157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH2CW8ffjrw
A few years ago, I used to have a rather unusual hobby. Every twenty-four hours, when the sun would quietly sink into dusk, I would feel a strange comfort in writing short stories. I would describe different worlds, write about different characters, and let my pen and imagination do the rest. And if I forgot to write for even one day, I wouldn't be able to sleep peacefully that night—I would have nightmares.
At the start, it was all in my imagination— ink on the pages, and pleasure in my heart Until one day, my diary ran out and I had to buy a new one.
I stepped into the old bookstore near my house when I noticed a corner with a dusty shelf covered in cobwebs, as if it had been forgotten by time itself. The whole shelf was full of notebooks and diaries, some dusty, others marked faintly by age.
As I scanned the notebooks, one in particular caught my attention.
It was a bit dusty, but when I gently wiped it, its true colours appeared.
It was a really cute periwinkle diary with sparkles etched into the edges. I picked it up—and instantly fell in love with it.
From that day, I wrote every story coming from deep inside my heart. I even slept every night with the diary tucked safely under my pillow.
I used to love writing stories, but this diary made it my passion, as if it was the whole purpose of my life itself.157Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA10DsPgHXl
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