Diary A Novel Novels & Stories

It was the first step towards her survival plan. Her hands fell to the top draw, where she pulled out the paper sanctuary. Her diary was covered in navy blue velvet, the sensation under her fingers always giving her a warm feeling inside. Mia used her diary in the conventional sense, i.e. writing out her thoughts and feelings, but she also used it to make lists. She loved lists. September 8th

I couldn't tell if he had something to do or if he got nervous when I asked about us. “We were friends and enemies,” I mumbled, trying to wrap my head around it. Well, there was only one way to find out. No one knew me better than myself. My eyes fell on the diary. It was a big book, like one of those huge fantasy novels with maps and character pictures. It was something I couldn’t finish reading in weeks. Was I such a huge fan of writing? I sighed, picked up my diary, and dropped my number with the bartender to give to Tony before leaving the bar.

With trembling hands, I approached it, my fingers brushing against the rough wood. With a creak, I lifted the lid, revealing a treasure trove of forgotten memories. Among the yellowed pages and faded photographs, my gaze landed on a leather-bound diary. It was weathered with time, its once vibrant cover now worn and aged. I knew instinctively that this diary held the answers we had been searching for.

I could not stand the sadness I felt. My eyes turned to see the book on the table. The book with a pink cover and written Violen's Diary is covered. I was curious and opened the book to find out what Violen wrote. Some of the pages I read told about how Violen went through his day. Violen's resentment and anger were contained in the book. I didn't think Violen wrote a diary. Until I was stunned to see the title 'Special Husband Noah.' I sat on the sofa and read Violen it, more like a letter for me written by Violen.

I was in disbelief that Henry could actually have a thing for literature. Checking through the books, I noticed a black diary which laid under the books and it got me curious. I don't know why, but having to read Henry's diary became an urge that I could not resist. I picked up the book and flipped it's pages opened. All the stuff he wrote bored the hell out of me and I was about giving up on the diary when I saw a recent write up and it had my name written. Dear Diary It's been long since I last opened you. I guess life issues could actually make one forget a friend. Anyways, lots have happened over the past few months. I have hit my ninety nine mark on the register of girls I will fuck bef

It is old but seems to be well cared for. “Diary? Who uses a diary now? ” I whispered to myself as I hurried to open it. I was not mistaken. It was indeed a diary. Stoney isn’t a pure stone at all. He’s a softie. Funny that there were still drawings around the notebook cover back then. This is really it. I can already feel the MMK-like story of Cormac. . . the story that will win us over to AFA 2020. The first entry in that diary came to me. It was dated sixteen years ago. March 21, 2004.

Dear Diary; What a ridiculous thing to do! I have never kept a diary in my entire life. Why now? I will tell you why… I have too much to say and no one to say it to… so here it goes. My name is Zinnia, full name… that I will keep to myself. Thank you very much! I am still in bed, whilst writing in this stupid diary, I am worried about the day ahead. Dawn has not broken yet, and I wish it would never break.

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

“You’ll come back, right? Fia?” He lay down on the bed and sniffed at Fia’s scent, and he held the blanket tightly. Suddenly, he touched something hard inside the blanket. He unzipped it and took it out. It was a diary. A very thick diary. He flipped it open and looked at the graceful handwriting on it. Fia Lawson. It was Fia’s diary. The diary was a bit yellow, showing how old it was. He looked at the date written at the top on the second page. It was many years ago when Fia was in her fifth grade.

The first image nearly knocks the air out of my lungs. A woman. Beautiful. Fierce. Eyes sharp with intelligence and sorrow. Blue fire dancing effortlessly in her hands like it belongs there. And in her arms. A baby. My breath goes shallow. That is not a legend. That is a memory. I turn the page. And freeze. This is not a history book. It’s a diary. Handwritten entries. Personal notes. Dates. Emotions bleeding through ink. Why would a woman’s diary be locked away in the forbidden section of the academy library.