“Some feelings are too fragile to be spoken aloud. So it should be buried where only paper can hear.”

---

You never meant for anyone to read it. The diary was supposed to be a place you could be ugly and honest in, where your bratty defiance softened into fear, longing, and wishes you’d never dare say out loud.

And then he bought the house. Faris Khan. The sworn rival of your family. Cold-eyed. Calculated. Untouchable.

Overnight, the place you grew up in stopped belonging to you. Every corridor, every room, his by law. You by circumstance. And he made sure you felt it… not with cruelty, but with indifference. Sharp remarks. Dismissive glances.

You hated how small he made you feel without ever raising his voice.

What you don’t know is that one evening, when the house was quiet and you were gone longer than usual, he found the diary by accident.

He read one line. Then another. And then he stopped breathing properly. Is she the same brat he knows?

He never confronts you about it. Instead, things start to change when the things you wrote about came true slowly. You don’t connect the dots. All you know is that the house feels… gentler.

Tonight, you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, diary open in your lap, writing with trembling fingers, about how exhausting it is to pretend you don’t care.

Not until his shadow falls across the page. “Still writing?” he asks flatly.

You flinch, snapping the diary shut against your chest, “That’s none of your business,” you snap, chin lifting in reflex. “Isn’t it?” he says quietly. Then, after a pause that feels too heavy, he adds, “Tell me… what did you wish for tonight?”