The morning after the festival felt oddly quiet.
Just yesterday the school grounds were packed with stalls, games, music, and laughter, but now it looked almost abandoned. Andrew had signed up for cleanup duty, so he'd been out early, stacking wooden boards, folding banners, and helping the teachers pack up supplies. The whole time, bits of last night still clung to him—the buzz of the crowd, the glow of lanterns, and most of all, Grace's smile. A smile that was fragile but real, and it kept replaying in his head like a dream he didn't want to wake from.
By the time they wrapped up, the sun was already overhead. Teachers finally let everyone go with the promise of a day off tomorrow. Most students cheered, excited to sleep in, but Andrew felt quieter. He waved at Sophia and Ryan, gave Grace a small nod, then headed home.
When he stepped into his room, the stillness hit harder. He went straight to his desk, pulled open the drawer, and there it was—the leather-bound diary. The thing that had been eating at him for days. It looked almost alive, like it had been waiting. Its pages were filled with writing that looked disturbingly like his own handwriting, except it described events that hadn't happened yet. Warnings, predictions. Every time something written in it came true, it chipped away at his ability to dismiss it as a prank.
He opened it again. The words were the same as before, steady and sure, like they were daring him to take them seriously.
"Is this real?" he muttered under his breath. "Or am I actually losing it?"
Sunlight slid across the floorboards by the window. Andrew just sat there, fingers resting on the diary's cover, his mind turning in circles. Inevitably, his thoughts drifted somewhere else—to his family.
His house hadn't felt like home in months. His parents barely spoke without it turning into a fight. Sometimes it was about groceries, sometimes about bills, sometimes about something as stupid as leaving the window open during rain. But their voices always rose, sharp and bitter, like cracks in the wall that kept spreading deeper.
Andrew had started asking himself if love actually fades. Do two people who once swore to be everything for each other just… lose it? Does it vanish slowly, like water drying up in the sun, or does it collapse all at once, leaving nothing but ashes? The idea scared him, because if love could really fade, what did that mean for him? For Grace? For anyone he cared about?
The kitchen bell broke his thoughts. He shoved the diary aside and went downstairs. His mom served rice and curry with her usual tired but kind face. His dad was already at the table, scrolling on his phone. For a while, only the sound of spoons against plates filled the room.
Andrew must've looked tense because after a while, his dad actually set his phone down and looked straight at him.
"You've been quiet all morning," his dad said.
Andrew blinked. "I'm fine."
"You're not," his dad replied with a knowing smile. "You've been worried. About me and your mom, right?"
That caught Andrew off guard. His spoon froze mid-air before dropping back into his bowl.
"Don't worry," his dad said softly. "We're fine."
Andrew looked at him, unsure whether to believe it. "But you two argue all the time. Every day it's something new. I keep wondering if… if things are falling apart." His voice cracked a little, and he hated how raw it sounded.
His dad leaned back, sighing. "Arguments happen in every home. In every relationship. People fight—sometimes about dumb stuff, sometimes about real issues. But what matters isn't the fight. It's whether you move on afterward. If you hold on to anger, it poisons everything. But if you talk, forgive, and keep going, the bond grows stronger."
Andrew frowned. "But it doesn't look like you're moving on. It just… keeps happening."
His father's eyes softened. "I know it must look that way. And maybe your mother and I haven't been good at showing you. But understand this—we're not enemies. We get mad, we yell, but at the end of the day we sit at the same table, share food, stay under the same roof. That's what matters."
Andrew stayed quiet, chewing on his thoughts. He wanted to believe. He wanted to believe love didn't just die because of cracks. But then another memory pushed its way in, one he hated thinking about.
His dad noticed. "You're remembering what happened at your old school, aren't you?"
Andrew froze.
"The time they accused you of stalking that girl," his dad said slowly.
Andrew's throat closed up. He never expected his dad to bring that up. It was the memory he usually buried the deepest.
"You never defended yourself," his dad continued. "Never told them you were only trying to warn her that her boyfriend was cheating. You let everyone believe the worst. Do you know why?"
Andrew clenched his jaw. His hands balled into fists under the table. "Because… you and Mom were already fighting all the time. I didn't want to add to it. If I spoke up, it would've just dragged you both into it. So I stayed quiet."
Guilt flickered across his father's face. He reached out, laying his hand over Andrew's. His palm was warm but a little shaky.
"I'm sorry," his dad whispered. "You were just a kid, and you carried that weight alone because of us. You shouldn't have had to."
Andrew swallowed hard, his chest aching. "I thought… if I stayed quiet, maybe everything would be fine. That at least you two wouldn't fight more."
"And instead you suffered alone," his father said, voice rough. "That's not how family should be. You don't have to stay silent, Andrew. Not then, not now. We're supposed to carry the hard stuff together."
The room went still. His mom, who'd been listening quietly, reached across the table and placed her hand over both of theirs. Her eyes shimmered. "We've made mistakes," she said softly. "But don't ever think we don't love you. Even when we argue, even when we fail—you are everything to us."
Andrew dropped his head, blinking fast as his eyes burned. His dad squeezed his hand gently.
"Relationships aren't perfect," his dad said. "Not between husband and wife, not between parents and kids. But love… it doesn't just disappear. Sometimes it gets buried under anger or pride, but if you dig deep, it's still there."
For the first time in weeks, Andrew's chest loosened a little. The doubts about whether love could survive cracks didn't vanish, but they weren't suffocating anymore. Maybe love wasn't about staying unbroken. Maybe it was about fixing, again and again.
As he nodded slowly, his dad gave him a look that carried something deeper, something unspoken. "Life has a strange way of preparing us," he said. "Sometimes you get warnings before storms. They scare you, but they're not curses. They're reminders—that you can choose differently, and that you're not alone."
Andrew froze. The words landed heavy. It felt like his dad wasn't just talking about arguments or old mistakes—he was hinting at something else. Something that reminded Andrew too much of the diary upstairs.
Before he could ask, his dad patted his shoulder and stood. "Don't overthink it. Just remember, you don't have to carry everything yourself."
The rest of the meal passed quietly, but the silence wasn't sharp anymore. It felt steadier, like the calm after rain.
Later, back in his room, Andrew sat staring at the diary again. His father's words echoed in his head as he traced the edges of the cover.
Maybe the diary was real. Maybe it wasn't. But for the first time, he felt like he didn't have to face it alone.
And somehow, that was enough.