The first few entries felt like a painted dream—soft hues of yearning, each word tenderly dipped in sentimentality. Stolen glances, secret sketches, unspoken admiration.
It was the familiar dance of unrequited love.
But just as the rhythm lulled me into a quiet read, the atmosphere shifted. The pages grew heavier. The ink darkened. Like a storm cloud curling in from the edges of a clear sky.
The next diary entry... was different.
The penmanship was more urgent. Less polished. There was a desperation woven into the lines—as if each letter had been carved, not written.
September 23rd, 18XX
Dear Diary,
My heart is heavy as I write these words, for the world around me has taken on a new shade—one of darkness and uncertainty. The lady who once filled my thoughts with warmth and light has vanished from the scene, leaving behind an emptiness that echoes in my soul.
I have searched for her in that spot, the one where our paths crossed countless times before, but she is nowhere to be found. The very air seems to hold her absence, and the once-familiar landscape has transformed into a desolate expanse.
Questions haunt my every step. Was it something I did? Did she choose to leave? Or has fate cruelly torn her from my grasp? The not knowing gnaws at me, a relentless ache that refuses to subside.
In my desperation, I've taken to wandering the streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of her smile, a trace of her presence. But each day, my hope dims, and the realization that I may never see her again looms like a shadow.
Perhaps this is the nature of life—a cycle of fleeting moments that are as ephemeral as a whisper in the wind. The joy of encountering her was a gift that I cherished, but now, in her absence, I am left with a hollow ache that I struggle to comprehend.
As I write these words, I do so with a heavy heart and a sense of longing. The ink on this page serves as a testament to the turmoil that rages within me, a silent scream that echoes in the empty spaces where her presence once resided.
Until the day our paths cross again,
[Anon]
"Oh no! Mr. Anon!" Ronald cried, eyes wide with emotion, as if the man's anguish was his own.
I snorted, not hiding the amusement tugging at the corners of my mouth. "I'm not surprised," I said dryly. "Imagine being stalked for four months by a perverted painter."
Ronald turned to me, indignant. "Perverted? I'd call it dedicated."
I arched a brow, giving him a side-eye. "Dedicated to what? Building a secret art museum of a woman he's never talked to?"
He folded his arms, trying for dramatic defiance. "You're just jealous of his dedication to his feelings."
"Tch." A chuckle escaped me. "Fine. Credit where it's due—he was loyal. But stalking is still stalking, even if the brushwork's good."
Our banter kept the air light… but it didn't erase the weight the diary left behind. A shift had happened. The diary no longer whispered romance—it echoed obsession. And sorrow.
Still, I turned the page. Something inside urged me to keep going. And what I found wasn't comfort. It was descent.
November 5th, 18XX
Dear Diary,
The world around me has become a haze of grey, a constant reminder of the darkness that has consumed my heart. The lady's absence is a wound that refuses to heal, a gaping chasm that threatens to swallow me whole.
I find myself asking questions that have no answers. Why did she leave? Was it something I did? Did I ever truly matter to her? The uncertainty gnaws at me, fueling a despair that seems to grow with each passing day.
There are moments when the weight of it all becomes too much to bear. The thought of a future without her, a life defined by this emptiness, terrifies me. I stand at the edge of a precipice, my thoughts teetering on the brink of darkness.
There are nights when the darkness creeps into my mind, suffocating me with its suffocating embrace. The idea of ending it all has crossed my mind—would it finally bring me the peace that eludes me now? The diary has become my confidant, a silent listener to the whispers of my torment.
And so, I ask you, dear diary, should I embrace the darkness and let it consume me? Would that be the release I so desperately seek? Or am I destined to suffer in this void, a prisoner of my own emotions?
I write these words with a trembling hand and a heavy heart. The ink on this page is a reflection of the battle that rages within me, a battle between the desire to find solace and the fear of what lies beyond.
Until the next entry,
[Anon]
Silence.
Even Ronald didn't speak this time.
I could feel it—the sharp twist of emotion, the ache coiled in the writer's words. This wasn't just heartbreak. It was a cry for help carved into paper.
The diary was no longer just a romantic relic. It was the final anchor of a person drifting between grief and oblivion.
I swallowed hard, the weight of his despair lingering in my chest.
Then… something shifted again.
The ink on the next page had faded slightly—aged differently. Years must have passed. But as I read the date, I froze.
'Fifteen years later?'
March 28th, 18XX
Dear Diary,
Fifteen years have slipped through the sands of time since the day she vanished from my world. For years, I've walked the same path and returned to the same spot, hoping against hope that fate would reunite us once more. And at last, my yearning gaze met hers again—my heart soared, my soul stirred by a bittersweet symphony of emotions.
As our eyes locked in a silent embrace, I felt a sense of purity wash over me, as if the passage of years had been erased by the mere sight of her. Her presence illuminated my surroundings, casting a gentle glow that softened the harsh edges of the world.
In that moment, a myriad of questions bubbled within me, eager to find voice. Where had she been all these years? What had become of her life? Yet, as I opened my mouth to speak, an invisible force seemed to stifle my words. The weight of my own emotions, the magnitude of our reunion, rendered me speechless.
Once again, I shied away, retreating into the shadows of my own apprehension. The words I longed to utter remained imprisoned within me, trapped by the same hesitance that had plagued me from the beginning. But despite my silence, a profound sense of contentment welled within me. She was back—a beacon of light that had rekindled a spark within my heart.
The years of yearning, the seasons of solitude, all seemed to dissolve in her presence. Her return was a balm to my soul, a reminder that time and distance could not extinguish the flame that had burned for so long. As I stand on the precipice of this new chapter, I do so with a heart brimming with gratitude.
Until the next entry,
[Anon]
"Fifteen years! Fifteen years!" Ronald shouted, shaking the diary like it was some kind of sacred scripture. "I've never seen anyone as devoted as him. What a champ!"
But while he basked in the glow of Anon's loyalty, I stared down at the sketch peeking out between the pages. The same portrait from before. Same lines. Same soft eyes. Same gentle smile.
Unchanged.
"This woman…" I muttered under my breath, tracing the drawing with the tip of my finger. "She hasn't aged a day."
Ronald blinked. "That is quite unusual, isn't it?"
I nodded slowly, unease settling in my bones. Something's wrong. "It's almost like… time doesn't apply to her."
'That's not just uncommon. That's impossible.'
I squinted at the drawing again, feeling the hair on the back of my neck rise. 'No signs of aging. No weathering. No decay in her likeness. If he redrew her… it'd be one thing. But this sketch has been tucked inside for 15 years. And she still looks the same?'
A thought rooted itself in my mind.
'What if… she's not human?'
I didn't say it aloud. But the moment I thought it, the temperature around me seemed to drop.
I shook the unease from my head and exhaled. Focus. There were still more pages. Still more truths buried beneath these worn lines.
I turned to the next entry.
Not out of curiosity anymore.
But necessity.