I sat at my desk, the dim lamp casting a pale circle of light over an old, worn diary. Its cover was scratched, pages half-filled with words I never said out loud. Words meant only for them. My parents.
All day, I wore a mask. At college, in the streets, even when cooking breakfast for myself—I lived like I was fine. But when I opened this diary, when the pen touched the page, that mask shattered.
My hand trembled slightly as I wrote the broken words, some broken thoughts.
“With you, it was gone—the share of love that was mine.
Now my life feels plain, still ticking forward, like the needle crawling toward nine.
Maybe some things are beautiful only when unseen,
Like your love, which makes even absence divine.
I hope, wherever you are, you’re doing just fine.
And also… Mom, today I met a girl.
She felt so close, and yet so far.
Maybe like a friend lost in a fair,
Or a foe from a forgotten war.
But her light… it reached me,touched me deep,
Like a star—beautiful, shining, and impossibly distant.”
When I stopped writing, I stared at the words until they blurred. My chest felt lighter and heavier at the same time.
It was the first time I’d written about someone other than them.
The first time a girl’s presence had slipped past my walls and onto these pages.
I closed the diary gently, as though it carried something fragile.
And I couldn’t help but wonder…
What was happening to me? Why did she feel so familiar, when we had only just met?
As I reached to turn off the lamp, a chill brushed my skin, sudden and uninvited—like a whisper from somewhere beyond. For a heartbeat, I thought I heard it again… her voice, faint, echoing through the silence.
I froze, my breath caught in my throat.
The room was empty. The night was still.
But deep down somehow , I knew—
this was only the beginning of the inevitable.
"History repeating itself ??"
..........
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