Novel Diary Of Canva Novels & Stories

he ignored my question and called the server. “Do you have anything spicy here?” “Um...like what?” “Never mind, Do you have French fries?” “Yes.” “I will bring it.” When the server left, he turned to me. “Then what’s that note? Any study stuffs.” “It’s my diary. I will write about myself and my daily life. But I don’t feel like writing it anymore” “Why?” he said without taking his eyes off me. “Cause nothing good happens in my life, so why should I have one. I want life to be happy, interesting with a little of passion, adventure, love which I never found.”

He was hesitant and continued, “it’s ok if you don’t want to tell me.” I took a deep breath and told him a little secret about myself. Something which was between me and Akansha, which not even my Mumma knew. “Arnav ji, this is my diary. My second best friend in the whole world. And it is alright that you ask. I don’t mind.” Arnav nodded. “So, do you write anything specific in there?” “It can be anything really, just depends on the situation…how I’m feeling I keep it with me,” I gave him a stern look, “and nobody is supposed to read it.”

No lights were on, but the large, uncovered windows let the moon flood the space in silver. Nova stepped inside slowly. It looked like a study. Shelves lined the walls, some filled with books, others with notebooks. Near the far wall, a desk sat, cluttered but organized. Beside it, a tall cabinet with glass panels revealed rows of neatly stacked black leather journals. Nova picked one. Her fingers trembled as she opened it. It was a sketchbook. And every single page… was of her. Some drawings were full-body, her shelving books, sipping tea, walking down a rainy sidewalk with her hair wrapped in a scarf. Others were close-ups, her eyes mid-laugh, the curve of her cheek when she smiled, her fi

he asked, with a smile playing at the corners of his lips, his hand extending forward while Paige stared at the screen of his phone. Her eyes widened in surprise as she recognized what she had written in her diary when she was ten. At the time she had seen a movie where a guy and a girl who were madly in love went fishing using a canoe, and they had so much fun doing it. She had been so touched that she wrote in her diary, "When I grow up, find my prince charming and we fall in love, we will go fishing in a canoe and have so much fun together." If her diary hadn't been in her pocket, the day she was kicked out by Anthony, Zach would never have had access to her diary. She didn't even know he

No names. Just a stranger who helped me forget for one night. On Monday morning, I’m five minutes late to Renaissance Art, the elective I’m only taking because David said it would “round out my CV.” I quietly sit in the back row, avoiding everyone’s eyes. My whole body feels tired, and my heart feels empty. The professor is writing on the board with strong, sure strokes, his back turned. “Professor Mateo Sandoval” a student called. He turns around, about to answer the student and our eyes meet.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. Just some old notes. Private shit.” Private. Yeah right. The word only made my curiosity burn hotter, mixing with the ache in my cock that hadn’t gone down one bit. While he stood up to grab another bottle of whiskey from the bar cart across the room, I leaned forward quickly and clicked on the locked file. A password prompt popped up. Fuck. I tried the obvious ones fast,his book title, his name, the date on the manuscript. Nothing. Then on a hunch I typed in a phrase from one of his filthiest scenes. The file opened.

“Of course. Not very often are students interested in this Wisdom Pavilion. So I’m glad to see that you want to talk to the old wise men in the world.” And the door opened. The children entered a huge room where there were various framed paintings, representations of all the personalities who ever lived, famous researchers and scientists. "Let's see what we know about the diary," Johnny told the girl, with a faraway gaze as if he was a lost three-year-old child, with no parents, in one of the London train stations. “’What was written with ice ... will only be seen through ice’, the diary told me.” “What does that mean?” Johnny asked.

I had my journal in my hand, somehow I felt a new need to hold on to it everywhere I went. I was with Damien, though I was bruised all over, it was easy to hide the pain. Besides, I was used to being flogged. We were talking about something that made me laugh so hard. It was actually a comedy skit we watched. I almost lost balance, my journal scattered on the ground. I was embarrassed, more embarrassed because the name "Annabelle Steele" was written boldly on its front page.

Could have fooled me. I went back to the top of her F******k page. 'Wonder who gave these ratings, and numbers?' I bet those are fake too. A boring life if you asked me. So far I have learnt little, except that Isabella's I*******m, F******k, only consists of. Cats, flowers, cakes, cats, cakes, flowers, headless shots of herself, more headless shots, more cats, and more flowers. 'But wait, what is this?'

“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.