MY JOURNAL

Aria had always believed in the honesty of ink. It never lied. It never softened a truth or tiptoed around pain. Her journal, tucked beneath her pillow, bore witness to years of stories she hadn't the courage to speak aloud. But this time, it lay untouched. Silent, just like her.

"Don't write about us." He'd made her promise before it even all began. His fingers brushing hers.

She'd laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. A writer's lover who feared being turned into fiction? But his eyes serious, searching told her it wasn't playful.
"Why?" she'd asked, still amused.

"Because some things are better felt than told," he'd replied.

She'd taken that as depth Mystery but now, sitting at the edge of her bed, with receipts of his betrayal piling like ash in her mind, she realised what he truly meant:

"Don't hold me accountable."

Just as they say, when you hang around a writer for too long, you become the story in a chapter.

Read what happens next as the story unfolds.