"Old buildings don't just hold books —
they hold echoes, and sometimes,
the parts of people they tried to leave behind."
Dear Diary,
Tonight, the moon was a crooked smile
watching two girls slip through shadows.
Jia and I wore all black.
She brought flashlights, gloves, and gum.
("For focus," she said, chewing like a spy.)
The old library stood tall and silent,
its bricks breathing with forgotten stories.
The gate was still locked,
but the side fence had a loose panel.
(Trust Jia to know which one.)
We slipped through.
Hearts thudding.
Hands cold.
The back door — the one he used —
was unlocked.
The air inside smelled like paper and ghosts.
We tiptoed past fallen shelves and old posters.
Our lights caught the titles of abandoned books:
"Dreams of Mechanical Wings",
"The Art of Disappearing Quietly",
"A Guide to Secret Places."
The kind of books that seem too on-the-nose in hindsight.
Then Jia stopped.
A trail of footprints — fresh —
leading to a small door behind the librarian's desk.
It had no sign.
Just a rusted knob and peeling paint.
We opened it.
Inside was a tiny reading room —
but it looked nothing like the rest of the library.
Clean.
Organized.
Lived in.
There was a worn couch,
a lamp with dragonfly patterns,
and a box of tea by the window.
On the desk lay a black notebook.
No title.
No lock.
Just initials embossed in the corner:
"K.S."
Jia hesitated.
Then handed it to me.
"You're the one he likes. You open it."
My fingers trembled.
I opened to the first page.
His handwriting.
"This is not a diary.
This is a collection of fragments —
of things I couldn't say out loud."
We read in silence.
Page after page of poems,
thoughts about loss,
bits of memories written in metaphors.
And then—
"I moved here after the accident.
After the fire. After I lost the people who held my name together.
I don't tell Wunor because I don't want to be the boy with a sad story.
I want to be more than that.
But I think she sees through me anyway."
I stopped reading.
The room suddenly felt too warm.
Too full.
Jia put a hand on my arm.
Neither of us spoke.
We understood.
Not a criminal.
Not a liar.
Just… someone running.
Someone rebuilding.
And me?
I'm part of the blueprint.
We left everything as we found it.
Closed the notebook gently.
Slipped out into the night
with quiet hearts and bigger questions.
Dear Diary,
I don't know what this changes —
or if it changes anything at all.
But tonight, I saw the truth.
And it wasn't scary.
It was soft.
Sad.
Human.
I still like him.
Maybe even more now.
But I think it's time I let him know:
he doesn't have to hide the pieces anymore.
I'll hold them with him.
Wunor 📖💔🌙