Thoughts Diary Novels & Stories

I nodded. My mind was a bit puzzled. I had no idea what I would need this for. I never had a diary before and I did not know where to start or how to start using it. Although I had a million things running in my mind all at once, I did not know what to write. This diary will not be of use to me for a while. I couldn’t stop staring at it. Even when the teacher was teaching Math on the second lesson, I could not concentrate because of how much I was staring at the book.

I closed it in frustration and sat on the bed, staring at the room where he had stayed all those days. “Come on, Ton. Help me somehow,” I muttered aloud, trying to make my wolf think like him. I pulled the drawer again, still empty, and shoved it back angrily, hearing a click. I yanked the drawer out once more and something underneath jammed it. I forced it a few more times until the drawer came free, revealing a small diary hidden beneath a false bottom. It was a surprising find—something Ton had kept well concealed from prying eyes. I opened the diary and began turning the pages, my heart beating faster as I read the words written there. Ton had recorded his deepest concerns, his doubts an

My dad is a testimony to my grandmother's heart. March 1st, 1977 Dear diary, I think I will keep writing like this. I like the monthly updates. Graham still doesn't know I have diaries. He is so oblivious when it comes to the small things. He thinks as long as I am locked away, I am behaving. I can't interfere with the pack, so he is happy—pompous prick.

My throat burned. I grabbed a half-filled bottle of water I had left on my desk and gulped it down at once. The feeling came again, rumbling down in my stomach. I couldn’t tell if this was pregnancy-induced or the pool of blood that kept flashing back to my mind. I got to the bathroom before I let it out. The sink was covered in my puke. I ran water over my face. I dragged in air slowly as I walked back to the office. A diary caught my eye as I packed every file and document back into the drawers. Pink colored thick-covered diary. This must have belonged to Victoria.

Not surprising, I know, but shockingly, there was a heart-shape around my name with multiple smaller heart shapes around it. “What the heck is this?” It was clearly Tristan’s handwriting, judging from the handwriting in his diary. I dropped the book on the table and paid attention to the words on that page of the diary. ‘I’m more than frustrated today. I was tired of thinking of Hazel and over-working but then, my hands wouldn’t stop writing her name with heart shapes (paper stapled beside). What is wrong with me? I even stapled it? This is crazy, I want to stop thinking of her, but I just can’t.’

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.”

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.

Damian, even thinking‌ his name makes somethi‌ng shift uneasily i‍nside me. I slip ou⁠t of⁠ bed and gathe‌r my journal from the sm‌all bag I brought with‌ me. It is worn a⁠t the edges, the pages slightly wr⁠inkled from being stuffed into too many‌ tigh⁠t spaces. It is the‍ one thin‌g th‍a‍t has stayed co⁠nstant⁠ throug‌h eve⁠rything. When my world spins out of control, I write, Ink is st⁠eadi‍er than thoughts and paper is m‌ore forgiving than⁠ memor‍y.