Not in a diary—diaries could be read, could be used. She wrote in code, on loose sheets of music paper, hiding the words between the staves of Chopin nocturnes. Her mother, who drank sherry from morning until the world blurred into something bearable, never noticed. Her father assumed she was just practicing piano.
She also met a boy. His name was Samir, and he was gentle in a way that terrified her. He brought her tea without asking. He noticed when she hadn’t slept. He once said, “You look like you’re carrying something heavy. You don’t have to carry it alone.” nikita von james
That night, she began to write.