Novel & Cerita Dear Diary Book

A slim leather-bound book. The moment I opened it, a wave of unease washed over me. The handwriting was familiar yet foreign, looping elegantly across the page. The first entry stared back at me: He says he loves me, but sometimes I feel like his prisoner. I slammed the book shut, my chest rising and falling rapidly. This diary held answers, but was I ready to face them?

All their earlier promises meant nothing then. -------------- Dear Diary… It is a lonely place, a dungeon, when you are locked up on your own and left alone too. I guess he has a home to return to. And I have no wolf to talk to now either. Just four walls to look at. If this is how things go, I am likely to go insane… ----------------

I asked no one in particular but the dusty jewelleries stared back at me giving me my answer. I turned to move but my leg hit the vanity drawer and I heard a small plop, “Ouch!” I winced in pain as I rubbed my toes, bending down to pick what had fallen, it was a book and it was dusty. Dusting it off made me cough repeatedly and I stared at the book turning the page open but every page as well was covered in dust although preserved. I dusted a few pages off and the crisp but clean handwriting stared back at me. I read the first page and Immediately closed it. It was Jonathan’s mom’s diary.I flipped through the book and realized that she had written a lot and even almost used up the book. I wa

I was about to see a time before the one I read. “A diary?” I ask, gingerly picking up the book. “No, a journal. And proof that every family is as fucked up as yours.”

Cold. I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle a cough from the thick air. Carefully stepping back, my heel hit something. A shelf. A loud thud hit the floor behind me. “Damn it…” I muttered under my breath, fumbling to pull out my phone. I turned on the flashlight and aimed it toward the object. It was a book. Old. Worn. A diary. I bent down and picked it up. The name on the first page stopped my breath cold.

A message window appeared when he touched it. [Name: Dell’s Diary] [Type: Book] [Rarity: Damaged] [Attributes: None] [Effect: None] [Able to bring outside of the dungeon: No] [Remark: It’s true, the guy just took random notes in a book! You can still try to read it though!] Mike flipped the old book open unconsciously. The handwriting was messy and rough, and a lot of the pages were covered in dirt, making it almost impossible to read. As a result, the contents of the diary as a whole were hard to read.

A desk that looked untouched for years. I closed the door behind me. My fingers hovered over the spines of books, not really reading, just feeling. My chest tightened when I saw one with a cracked leather cover and initials burned into the corner: J.D.V. My mother’s best friend. Gianna De Vera. The one we’d just buried. I pulled the book down. It wasn’t a novel—it was a journal. Dates ran across the top of each page, shaky handwriting below. I flipped to the back.

Shayla understood her and didn’t say any words. When Bria was gathering all her belongings inside her drawer, a not familiar book caught her attention. It was in the corner of her drawer and it has a purple and pink cover. She got curious about what’s inside, so she flipped the book and realized it was a diary. And it belongs to her mom. “Journey with my little Gummy bear, Sabria Verone.” was written on the cover. At that moment, she felt the presence of her mom. She turned the page led her to the very first day her mom wrote on the dairy.

Yet, there was an unmistakable presence that lingered behind. My eyes immediately landed on the disarray of belongings scattered around—a half-folded sweater draped over a chair, a pen precariously close to rolling off the edge of the desk, and a small leather book shoved clumsily behind a lamp. As I stepped closer, curiosity got the best of me. I pulled the book out, brushing away a thin layer of dust that had settled on top. It was a diary—Reya's diary. My heart dropped. I opened it carefully, flipping through the pages filled with notes from class, doodles of flowers and strange symbols, and the margins packed with her thoughts—snippets of poetry, quotes she adored, and random observation

The key smoothly entered the hole, with a slow twist, I heard a 'click' sound, and the drawer opened. My heart raced with joy; inside were four books. I took one and looked inside. Clearly, it was a handwritten diary. Next, I read and studied all four diaries. Only then did I understand who instructed me to write Alex's biography. And the real purpose of this book was to be made with secrecy about the names of places and notes for the authenticity of the biography.