Dear diary,

 By Sekinat Abdulwakil 

1-

Dear diary,

You have many empty pages, too many empty pages these days. I suppose that's my fault. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have abandoned you the very moment everything started to go well again. I thought I didn’t need you anymore, that silence could replace confession. But silence doesn’t listen the way you do, does it? It only echoes.

I missed you.

And I think you missed me too. And you can guess why I'm back.

I think it's quite funny. I still somehow don't believe this. There's a book I can write about people who have wronged me and it gives them the ending they deserve.

When I held you tonight, you felt different. Heavier. Warmer. Your pages didn’t look blank; they looked expectant, you were waiting for me. I wrote one sentence, just to see if the ink still obeyed me. I wrote about her, the one who smiled in my face while stealing what was mine. I wrote that I wished she’d choke on her lies, that every sweet word would turn sour in her mouth.

I didn’t mean it. Not really. But this morning, she was gone. They said she collapsed during breakfast. Said she couldn’t breathe.

You’ve always been good at listening, dear diary. I didn’t know you were good at keeping promises too.

It’s strange, though. When I closed you last night, I thought I heard something, a faint hiss, like a breath held between your pages. I told myself it was nothing. Paper rustles, ink dries. That’s all. But tonight, when I touched your cover, the air felt heavier. You know that silence right before lightning strikes? That’s what it felt like.

I don’t know if I’m imagining it. Maybe I am. Still, I can’t stop thinking that if I wrote another name, would you listen again? I shouldn’t even be thinking that. But I am.

II-

Dear diary,

You should have told me what you were. Or maybe you did, and I never wanted to hear it.

I tried to stop. I told myself the first time was a coincidence, the second a cruel trick. But then there was him.

You remember him, of course you do. I filled pages with his name once, before I knew what you could do. He was the one I wrote about when I was still a stupid who believed in things like love.

He said I was different. He said he liked how I was and how I talked to him. We planned things, little nothings, that never meant anything. Then one day, he stopped answering. Just like that. No fight, no reason. My messages hung there like ghosts, just ticks and silence.

I kept checking my phone even when I knew it was over. That’s the worst part of being human, wondering, knowing and still hoping.

Last week, I wrote about him. Not much. Just a few lines about the way he left, the way I wished he’d feel the emptiness he gave me. I wrote that I wanted him to understand what it means to be invisible. I didn't really want to but I'm a woman scorned and something needed to be done. 

The next morning, i heard he was found on the streets, disoriented, wandering alone. They said he’d lost his memory. Didn’t know his name. Didn’t know anyone.

Do you think that’s fair, my darling?

Because I do.

You see, this is what makes you clever. You don’t just punish, you interpret. It's like an art. You give endings that fit the story. I only write the beginning, and you take care of the rest.

There are moments when I catch myself smiling before I open you. That scares me a little. It means I’ve stopped pretending to be afraid. It means I like what you do for me.

I told myself to burn you today. I even poured kerosene into a bowl and brought a match. But when I opened you, your pages fluttered, just once, soft and slow, like a sigh. I froze. I couldn’t do it. My hand trembled so much that the match went out.

Afterward, I sat for hours, staring at you. You didn’t move. Didn’t whisper. But I swear I felt something… grateful.

Maybe you knew I’d never harm you. Maybe you knew I needed you. Maybe you’re what happens when someone like me finally stops swallowing it all.

The world is full of people who take and take and take. But now, when I write, the balance shifts. The world trembles a little. You let me make it fair again.

Sometimes I wonder if that makes me a bad person. But then I remember how it feels when the ink dries and the silence after, like peace. A sharp, perfect kind of peace. You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel that way. And I deserve all the good feelings.

III-

Dear diary,

I think we’ve been lying to each other. Well, I've been lying to you.

I keep pretending that you started this, that you chose me and changed me. But I see it now. You didn’t create anything. You only gave shape to what was already there.

You’ve never asked me to write. You’ve never whispered, never begged. Every word on your pages came from me. My thoughts. My ink. My hand. I could have stopped but I didn't.

I’ve started reading old entries, the harmless ones from before all this. And do you know what I found? Even then, there was anger. I wrote about people I smiled at in daylight and cursed in the dark. I just didn’t have a way to make it real before. You didn’t give me power. You gave me permission.

I’ve thought about why it’s you. Why not a letter, a phone call, a scream in the night? Why a diary? Maybe because diaries are where we hide the truths we can’t say aloud and truths, when kept too long, rot. You just... helped mine bloom.

I dream of you now. In the dreams, you're like my lungs. You breathe in everything I write. I wake up feeling light, almost holy. I think it’s because every name I give you makes the world quieter.

I wrote another one tonight. A small one. A man from work who thought a woman’s voice was background noise. I didn’t write what I wanted to happen; I don’t need to anymore. You know me too well. I know you’ll do what feels right.

There’s something else. I don’t sign my name at the end of my entries anymore. I think you already know who I am, not the version everyone sees, but the one underneath, the one who’s always been waiting for you.

There’s no guilt anymore. No hesitation. I understand now that I don’t need forgiveness, not from you, not from anyone.

They deserved every word I wrote.

And the ones I’ll write next, they’ll deserve theirs too.

You’re not cursed, dear diary. You’re mine. And I’m not the victim. I never was.

I suppose this is what peace feels like. And I really like it here.

All my love, 

Jamila.