THE DIARY THAT ANSWERED BACK

The Missing Eight The first thing Leah Romulds noticed was not the ninety-two. It was the missing eight. The examination script lay on her desk beneath a pile of textbooks, its top corner sticking out just enough to annoy her. A bright red circle surrounded the score. 92%. Most students would have celebrated and some would have shown their friends. A few would have shown the entire neighborhood but Leah stared at the paper from across the room, and looked away. Then back again. The missing eight marks seemed to mock her. Eight good mistakes. Eight good opportunities to do better. Eight reasons why ninety-two wasn't good enough. With a sigh, she dropped into her chair and pulled her Government textbook closer. A folded pink sticky note slipped from between the pages and landed on her lap. Leah frowned and then smiled. The handwriting belonged to only one person. “Ninety-two today. One hundred tomorrow. Future Barrister Romulds, don't forget dinner. Love, Mum.” A laugh escaped before she could stop it. Only Carris Romulds could turn exam scores into motivational speeches. The note carried the faint scent of vanilla perfume. The warm comforting homely scent. Leah carefully folded it and tucked it into her pencil case. Her mother had probably written it before leaving for court that morning. She could almost picture it. Carris standing in the kitchen in one of her perfectly tailored suits. Coffee in one hand and case files in the other. Still somehow remembering to leave encouraging notes for her children. The thought of that made Leah smile. Then her gaze drifted toward the picture frame resting on her desk and the smile faded. The photograph had been taken seven years ago. Before everything changed. Carris stood in the middle, laughing at something outside the frame. Drake looked no older than six. Leah wore braces she preferred not to remember. And beside them stood her father. One hand resting lightly on her shoulder, smiling. Looking every bit like the perfect family man. The phone call from three nights ago replayed in her mind. Leah looked away from the photograph. She hated herself for still waiting. At seventeen, she should have known better. Yet every time her phone rang and his name appeared, hope still arrived before common sense. And every single time, hope left disappointed. Dad Calling. No matter how many times he disappointed her, the hope never seemed to learn. She answered immediately. "Hi, Dad, “Princess." His voice was warm familiar and very comfortable, which was dangerously easy to forgive. For several minutes they talked about school, her examinations and education after high school. Then Leah glanced at the certificate hanging above her desk. A certificate he had promised to come and see. "You're still coming on Saturday, right?" For a moment there was tiny, barely noticeable silence. But it was there. Leah felt her stomach sink. The same silence always came before bad news. "Leah..." There it was. "I'm sorry, princess." The hope inside her folded itself away. Something crashed in the background. Then she heard laughter. A woman laughing, children laughing but it wasn't her family, certainly his family. Her grip tightened around the phone. "Something came up?”,she asked. The words escaped before she could stop them. Another pause but it was longer this time. “I am sorry” Leah closed her eyes, of course he was. He was always sorry but somehow never there. "It's fine." "Leah—" "It's okay." She ended the call before he could apologize again. The room became silent. Except for the rain. And the sudden sting behind her eyes. A sharp knock interrupted her thoughts. Before she could answer, the door swung open. Drake appeared. "You're doing it again." Leah immediately knew what he meant. "No, I'm not." "You are." "I'm studying." "You're staring at that ninety-two like it committed a crime." Leah rolled her eyes. Drake entered fully, dropping onto her bed. At thirteen, he possessed the remarkable ability to make himself comfortable anywhere. "I got a ninety-two." "Exactly." He pointed dramatically toward the paper. "Most people would kill for that score." "Most people aren't applying for law." Drake snorted. "Mum would frame that paper if you let her." "She would, She absolutely would." For a moment they both laughed then Drake sat up. "Oh. Grandma wants to see you." Leah narrowed her eyes. "Why?" "No idea." "Did she say what it was about?" "Nope." Drake grinned. "But she used her serious voice." Leah groaned. "That's never a good sign." The scent of cinnamon reached her before she entered the sitting room. Her grandmother occupied her favorite armchair near the window. A half-finished scarf rested in her lap. The afternoon sunlight painted silver streaks across her hair. She looked up as Leah entered and smiled. The kind of smile that made Leah feel six years old again. "There's my future lawyer." Leah collapsed onto the sofa opposite her. "Can everyone stop calling me that?" "No." "Why not?" "Because you're going to be one." "What if I change my mind?" Her grandmother raised an eyebrow. "You won't." The certainty in her voice made Leah laugh. Sometimes she suspected her grandmother knew things before they happened. Not in a magical way. Just in a grandmother way. The old woman studied her carefully. Long enough for Leah to become uncomfortable. "You've been worrying again." Leah immediately looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Of course you don't." "Grandma." "What?" "You can't diagnose people by looking at them." "I raised your mother." A pause. "I can diagnose almost anything." Leah laughed despite herself. The old woman reached beside her chair and lifted a neatly wrapped package. "This is for you." Leah blinked. "My birthday was last week." "I know." "You're late." "I'm old." "That excuse is getting weaker every year." "Yet it still works." Leah accepted the package. The paper crackled softly as she unwrapped it. Inside rested a dark leather-bound diary. It was simple, elegant and beautiful. She ran her fingers over the cover. Something about it felt strangely personal, as though it had been waiting for her. "You like it." Again, not a question. Leah nodded. "I do." For a moment, her grandmother simply watched her. Then her voice softened. "When people don't listen, paper will." Leah looked up. "What does that mean?" "It means write." The old woman pointed toward the diary. "Write the things you tell people." A pause. "The things you don't." Another pause. "And especially the things you pretend don't bother you." For a second, Leah's chest tightened. Because somehow her grandmother's eyes had drifted briefly toward the family photograph sitting on the shelf. Toward her father, toward the part of Leah she rarely discussed and Leah forced a smile. "I'll think about it." Her grandmother smiled back. As if she already knew she would. That night, rain tapped gently against her bedroom window. The house had gone quiet. And Carris was asleep. Drake had finally stopped moving around. The world felt smaller after midnight. And safer somehow. Leah sat cross-legged on her bed with the diary resting in her lap. The first page stared back at her. It was blank, patient and waiting. Leah stared at the diary, then opened it. The first words came slowly, then faster, then all at once. She wrote about school and the pressure from family and high expectations. About how exhausting it was being the person everyone believed she was. Then she wrote about her father, the waiting and the disapointment everytime. About how ridiculous it felt to still hope. By the time she finished, three pages were filled. Her eyes burned and her chest felt lighter. Not healed, just lighter. She closed the diary. Placed it inside the drawer beside her bed. And went to sleep. The next morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains. Leah opened the drawer. Pulled out the diary, not because she expected anything. Just curiosity. She opened the diary. And froze. Her pulse stumbled. At the bottom of the second page, beneath the last line she had written, two sentences appeared in neat handwriting. Handwriting that was not hers but absolutely had not been there the nigt before. Leah stared once, twice then three times. The words remained. “You keep waiting for him to choose you.” Her breath caught. A second sentence sat beneath it. “And every time he doesn't, you blame yourself.” The room suddenly felt colder. Because she knew one thing with absolute certainty. No one had ever heard her say those words. Yet somehow— someone had written them. Her heart skipped. At the bottom of the final page, beneath the last line she had written the night before, was another sentence. Very neat, carefully and unmistakably written by someone else. Leah stared again. Not once, not twice but three times. The words remained; You are harder on yourself than anyone else. A chill ran through her and her fingers tightened around the page. Immediately she noticed another sentence beneath it. And one day, that will hurt you. Leah's breath caught. The room suddenly felt far too quiet. Because she knew one thing with absolute certainty. When she had closed the diary last night— those words had not been there.