The Sober Diaries Novels & Stories

David's snoring in the bed beside me, oblivious to what had happened. His arm slung over the pillow where my head should be. But I'm here, in the dim glow of my phone screen, scribbling this out in my diary, because if I don't, it'll eat me alive. Today wasn't just a slip; it was a dive, headfirst into something I've been circling for months. Or years, if I'm honest. ***** At Zephyra Art Gallery, I didn't just let it happen. I started it. Me. Poppy. The good wife, the one who packs David's lunch with snacks, fruit and love notes. What the hell is wrong with me?

We drift toward the criminology classroom like we always do—too loud, too alive for the grey, indifferent walls around us. The late afternoon air clings to our skin, heavy with the promise of rain, and Sam’s voice cuts through it like a siren. “Being sober. A big red flag,” he declares, as if he’s unveiling some profound, life-altering philosophy. “I can’t be sober at your party?” Delilah asks, her hands flying everywhere, bracelets clinking like tiny alarms. “What’s wrong with you?!”

Damian Pov One year changed everything. Nathan turned six in October and I celebrated my first full year of sobriety in November. Twelve months without drinking. Twelve months of therapy three times a week. Twelve months of support group meetings every Tuesday. Twelve months of actually doing the work instead of just talking about it.

“Hate me all you want, little doll. It makes your pu**y taste sweeter.” He pulled me tighter against him. I could feel him pressing hard against me through his pants. My breath came faster. “Dante… this is wrong,” I whispered. “Wrong feels good, doesn’t it?” He turned my face to his and kissed me roughly. His tongue pushed into my mouth, claiming, demanding. I tried to pull back but he held my jaw and deepened the kiss until I was moaning into his mouth. When he broke the kiss, I was panting. He stood up, lifting me easily, and carried me to the wide leather couch. He laid me down and knelt between my legs, pushing the red dress up to my waist. “Look at these pretty p**nties,”

There was no cure anyway, so whatever felt good, right? Dianna sighed and clicked back to the latest blog she’d been reading. Man About Town was the closest competitor to The but reading it made Dianna feel dirty. They might aim the Playbook at men, but it wasn’t full of damaging male vitriol. Mason was right, The Playbook was the best option for Paper Now she just had to find a way to work with Jack without stabbing him in the throat.

"But I could help her." "You just don't know what a horrible smell that would be if you touched the insides of a cow." "So what? When I brewed soap it smelled even worse." Silence hung over Adelard again. He already missed his factory. And now, all he could do was become a buyer of his own soap. While his wife and best friend breathed in the scent of a new bar of soap and the smell of money every day. "Come on. We don't have time."

Port in the Storm Dear Diary, I know I’m probably too old for this, but my best friend is on digital detox and I hate almost everyone at work enough not to engage them in my silly misadventures. I would have probably told my mother by her grave, but somehow writing this down feels right and more real. It feels like I am telling a supernatural spiritual being, perhaps an angel? Who knows? They might be real after all.

Sloane wakes up to her phone blowing up. The blurry tunnel photo has gone semi-viral on soccer gossip accounts. Sloane jolted awake in her bed as her phone vibrated nonstop on the nightstand. The screen lit up with dozens of notifications. She grabbed it with a sinking feeling in her gut and clicked on the first link. The blurry tunnel photo stared back at her from multiple soccer gossip accounts. Two figures locked in passion, one clearly on her knees. Comments flooded in fast. Some mocked the rivalry, others speculated wildly about secret affairs between coaches. Her stomach twisted with fear. This single image could destroy years of hard work. Sloane sat up quickly, heart racing, and thre

—Sobhi Rizk, Truck Driver Sobhi Rizk sat in the dark house, his pale, frightening face like a shadow of the past, floating on an old wooden chair he wore. In one hand, he held a lit cigarette; in the other, a glass of liquor, grasping the faint glow of the flame, the drops glistening like silent tears. He whispered, his voice barely a whisper, almost fading away:

“Aside from dealing with Leo’s mood swings.” “No clue. Andy tried to help but Leo shood him away,” Tera said turning in her black chair slightly. “And I am still good. The dopamine from the morning has not worn off yet.” Marius’s yellow green eyes darkened with a brief flash of recognition at her words– a subtle sharp reminder of exactly where they had been just a few hours ago. he felt a surge of something possessive and satisfied in his chest, though he kept his expression carefully composed.