Hi. I’m Ananya Rao.

People usually start diaries when they fall in love.

I’m starting one because I’m falling apart.

The ceiling fan hums like a tired heart, swinging lazily above me. Papers scatter across the table — student assignments half-graded, coffee-stained printouts, notes scribbled in both black and blue ink. My handwriting looks angry on every page, each letter sharp, deliberate, like it’s trying to claw out some frustration I can’t otherwise release.

I’m twenty-seven, a forensic professor at a university. My students think I have my life together. They don’t know I live in a rented house with peeling paint, shared with my younger sister, Meera, who still believes rain can fix anything.

She’s the calm to my chaos.

The gentle light in a world that feels increasingly dim.

And right now, she’s the only reason I still wake up every morning.

My father left us six years ago.He didn’t just leave. He vanished.

Left behind his debts, his lies, and the people who carried his name.

I used to think grief makes you numb. It doesn’t.

It makes you painfully aware .... of unpaid bills stacked like mountains on the kitchen counter, the landlady’s shrill voice echoing through the walls like a siren, the reflection staring back at me in the mirror that looks more like my mother every day.

I’ve learned to be careful with people. I’ve learned that promises are fragile, easily shattered by the weight of selfishness.

And I’ve learned that you can never truly trust anyone to stay — not even those who claim to love you.

Morning –

“Didi! You’re late again,” Meera calls from the kitchen, her voice bubbling with amusement. The smell of burnt toast floats in from the stove, mixing with the aroma of strong coffee she brewed for both of us.

I drag myself upright, comb my hair into something that could pass as professional, and gulp water instead of breakfast.

“I have a lecture at nine,” I remind her, my tone clipped but affectionate.

She rolls her eyes. “You always do. But you forget to eat every day.”

“That’s why I have you,” I tease.

She laughs. “Someone’s gotta look after the overworked genius.”

'Little does she know, this is the last ordinary morning I’ll remember for a long time.'

As i left after having my breakfast to the university, it felt like an eternity to reach due to the traffic.

Somehow i made it on time! Professionalism doesn't mean getting ready. You need to maintain time sense too right?

The forensics lab always smells of ethanol and determination. Students shuffle papers, whisper theories, and examine slides. Today, I’m teaching Crime Scene Reconstruction, one of the more practical, hands-on classes.

I stand at the front of the room, glancing over twenty eager faces, some attentive, some distracted. The board is filled with photos: footprints, fibers, blood-spatter angles, shattered glass, and splattered debris from a mock crime scene we reconstructed just last week.

“A lie,” I tell them, “isn’t just what people say. It’s what evidence hides.”

They scribble notes diligently. Some look confused, others intrigued. No one realizes I’m not speaking about criminals anymore. I’m talking about my life. My own constant struggle to decipher truth from the shadows.

Between slides, my mind drifts back home — to Meera, to the way she hums while washing dishes, to how she still believes in fairy-tale endings despite all the chaos that life has thrown our way.

Maybe that’s why I teach crime. It reminds me that truth always leaves stains — no matter how neatly you try to cover them.

By the time I return, the house is alive with Meera’s music — a Bollywood 2000s playlist playing too loud, filling every corner with energy and cheer.

“Someone’s happy,” I say, leaning against the doorway. Though I'm exhausted, seeing her and mom makes my heart feel happy.

She twirls around holding her phone like a treasured object. “Because someone said yes.”

“Who?” I ask cautiously, a prickle of curiosity running through me.

“Can’t tell you yet!” she says, grinning like a secret is a precious gem. “But soon, you’ll meet him. He’s… different, Anu. Kind. Stable. And he listens.”

I laugh softly. “Sounds like a fairytale.”

She nudges me, playful yet determined. “Even you’ll like him.”

"Let's see,if i like him or tell him not to step into this house again" i said teasing her. Meera just chuckled.

Meera’s in love. I can hear it in her voice. I should be happy for her, but something about secrets makes me uneasy.

"Comeon , let's have dinner" meera said, dragging me out of my thoughts.

We eat dinner on the floor — dal, rice, and the kind of conversation that only sisters can have.

“Do you ever miss Dad?” Meera asks suddenly, poking at her rice with a spoon.

“No,” I say too quickly, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. Then softer: “Maybe I miss the idea of him.”

She nods. “I wonder if he lied to protect us… or just himself.”

We fall silent. The rain outside answers for us, tapping softly on the window like a gentle metronome marking the passage of time.

Flashback – The Day Our Father Left

I remember the veranda. Mom was standing there, blank and trembling, tears streaking her face. He didn’t look back. He left a note that said:

“It’s for the best.”

That’s all liars ever say — ‘for the best.’

That night I learned to stop believing people who say they care. I learned that some promises are never meant to be kept. And I learned that strength comes from surviving the ones who leave.

I looked at meera. She is asleep, curled like a child under the faded quilt we’ve had since childhood. Her soft breathing is a lullaby that I can’t fully enjoy because my mind races. I couldn't fall asleep. Is it insomnia again?

I stare at the ceiling trying to make sense of the thoughts that's been running in my mind.i need to release. And the only way ,is to pour the thoughts on the paper!

My sister believes love can heal everything.

I believe love is just a softer word for danger.

Maybe we’re both right. Or maybe one of us won’t live long enough to find out.

I close my diary,took a deep breath and looked at the window where the rain droplets are tapping with a soft sound. Outside, the world is dark and silent. But inside, my thoughts are chaotic — a storm that refuses to settle.

I don’t know it yet, but this is the calm before the storm.

The kind of night that feels ordinary but will be remembered forever.

The house is quiet, but I feel the presence of shadows — the kind that linger even in light. I don’t yet know that soon, those shadows will stretch across every part of my life, pulling me into a story I could never have imagined.

> The night whispers secrets I am not ready to hear… and the diary is the only place I can speak freely

I tuck the pen under my pillow and turn off the bedside lamp. Rain taps steadily on the roof, like a heartbeat reminding me that life goes on — whether you’re ready for it or not.

> Tomorrow, I will face the world again. But tonight… tonight, I let the darkness speak.