Little Diary Novels & Stories

Also, the names of the characters are randomly selected and is entirely out of the blues. Welcome to Dynamic Diary of Tee. Enjoy the bumpy ride ahead!

Her lithe fingers grazed over the dark brown leather cover, highly curious what the notebook was for - and why her mom had to stash it away and hide it. She unfastened the magnetic latch and opened the notebook to the first page. "June 13, 1994 Dear Diary, I'm back in New York. Finally. Oh, I've missed the city life..." K stopped reading and flipped the notebook close, her eyes wide. It was her mom's diary, a year before she was born. Her heart started to wildly thump against her chest.

I want to be there now. But since I can’t, I’m going to do a bit of research. I find it exactly where I expected to: in the box under her bed, stacked with all the others. Lottie started keeping a diary when she was fifteen, and it was a pretty big deal. She used to read bits out to me and talk about getting them published one day. She would say portentously, “As I wrote in my diary yesterday …” as though somehow that made her thoughts far more significant than mine (unrecorded, lost to the mists of time. History will weep, obviously).

“Thank you.” “It’s all good.” She got up and went over to the counter kept at a corner. Bringing a notebook, she gave it to me. “I know that I can’t remember much after a few hours. Most days, I—I can’t even remember that I can’t. So, I started writing everything down as much as I could. I want you to take this.” I took the pink diary and flipped through the pages—it was at least fifty pages, all filled completely. “But, uh,” I chuckled. “Isn’t this kind of personal?”

The kind you’d expect from a bored, spoiled girl. But then on the fifth page of one of the older journals—I found something. Something that sent a chill down my spine. “Dear diary, Today is March, 2012. I will see him again. I’ve only seen him once before, but he’s the kind of person I know I can’t be with. I’m writing this down so maybe one day I’ll remember because I forget things so easily. Oh, I forget things so easily. But the one thing I can’t forget… are his eyes.

If it were before, I would have snatched the diary back, especially because it recorded the most humiliating and pitiful parts of my childhood. It was hard to imagine a seven-year-old girl starving for an entire week just to save up enough for a diary. But now, I didn't care at all. It felt like something from a past life. "I see." Mom shook her head. "Faye is asleep. Come inside and talk." Jeremy tiptoed in cautiously and opened up the small black notebook. In it were my diary entries.

🖱️Victor🖱️ The moment Sammy and Jane left the room with Jayden, the room felt different nAnd somehow more dangerous. I reached inside my coat and pulled out the diary. My mother’s diary. The one that only answers when it wants to. The one that showed me fragments of what was coming before I even understood them. My fingers tightened around it before I opened it. The pages that had been blank before now shimmered faintly. Then slowly, like ink bleeding through water, words began to appear.

A picture of her and me together, cocktails in hand, we looked happy. This one was a keeper. As I went through the box, a leather notebook caught my attention. I picked it up carefully. The cover was worn from use. Opening the first page, my breath caught. I knew exactly what this was. Lila’s secret diary.

------------------------- Landon leaned onto the doorway of his room and a reverie of him dumping Alice on the master bedroom at the beach house crossed through his mind. He vehemently shook the thought off his head and took off his shirt. Just a rake through his closet something fell and when he crouched low it was a diary—A blue diary that looked so familiar. It was Alice's. Maybe she forgot it when packing,he thought and after a moment of contemplating he opened it and read the first page; --------- 08/05/2021 --------- 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚢,

The sides of the pages of the diary crumble in my hands and are reduced to ashes. The sun has come out and I start to sweat. I look at the diary. It has nothing written on the cover, except the year—2010—which is faded. There is no auto in sight. I sit on the pavement and flip through the contents. It is nearly full. The handwriting is not the best, but it is neat and deliberate. The first few pages are damaged beyond recognition. The top-right corners of the pages keep crumbling into charcoal.