Diary
1072 Words
Ofreigha Sebastian
Her POV
The blank page stared back at me, mocking me like it knew my deepest secret.
It was a beautiful notebook—soft leather, delicate floral print, practically screaming expensive. Jay had given it to me the other day. No words, no explanation. Just a gift dropped in my hands like it wasn’t the most emotionally charged thing to ever exist in the universe.
“Dear Diary,” I finally wrote, my hand trembling slightly.
It felt heavier than it should. More than a diary. A promise. A commitment. A contract signed in silence and weird tension.
My mind drifted back to yesterday.
I was leaving Asha’s house, dragging my suitcase through the grand foyer like a dramatic heroine from an overly romantic period drama. The gate was in sight. Freedom. Sanity.
And then—clunk.
My suitcase refused to move.
I turned around, ready to curse whatever demon was trying to delay me. And there he was. Jayson. Tall. Mysterious. Stupidly attractive. Holding one of my suitcases like it was made of feathers.
“Here,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely illegal at this hour of the morning.
He handed me the notebook. Leather cover. Cool to the touch. Too elegant to be normal.
“Write,” he said. Just that. Like I was supposed to know what he meant.
My brain short-circuited. “Write what?” I asked, voice small.
He didn’t answer. Of course not. He just stared with those dark, unreadable eyes. Took a step closer. Invaded all my personal space and possibly my soul.
“Give it back to me… before marriage.”
WHAT.
His fingers brushed my ear. I died. Came back. Ascended. Then panicked.
“Write everything down,” he said. “Punuin mo.”
He touched my cheek. Brushed a strand of my hair. Kissed it.
KISSED IT.
Like I was his and he knew it. Like my life belonged in that notebook and he was already reading the ending.
I nodded. Because I had apparently lost my spine.
Then he walked away, leaving me standing there, heart in my throat, sanity six feet under.
Present Day
"THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY!!!!!!!!!"
I screamed. Loud. Echo-y. Possibly heard by half the neighborhood.
I slapped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide. “Did I just—oh my gosh. The maids. I'm so sorry, Ate Rhoda. I'm just emotionally compromised.”
I looked around, like someone might appear and explain why my life had turned into a w*****d fanfic.
Instead of packing for school, I was now journaling like it was a sacred mission.
Because apparently, marriage was on the table.
Marriage. To Jayson Dom.
HE HADN’T EVEN ASKED ME TO BE HIS GIRLFRIEND.
Also, why 2030?
I slapped my forehead. “Because I said it!” I groaned. “I was joking! It was a joke, universe!”
But no. He took it seriously. Of course he did. Because Jay is a lunatic with zero chill and too much eye contact.
I stared at the notebook. It stared back. I picked up my pen and wrote, because what else could I do?
Dear Diary,
My heart is still glitching.
It’s been 24 hours and I still can’t process what happened. Or maybe it’s been days. Time is fake now.
Did Jayson really propose to me?
Like, real proposal? Like, he’s sixteen, I’m fifteen, and he wants to marry me like we’re a royal bloodline contract?
And of course, in the most Jayson way possible—no confession, no romantic build-up, just staring into my soul and skipping every logical step in a normal relationship.
Normal boys: “I like you.”
Jayson Dom: “Here’s a notebook. Return it before the wedding.”
What even is that?
And the worst part? I don’t… hate it.
I KNOW. I KNOW. I NEED HELP.
When he handed me this journal, I thought it was just a gift. A “thanks for surviving another day” kind of thing.
But no. It’s an emotional trap.
A mission. A countdown. A promise wrapped in leather and brooding silence.
And then there was the kiss.
Not on the lips. (Sadly?)
But on my hair. My actual hair.
WHO KISSES HAIR AND MAKES IT FEEL LIKE A PROPOSAL?
I touched my lips anyway, because apparently I’m delusional now.
Diary, how do you respond to a marriage proposal at fifteen?
I need answers. Or holy water.
Also—Asha.
Yes. I needed backup. Immediately.
I grabbed my phone, heart pounding, cheeks burning, pride fully gone. I hit call.
She picked up on the second ring. Groggy. Smug.
“You finally called, Mrs. Dom.”
“SHUT. UP,” I hissed, pacing like a madwoman. “I’m spiraling. I needed help, not you with your smug little gremlin energy.”
“Excuse me? I’m the unreasonable one? You kissed my brother!”
“I didn’t kiss him—well, he kissed me—technically—ugh, NOT THE POINT.”
“Ohhh, so there was a kiss,” she said, suddenly wide awake. “You’re so deep in denial, I’m shocked you’re not a river in Egypt.”
“I WAS VULNERABLE! The night was magical, he smelled amazing—”
“He smelled amazing,” she repeated. “Wow. Someone’s in love.”
“I AM NOT IN LOVE.”
“You are literally one diary entry away from doodling hearts and practicing your signature with his last name.”
“I will strangle you through this phone.”
“Wait, wait,” she sighed dreamily. “Imagine it—me and you. Sisters-in-law. Brunches. Spa days. Matching Christmas pajamas.”
“STOP.”
“It’s happening,” she whispered. “The Dom bloodline has accepted you. You’ve been chosen.”
I buried my face in my pillow. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You love me. And… you love him.”
Silence.
She could hear it. The pause. The crumble of my dignity.
“I… I… don’t.”
“Sure, honey butter. Keep telling that to your diary.”
She hung up.
I stared at the screen. Heartbeat in my ears. Hands trembling.
I looked at the notebook.
Flipped to the last page.
And wrote:
Dear Diary,
I think I’m in trouble.
I think I might actually be falling for Jayson Dom.
And God help me—
I don’t even mind.
- Writer
