As Mira lifted the diary, her breath caught. The initials embossed on the leather weren't A.I. after all.
They read: O.A.
She blinked, her pulse skipping a beat.
"Ozan... Aydın?" she whispered.
Her heart began to pound so hard it almost drowned out the clock's ticking. The name felt foreign and familiar all at once — like a ghost from a story she was never told.
As she turned the brittle first page, something slipped out — a ring, small and gold, clinking faintly against the desk. For a second, she just stared at it. The light from Alden's desk lamp caught its surface, making it glimmer with quiet accusation.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. It was plain, delicate, the kind of ring that meant something private — not wealth, but memory.
She turned it over, whispering,
"Who did you belong to, Ozan?"
Then, carefully, she placed it back between the diary's pages, right where it had fallen. This wasn't about taking things. This was about understanding.
She sank into Alden's office chair — his scent still faint in the leather — and let out a long, unsteady sigh.
"Even if he's a pervert, like Cüneyt said…" she muttered with a shaky half-laugh. "I'll find myself in his story."
Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.
She opened the diary.
Dear Diary,
Ozan's handwriting was uneven — hurried, almost desperate — the kind of scrawl that told stories faster than the mind could catch them.
I know it's been so long since I haven't wrote anything. As we promised, we'd help each other no matter what. Growing up was hard… we never got adopted. Professor Aydın gave us his name when he became our guardian. So we're siblings now — me and Seyran.
Mira's lips parted slightly.
"Seyran…" she murmured, the name slicing through her like a cold wind.
I met her when she was five, and I was seven. She came to my orphanage after hers closed down. The day she arrived, some kids were pushing her around. She was small — her nose twitched like a scared rabbit. I pushed them off and helped her up. Since then, she's been mine to protect. Professor Aydın said she shouldn't keep stress in her heart — that's why she talks about everything. I don't. That's why I write. She gifted me this diary… for our longest journey together.
Mira's throat tightened. She could almost see it — a grey orphanage courtyard, a tiny girl trembling, a boy shielding her from the world. The ink was old, the pages thin, but every word bled warmth and pain.
She turned the page carefully, her fingers brushing against old creases.
Dear Diary,
Finally! After months of struggle, we got accepted to the university we wanted. Scholarships, tight budgets, sleepless nights — it all paid off. Seyran, of course, didn't sleep at all last night. She was too excited, talking endlessly, dreaming about what we'd become. It's her first day tomorrow. I took psychology, and she took art — of course. She says my brain is for rules and her heart is for colours.
Mira smiled faintly.
"Sounds like an Alden once," she whispered, before her face darkened. "Before everything got... strange."
Today, I met someone. His name's İskandar — smart, confident, the kind who knows how to fill a room with his words. We talked for hours about human behaviour and theories. I liked him. But when I went to pick up Seyran after her class, she looked... different. Tired. Sad. I asked, but she said she made no friends. Classic Seyran — she only looks at people she wishes to befriend but never risks the first step.
Mira's chest tightened again. She could almost hear Seyran's laugh echoing faintly between the lines — bright, hopeful, lonely.
Dear Diary,
A week has passed. She still complains every morning, every night, every break. Professor Aydın says to "hear her out and agree with everything she says — women are always right."
Mira chuckled softly, wiping at her cheek as tears she hadn't noticed began to fall.
"What the heck," she whispered, echoing her earlier thought. "I mean, sure, we're bossy, but not that much."
She could almost imagine Ozan's tired smile as he wrote those lines — exasperated but loving.
Anyway, today, finally, she made a friend. Her name's Alina — same age as me. I've seen her around; she seems kind. Seyran's happy now, and I can finally breathe.
Mira turned the page — and her hand stilled. The next entry's tone was different.
That day, as I walked to the locker room, I saw İskandar stuffing his bag into his locker. A photograph fell to the floor. I bent down to pick it up — but when I did... his face changed. He snatched it from my hand so fast, so violently, it startled me. And in that split second, I saw the picture — just a glimpse —, but it was enough. Alina. And her dress from yesterday. The way his hand was on her shoulder…
The ink trailed off — a smudge where his pen must have stopped mid-thought.
Mira's pulse raced. Her breath came shallow.
"Oh God…" she whispered, her hand trembling on the page.
Ozan's next words were jagged, pressed so deep into the paper they almost tore through.
He's not who he says he is. I don't know what to do. Seyran trusts Alina. If I tell her, she'll think I'm jealous or controlling. But I can't ignore it. I have to protect her. I always have.
The room felt smaller now, airless.
The lamp flickered once, casting Mira's reflection in the glass of the safe door — pale, wide-eyed, fragile.
"What were you hiding, Alden?" she breathed, voice barely audible. "Who are these people to you?"
Her gaze flicked back to the diary — to the ring, glinting faintly between the pages.
And as thunder rolled outside, Mira felt the distance between her and Alden stretch like a chasm. The trust that once felt sacred now hung by a single thread — and it was beginning to unravel.