the truth between us

I have always believed that some things are better left undiscovered. But curiosity has never been my friend. It was raining the day I found the diary. It was not the kind of rain that made people run for shelter. It was the quiet kind — the type that covered the streets in a soft grey mist and made the whole world feel like it was keeping a secret. I was walking home after a long day, holding an umbrella in one hand and a book I had just bought in the other. The bookshop was small and old. The kind of place most people ignored because it wasn’t bright or modern. But I liked it. Old books had stories hidden inside them. Sometimes even more than the ones written on their pages. I didn’t know that day would be different. I didn’t know that one forgotten book would break everything I thought I knew about my life. The moment I entered my room, I dropped my bag on the chair and placed the book on my desk. I was about to open it when something fell out. A small diary. I frowned. “That wasn’t supposed to be there.” The diary looked old. The edges were worn out, and the cover had scratches like someone had held onto it for years. There was no name. No date. Nothing. It's just a small silver mark on the front. I should have put it away. I should have returned it. But instead, I opened it. The first page was empty. The second page had only one sentence. My heart slowed as I read it. “If you are reading this, it means they failed to find me.” I stared at the words. Find me? Who was this person? I turned the page. The handwriting was messy, like whoever wrote it was in a hurry. “My name is Elena. If something happens to me, the truth must be found.” A strange feeling settled in my chest. This wasn’t just a diary. It was a warning. I kept reading. “Trust no one. Not even the people who say they love you.” I immediately closed the diary. A chill ran through me. It was just a book. Just someone’s old memories. So why did it feel like the words were meant for me? That night, I couldn’t sleep. The diary sat on my table, untouched. But my eyes kept going back to it. Finally, at 2:13 a.m., I gave up. I reached for it again. And that was when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. A name written faintly on the last page. A name that made my hands freeze. Amara. My name. The diary was never meant to be found. But somehow… It found me.