The Diary Novel Novels & Stories

Vincenzo ⋅•⋅⊰∙∘∘∙⊱⋅•⋅ I grabbed the next diary and began reading. It unfolded her life, delving into her inner thoughts, the ones she never shared with anyone. Each entry whispered the secrets she had kept guarded, offering a raw and unvarnished glimpse into the woman behind the facade I thought I knew. For everyone else, she seemed like this lively, wild, and slightly out-of-control twenty-something trapped in a teenager's spirit. But looking into this diary, she was a person carrying a lot of sadness. She appeared more grown-up and intelligent than she let on.

Didn't she hide it properly? This diary was a mighty one, big and heavy. The cover was lilac, decorated with drawings of hearts and sparkles. The spine had been cracked over and over again, and the pages were unable to lay flat because of how many times they had been written inside. But it was mostly still intact. It was so big that I wondered when I would even complete the reading, it surely won't be today.

She is mine. It was all there. The diary started when I was a teenager. This arrogant, tyrannical Mafia boss, my sworn enemy, had been secretly, almost pathologically, obsessed with me for years, like a worshipper at a twisted shrine. Just as I was reeling, the study door opened. Lorenzo stood in the doorway, his eyes full of a deep, dark despair. "Back again? Stealing my secrets for that man?" He gave a hollow, bitter laugh, his voice thick with exhaustion. "Daisy, my patience has a—"

“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.

He leaned against the bed, raking his fingers through his hair. “This is useless,” he muttered, his voice rough with disappointment. Nicole opened her mouth to speak, but her eyes suddenly caught on something wedged between the books on the shelf. A worn leather spine, smaller than the rest. She reached for it and pulled it free. “A diary,” she whispered, holding it up. Daniel immediately straightened, his pulse quickening. “Let me see.” But before he could take it, Nicole flipped it open. Her eyes scanned the first page—just one word written in bold, confident letters:

Adam closed the diary slowly, his thumb still pressed between the pages as if he hadn’t fully decided whether to let the story go. For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the worn cover. “Damn, Mark…” he muttered under his breath. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, not shocked exactly but unsettled in a way that lingered. This wasn’t just some wild fantasy written for effect. It read as something lived. Something processed after the fact. And that made it heavier.

She felt helpless and weak, and the thought of not being able to save her best friend was driving her crazy. Suddenly, her hand hit something underneath the bed; she first paid no attention until she heard the metal clank from the shift. Double-minded, she pulled it out, her eyes landing on a rusty old metal with a yellow drawing. Memories from college swamped her mind; she had one, too. She and Mireille called it their secret diary, only that it contained everything. Lifting the lid off, she wiped her face with the back of her palm before searching through them. Most were old notes from herself, Mireille’s late parents, and her first love.

I never doubted her, not for a second. The man in this diary, however, had no malice about him. A diary was a sacred thing. It wasn’t like other pieces of media where people were trying to lie or convince or persuade people to their side, a diary was someone’s only outlet and the closest to the truth they could share because it was with themselves. Alpha Aaron had written this diary for himself, not intending for anyone else to see his truth and his shame. He’d have no reason to lie to himself, and even if he did, it would not be in such a sad, pitiful way.

Yet, there was an unmistakable presence that lingered behind. My eyes immediately landed on the disarray of belongings scattered around—a half-folded sweater draped over a chair, a pen precariously close to rolling off the edge of the desk, and a small leather book shoved clumsily behind a lamp. As I stepped closer, curiosity got the best of me. I pulled the book out, brushing away a thin layer of dust that had settled on top. It was a diary—Reya's diary. My heart dropped. I opened it carefully, flipping through the pages filled with notes from class, doodles of flowers and strange symbols, and the margins packed with her thoughts—snippets of poetry, quotes she adored, and random observation

Sophia opened the first page of the diary and her attention was immediately captivated by the first lines. "Dear Sophia," the diary began, each word etched onto the yellowed paper with a sense of urgency and purpose, "maybe it's time to tell you about my life when things weren't so easy. The moment when I had to commit crimes ..."