promise that I won't run anymore. The next knock on the door, the next accusation thrown my way, I'll meet it head-on. If they want a villain, I'll give them one. If they need someone to blame, I'll wear the title.
Because in the end, what's the difference? Whether I killed her or not, I'm guilty. Guilty of loving her too quietly. Guilty of leaving her behind. Guilty of being too afraid to save her when it mattered.
And maybe, just maybe, that's the worst crime of all.