I sighed as I pushed open the door to my daughter's room. Clothes were piled everywhere, books lay scattered across the floor, and a half-eaten pizza slice sat on the nightstand, its greasy cardboard box open beside it. Her bed was a mess: sheets tangled in knots, pillows buried under piles of clothes, and her comforter hanging halfway to the floor. A faint scent of strawberry vape hung in the air, cutting through the stale smell of dirty laundry and day-old pizza. Her room was always like this--she was too busy with med school to bother cleaning up. I understood; being a university student grinding through exams while stuck living at home because rent was too expensive didn't leave much room for anything else.
Breathing deeply, I decided to start with the bookcase and began picking up the books lying on the floor. As I read the titles, I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
Captive in the Dark? Haunting Adeline? Feathers So Vicious?
These weren't the kinds of books my daughter usually read. A strange mix of curiosity and concern crept over me. Was she trying out new genres, or was there something more she wasn't telling me? The thought left a knot in my stomach--I was starting to wonder just how well I knew my daughter.
'Alright, let's clean this up,' I muttered, trying to ignore my worries and just focus on the task at hand. I began organizing the books on the shelf, working methodically from left to right. But as I pushed the last pile into place, I felt the bookcase wobble. 'Oh shit!' I gasped, reaching out to steady it--but it was too late. With a loud crash, the bookcase tipped over, slamming to the floor and shaking the entire house as books flew in all directions.
As I knelt to pick up the books, something caught my eye--a small leather-bound journal that had been hidden under the bookcase. I gently lifted it, wiping away the dust to reveal the gold embossed title:
My Secret Diary.
I paused, running my thumb over the worn cover. I knew I shouldn't open it, but the worried father in me couldn't resist. What if she was in trouble? What if this was her way of asking for help? I glanced at the clock--still an hour and a half before she'd be home.
'I'm sorry, darling,' I said softly, my voice filled with remorse as I opened the diary to the first page. My hands shook slightly as I held my daughter's most private thoughts, and with a nervous gulp, I began to read.
My Secret Diary
August 1st. I'm 21 now. Officially an adult. But most days, I don't feel like one. I just feel... lost. My parents are always on my back, expecting me to have perfect grades and follow in their footsteps at the hospital. Dad's the head of cardiology, and Mom's a renowned surgeon. Meanwhile, here I am, struggling through biochemistry and having panic attacks before every exam.
It's all too fucking much, so I started seeing a therapist a few weeks ago, right after summer break began. I thought it would help me deal with... everything. But honestly? I don't think I'm getting anywhere with therapy. There are just some things I can't admit. I look at my therapist, and I know he's judging me. He thinks I'm fucking disgusting. And the truth is, I feel disgusting...
I mean, it's obscene. The thoughts I'm having. The feelings I have. I just... I wish they'd stop, but if anything, they're getting worse. Every day, it's like they're getting stronger. The things I think about... I don't want to think about them anymore. I know it's wrong. I know it's so taboo. I know that, but I'm trying so hard. I just can't get anywhere with therapy, so maybe writing it down will help me.
