"THE SILENT PAGES OF SECRET DIARY" reveals the hidden world of SECRET DAISY, a twelve-year-old girl with a heart weighed down by secrets she can't share with anyone else. In her middle-class home, where arguments and silences fill the air, Secret Da...
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I woke up to the sound of my parents arguing again. It was an all-too-familiar symphony of raised voices, clattering dishes, and the sharp edge of frustration slicing through the air. I could never quite make out what they were fighting about—money, chores, or something that felt heavy and unbearable. It was like the same script played on repeat, day after day.
I lay in bed, pretending to be asleep, even though I was wide awake. My heart raced as I listened to their words punctuate the stillness of the morning. “You never listen to me!” my mom shouted, her voice trembling with anger. “I can’t keep doing this alone!”
“Doing what? You think I don’t work hard enough? You just don’t appreciate anything!” my dad shot back, his tone harsh and unforgiving.
The walls of our small house felt like they were closing in on me, each word a reminder of how helpless I felt in the middle of their chaos. I wanted to scream, to tell them to stop, to somehow make them understand the toll it took on me. But instead, I pressed my pillow against my ears, hoping it would muffle their voices like a shield.
In the quiet moments between their arguments, I could hear the clock ticking loudly, each second a reminder that time was passing me by. I thought about getting up, maybe making breakfast for myself, but the thought of walking into the kitchen felt like stepping onto a battlefield. I didn’t want to witness the aftermath of whatever had just exploded between them. I didn’t want to see the disappointment in my mom's eyes or the frustration etched on my dad's face.
Eventually, the shouting faded into a heavy silence. I took a deep breath, hoping they had finally found some common ground. I dared to peek out from beneath my covers. The sunlight streamed in through my window, illuminating the chaos in my room—clothes strewn on the floor, the remnants of a half-finished homework assignment, and my diary lying open on the desk.
I glanced toward the hallway, waiting for signs of life. I could hear my mom moving around in the kitchen, her footsteps heavy and distracted. The air smelled of burnt toast, and my stomach growled in protest. I really did need to eat, but I hesitated. What if they started up again? What if I walked into a scene that only added to my own heavy heart?
With a resigned sigh, I pushed the covers aside and slipped out of bed. I brushed my hair back and threw on a t-shirt and shorts. I felt the weight of the day already pressing on my shoulders. I shuffled toward the kitchen, each step feeling like I was crossing a minefield.
As I entered the room, I found my mom standing at the counter, staring blankly at the toaster. The toast had burned black, a charred reminder of her distraction. She looked up at me, and for a moment, her expression softened. But just as quickly, it hardened again. “You’re up late,” she said, her tone clipped. “You should have been up by now. You know we have a busy day.”
“I—sorry,” I mumbled, the apology spilling out before I could stop it. I wanted to explain that I didn’t sleep well, that their fights kept me awake, but the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I opened the cupboard, reaching for a bowl and some cereal, my usual breakfast choice.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” my dad’s voice came from the hallway, cutting through the silence like a knife. I froze, suddenly aware of the tension brewing once more.
“Nothing, I just—” my mom started, her voice rising again, and I felt the familiar knot tighten in my stomach.
“Just what?” he demanded, stepping into the kitchen with that frustrated look on his face. “You can’t just sit there and make passive-aggressive comments, you know.”
I stood there, a silent witness to their exchange, feeling smaller by the second. I didn’t want to be in the middle of this. I didn’t want to feel like I had to pick sides or navigate the emotional minefield of their relationship. I just wanted a quiet morning where I could eat my cereal and read my book. But here I was, once again trapped in their chaos.
As I poured cereal into the bowl, I tried to focus on the sound of the crunchy pieces hitting the porcelain, drowning out the noise of their argument. I thought of my secret escape—Wonderland, where the sun always shone, and there were no arguments or sad faces.
In that moment, I wished I could close my eyes and disappear into my imagination. Maybe I could be brave enough to explore my own Wonderland, where I wouldn’t have to listen to the pain of my parents' relationship. Where I could be free.
But for now, I was stuck here, in this house, feeling the weight of their chaos crush down on me like a heavy blanket. And so, I took a deep breath, sat down at the table, and tried to pretend that everything was fine—just like every other day.
