The Dairy that writes back

Chapter 1: The Diary That Writes Back Yeh ek bilkul aam shaam thi jab mujhe woh diary mili. Bookstore mein purani kitaabon aur dhool ki khushbu thi—jaise kahaniyan kone-kone mein chhupi ho. Diary ek shelf par padhi thi, jisme "Clearance" ka board laga tha. Uska leather cover purana aur phata hua lag raha tha. Maine bina zyada soche ise utha liya, curiosity mein, zarurat se zyada. Mujhe nahi pata tha ki yeh ek aam kharidari nahi thi, balki ek raaz ki shuruaat thi. Ghar aake jab maine uske pages palte, toh zyadatar panne khaali the. Sirf pehle page par ek line likhi thi: "Write your truth, and I’ll show you mine." (Apni sachchai likho, main tumhe apni dikhata hoon.) Mujhe laga yeh bas koi poetic style ka dialogue hoga. Maine pen uthaya aur mazaak mein likha: "What truth?" (Kaunsi sachchai?) Ink paper mein sama gayi, aur kuch pal ke liye kuch nahi hua. Fir, mere samne hi uske neeche naye shabd dikhayi dene lage, jaise koi deewaar ke peeche se likh raha ho: "The one you’re afraid to speak." (Woh, jise kehne se tum darte ho.) Maine turant pen gira diya. Dil zor se dhadak raha tha. Yeh zarur koi trick thi. Shayad heat-sensitive ink? Ya koi nayi technology? Lekin jab maine un shabdon ko chhua, toh woh hil bhi nahi rahe the. Bilkul asliyat jaise. Maine dheere se likha: "Who are you?" (Tum kaun ho?) Diary ne turant jawab diya: "Someone who once asked the same question. Keep writing, and you’ll understand." (Main, jisne kabhi yeh wahi sawaal kiya tha. Likhte raho, tum samajh jaoge.) Us raat main so nahi paaya. Main likhta raha. Aur diary jawab deti rahi. Raaz, darr, sapne—diary un baaton ko jaanti thi jo maine kabhi kisi ko nahi batayi thi. Aur jitna zyada maine likha, utna hi yeh saaf hone laga ki yeh diary sirf mere jazbaat nahi padh rahi thi. Yeh mujhe kuch dhoondhne ke raaste par le ja rahi thi—kuch aisa, jiska mujhe khud bhi andaza nahi tha. Lekin teesri raat, bina kuch likhe, ek naya message ubhar aaya: "Stop writing. They're watching." (Likhna band karo. Wo dekh rahe hai.) --- English Version: It was an ordinary evening when I found the diary. The bookstore smelled of old paper and dust, the kind of place where stories hide in corners. The diary sat on a shelf marked "Clearance," its leather cover cracked and worn. I bought it without thinking, more out of curiosity than need. I didn’t realize then that this purchase would unravel a mystery I was never prepared for. When I got home and flipped through the pages, they were mostly blank, except for one line on the first page: "Write your truth, and I’ll show you mine." Thinking it was some poetic gimmick, I picked up a pen and scribbled, "What truth?" The ink sank into the paper. Nothing happened for a few moments. Then, right before my eyes, words began to appear beneath my question, as though written by an invisible hand: "The one you’re afraid to speak." My heart pounded. I dropped the pen and stared. This had to be a trick—maybe heat-sensitive ink or some advanced technology. But when I touched the words, they didn’t smudge. They were real. Hesitantly, I wrote again: "Who are you?" The diary responded instantly: "Someone who once asked the same question. Keep writing, and you’ll understand." I couldn’t sleep that night. I wrote. The diary wrote back. Secrets, fears, dreams—the diary knew things about me that I had never shared with anyone. And the more I wrote, the clearer it became: this diary wasn’t just reading my thoughts. It was leading me toward something—something I didn’t even know I was searching for. But then, on the third night, a new message appeared, unprompted: "Stop writing. They're watching." --