Freedom Writers Diary The Book Novels & Stories

Outside, everything was ice and frost Dorian’s version of safe. He had wanted her out of the city while the heat cooled. A dozen news cycles had passed since the trial, since the last arrest. But silence, she learned, was never safe; it was an echo chamber. She walked back to the desk. Highlighted the whole paragraph. Cut it. Typed again. “This book is not a confession. It is a record. Of power, of violence, of velvet and blood. And of the people who lived inside it some survived. Some did not.”

The next day, I sat in the pre-booked restaurant. I had been waiting for a long time and was already famished, but he never showed up. I opened my phone wanting to urge Ayden. If he wasn't sincerely coming to celebrate our anniversary, he could have just said so instead of keeping me waiting here. After several unsuccessful attempts to reach him by phone, I picked up my phone again and noticed a message in the workgroup. It was a statement from an anonymous account. "Leticia's been cozying up to Mr. Baldwin, trading on her looks to climb the ladder. Disgusting how some exploit their way to the top."

In that occasion, she looked pitiable for me. Having sympathy to those people who were destined to fight me, was just a weakness. I didn't want to show my weakness anymore, because it would be an impediment in gaining my freedom. At the same time, I realized that seeking for freedom was never been easy, it needed an enormous sacrifice, bravery and patience.

In a feeling. In them. In myself. --- So here it is. The final words of the diaries I thought were only for staying alive: We didn't win a war. We chose to lay down arms. We laid down our pain like weapons. We bridged over fear and there were hands waiting. We cried and then we laughed. Fell up. Hurt and healed. Not because we were heroes. But because we were willing. To stay. To unclench. To start again.

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—”

She added some salt and lowered the heat before sitting back on the kitchen floor to flip through the diary again. She had lost count of how many times she had read it. Many sentences were already ingrained in her memory, but she couldn't get enough of them. Reading the diary every day had become an essential part of her life. Running her fingers over the familiar handwriting felt like touching that person's face. Only then did she feel like the world didn't abandon her and that she had family, even though that family member was now behind bars, waiting for execution on charges of human trafficking. The diary's pages had turned yellow, and the stories inside were from long ago.

I don't care about their judgements and what anyone thinks the world could perish for all I care. I slipped my flip flops and stretched my tired limbs. I had the best sleep in months. Who wouldn't? My plans are close to actualization. I walked to my drawer and picked my sacred diary, diary of sins and ran my fingers on the surface before spreading the first page and his name popped up. "ADRIAN CUBAN." In bold letters and a hot tear rolled down my left cheek.

"You can call me Ida from now on, Noah. Or you can call me Ms. Ida, but don't call me 'Madam' again. I'm just here to finalize my divorce with Charlie today." Noah looked distressed. He did not say whether he agreed to it and merely kept urging me to go to Charlie's office. It was the same corridors, but I felt completely different. Even the company employees no longer whispered when they saw me. Instead, they all looked respectful. The change made me uneasy as I quickened my pace before pushing open the door and entering Charlie's office. Charlie was reading some documents. When he heard the door, he looked up and smiled at me. "You're here? Have a seat. Noah, bring a cup of coffee and a gl

He tapped the invitation once with his finger before strolling off, leaving me staring after him. That night, I lay awake, the card resting on my nightstand like a dare. My brain wouldn’t shut up, replaying George’s smug tone, his promise, the whispered hints of freedom. I looked under my bed, the leather notebook sat under my bed, wedged between dust bunnies and forgotten shoes. My real diary. Not the fake one with pretty quotes and safe little memories, but the one filled with messy handwriting, the kind of truths that could ruin me if anyone ever read them. The last time I crossed my list was on my twenty-fifth birthday, no strings attached…

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The file’s images burned behind my eyelids. Girls who hadn’t been rescued. Girls whose names were stamped DEAD. Freedom felt further away than ever, But at least now I knew the truth. And truth, I told myself, was a weapon too.