Diary Of An Oxygen Thief Novels & Stories

My mind leapt immediately to the worst possibility. The diary. They’d done it. Whoever had it—Dana, one of her little helpers, or some nameless opportunist—they’d sold it to a tabloid. Every page, every raw confession, every private thought about Leon, about the baby, about Dahlia’s manipulations, my rebirth—out there. I pictured headlines twisting my words into weapons, strangers dissecting my life like they were entitled to it. My throat felt tight. “Is it—” I swallowed. “Is it my diary? Did they—”

🖱️Victor🖱️ The diary sat in my hand like it was alive, breathing, watching me, judging me, and the blue fire wrapped around my fingers didn’t burn anymore, it just existed like it belonged there, like it had always been waiting for me to notice it. I stared at it for a long time, longer than I should have, my thoughts drifting somewhere I had been trying very hard not to go. Jayden.

Her diary. I felt around blindly, my fingers tracing the lines of an old, wooden chest. I found the catch and undid it. There, under a thin layer of dust, was a leather-bound book. Lira Mooncrest's diary. I grasped it firmly, a silent prayer on my lips. I caught the sound of a noise above me. The floorboards creaked. I remained motionless, my heart pounding in my chest. My name was spoken in a low, male voice, and then there were footsteps, slow and strained.

Episode 49 – The Confessional Diary The attic smelled of dust and forgotten things. Ophelia’s fingers traced the spine of a leather-bound journal, its surface cool and smooth, tucked away in a cedar chest that had belonged to her grandmother. She hadn’t been looking for secrets; she’d been looking for old photo albums. But the moment she lifted the diary’s cover and saw the elegant, looping script, her own script, from years ago, a peculiar heat bloomed in her chest.

"I need to confirm the coordinates are completely outside the known flight corridors." Artemis didn't look up, her fingers flying across the keyboard. "It’s on the secure thumb drive, Charon. Next to the coffee cup. And for your information, the coordinates aren't outside the known corridors. They are using a discarded, ancient military path that only gets dusted off once every fifty years. It's safe. Your job is to make sure no one tries to hack the temperature controls on my ghost drones."

"No. We should apologize instead." We held each other and broke down in tears. Leonard was still in a critical stage. Meanwhile, the content of his diary was published on the Internet. The diary recorded every moment we had spent together. I sat on the bench outside the ICU, and my phone kept vibrating. "Liv, have you seen the news? Leonard's diary has gone viral on the Internet!" "Oh my God! You guys had such great memories together!" "He loves you so much…" I tapped on my phone. The topic at the top of the trending list read, "high school memories of Leonard Burton."

I found a few notes of cash so I took out a few notes from that drawer. When I was getting money from the drawer something fell on the ground. I bent down and picked up the book from the ground. I saw that it was a diary. I opened the diary. On the first page, it was written that it solely belongs to Aaron Malhotra. Whoever reads this diary without its owner's permission will face severe consequences... I kept the diary on the bed and gave money to the maid. I told her to bring me 2-3 packets of sanitary pads.

David's snoring in the bed beside me, oblivious to what had happened. His arm slung over the pillow where my head should be. But I'm here, in the dim glow of my phone screen, scribbling this out in my diary, because if I don't, it'll eat me alive. Today wasn't just a slip; it was a dive, headfirst into something I've been circling for months. Or years, if I'm honest. ***** At Zephyra Art Gallery, I didn't just let it happen. I started it. Me. Poppy. The good wife, the one who packs David's lunch with snacks, fruit and love notes. What the hell is wrong with me?

My first memoir in a new diary. My old diary was filled with stories and stories of girls I've fucked and turned but after this incident that happened on 23/4/2027 I had to start a new diary. So... I was angry that mum was remarrying. I really hate the thought that she couldn't keep her pussy at check after dad's death and jumped into another man's arms. However, she kept reassuring me that it's going to be fine but I hate it as hell.

She set it on the ottoman and opened the latch. The lock was broken. Her breath caught in her throat. “No. No, no—” she whispered. The box was empty. Her diary was gone. Her most intimate confessions, written in the rawest moments of pain and hope. Every twisted memory from Russia. Every wound Cynthia left on her skin and soul. Every moment of self-loathing, every hesitant word about Damian… even that one vivid entry—the night she gave herself to him, trembling, finally feeling safe. All of it. Gone.