I Hate Journaling Novels & Stories

I'd been spending all my nights since the party incident in his room in my defense, his room is far more comfortable than mine and the freezing atmosphere just makes it even better plus, Anthony didn’t seem to mind considering that he spooned and cuddled me every night even though he always said he hated cuddles or having physical contact of any sort with people. After getting a pullover from the closet, I got under the covers and started writing my thoughts and anything that crossed my mind concerning the events of today into my journal. Writing isn’t something I had enjoyed from the jump and was only forced to do because my counsellor said it was healthy and one way for me to control my an

Yeah, way to go, dear me. Why had I needed to twist and muddle everything? How come I’ve made such a mess of something so simple and important? Was it what Hugo had said, that I was afraid of my own feelings? Speaking of dear me, I had so much to write down in my journal about these five days. I just hoped I’d have the time. I should at least take some notes.

My journal. I sat down at my vanity, flipped it open to a fresh page, and picked up a pen. The last entry was about a trip Mum, Isla and I had taken to Disneyland. I stared at the blank page, and then, the frustration—the confusing mix of anger and this weird, desperate yearning—came pouring out. I’m writing because I’m annoyed. Truly, deeply annoyed. And I need to figure out why one man’s indifference has managed to derail my entire day.

The uncomfortable feeling creeping up my spine told me it was a vain attempt. Picking up a pen and a pencil, I waddled to the living room—side to side exactly like a penguin. Journaling would help sort out what was wrong with me, and my journals were on the TV shelf. I would journal, understand my emotions, and finally go to sleep. Stellar plan. At least it was until I saw the actual reason for my discomfort standing in the semi-darkness of my living room.

He noticed something small and stupid, and it made me feel seen in a way I can’t explain. But then, he still lets Ariana hang off his arm in school like I don’t exist. I hate myself for being jealous. I hate that I can’t stop. The words blurred. I dropped the pen, rubbing my eyes. I didn’t bother to lock the journal away. Just shoved it under the pillow like always, where it was close enough to feel safe. But safety is fragile.

Just a dull pressure behind my ribs, like a truth waiting to be acknowledged. That was when I thought of keeping a journal. Not because I feared forgetting them. I knew I never would. Their voices, their faces, the way they trusted and cared for me, those were carved too deeply into me to fade. I wanted to write because I missed them, and pretending otherwise was exhausting. I wanted a place to spill my thoughts without forcing myself to be strong. A place to relive the moments I told myself I did not need anymore. I knew keeping a journal would make the yearning worse.

“You damned bastard, what do you think of yourself? Look at yourself. Who would want to marry you? You are just a…robot, who only talk and do what is in your program, you have nothing like a man who all girl wants, Even if you were the only man in the world, I would still not choose you, you bloody dog face!!!" Angry and red-faced she was still not done. "And now I'm done with you. I was simply joking to your dad cause you always do what you want, you never care what others want, you selfish bastard; you are always arrogant and rude; you need a lesson. But you always make me feel low and belittle and judge about my character. I QUIT”

I needed something else to do. Then it hit me. Writing. I hadn't worked as a journalist since my early twenties, but at least it was something I could do without anyone recognizing me. I opened my laptop, staring at the screen. My fingers hesitated over the keys. Laura glanced at me. "What are you doing?" "Applying for freelance jobs." Her eyebrows lifted. "Seriously? I thought you hated that." "I did," I admitted. "But I also hate starving." She snorted. "Fair."

“Figures.” Silence stretched between us for a moment, but my mind refused to shut up. Images of Victor standing beside another woman kept replaying in my head like punishment. “I hate him,” I said suddenly. Jane groaned. “Please do not start.” “I mean it,” I continued, sitting up on my bed. “I really hate him.” Jane turned back to look at me. “You hate everyone when you are emotional. Last week it was the barista because she spelled your name wrong.”