Dear diary...

No, wait.

Why does everyone start with that? “Dear diary.” Like I’m writing to some gentle friend with silky pages and sweet perfume.

You’re not like that.

You’re scratched, secondhand, and smell like whatever lived in my suitcase before you.

Okay, then... You need a name.

Let’s call you... Bona.

Because when I was five, I had a pink stuffed elephant named Bona.

I used to whisper all my secrets into his big ears before bed.

He never judged me. Never told anyone. Just stared back with those button eyes like he understood.

So now, you’re Bona.

Let’s hope you’re just as good at keeping secrets.

____________________________________________________________

12:47 PM – Front porch, Blossom Street Shared House

I stepped out of the cab and pulled my backpack tighter.
The heat slapped my skin, and my shirt clung to the small of my back.
Three flights of cracked brick and paint peeling like old sunburn.
Windows squinting against the light.
Like the building didn’t want to see me any more than I wanted to be seen.

Blossom Street Shared House.
That’s what it was called on the listing.

But in the forums, everyone just called it:

  “That place.”
  “The dump with drama.”
  “The unofficial halfway house for students with nowhere else to go.”

Sounded perfect.

I walked up the steps.
The railing was warm metal, smudged and sticky.
Key in hand.
My name spelled wrong on the mailbox — Naera instead of Naira.
Figures.

The door creaked.
The hallway smelled like ramen, old socks, cheap cologne, and maybe something vaguely minty that didn’t belong.
The air was thick.
The kind that hugged too long.

Movie posters on the walls.
Most faded.
One had duct tape across the mouth of the main character — intentional or accidental, I didn’t know.

I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome.
Just... a new start.

No more whispers behind my back.
No more teachers who looked at me like a broken file.
No more fake smiles from people who called me that girl behind closed doors.

Here, no one knew me yet.
Which meant... they could only ruin me after they met me.

And somehow, that felt fair.

_____________________________________

1:25 PM – Second floor hallway

The stairs groaned like they didn’t want to hold me.
Each step sagged a little — like my past was making the whole building tired.

Room 2B.
Brass numbers clinging to wood.
The lock gave in like it knew resistance was useless.

Inside:
Air still.
Light filtered through half a curtain like it was ashamed of getting in.
Dust floated slow and sideways.
The bed had no headboard.
The desk had one working drawer.
There was a hanger on the doorknob for no reason.

But it was mine.

So I shut the door and cracked the window.
A low hum of traffic buzzed in.
Someone down the street was yelling.
Someone else was laughing.

I could already feel the wall pressing close.
But at least I was alone.

___________________________________________

1:46 PM – Room 2B, door half-open

I stood near the window.
My shoulders still sticky with sweat from the cab.
The sunlight caught the dust in the air, painting it gold.
I leaned into it like a cat.
Closed my eyes.
Imagined this room wasn’t broken.

Didn’t hear the steps.
Didn’t know someone was there.

Then—knock knock.

I turned.

She was already leaning on my doorframe.
Like she’d always been there.
Like she belonged.

Tall.
Tank top the color of old fog.
No bra.
The way the fabric clung made me blink once before I could stop myself.

Hair twisted back like it had been grabbed and forgotten.
Skin warm — glowing like she walked through the sun and liked it.

And her face...

Mixed Asian.
Definitely Chinese, maybe with something French or Italian in the jawline.
Her cheekbones were like cut glass, but not cold.
And her eyes — soft-lidded, slow.
She looked like she hadn’t slept, and didn’t need to.

The kind of face I only ever saw in the mirror.
Or once, blurry, in a school hallway I wasn’t supposed to walk in.

We locked eyes.

She tilted her head slightly.
Like she was trying to place me.
Then:

  “You’re mix Chinese too?”

Not hi.
Not sorry to bother.
Just that.
Like it meant something.
Like it mattered here.

Before I could answer, she shrugged one shoulder and pushed off the frame.
A slow smile curled into place — like it had been waiting for her cue.

  “That room you’re in? Usually belongs to someone with issues.”
  “Hope you’re less entertaining.”

Then she walked off, barefoot and unbothered.

Here we go again, Bona.
Chinese girl thinking I’m one of them.
I must have that face — half of something, none of it obvious.
How do I even correct that without sounding like a jerk?
“Hi, I’m Indonesian, not Chinese.”

As if they’d care.
As if it matters.