Aliana sat on her bed, the pink diary open in front of her, her eyes swollen and red from crying for what felt like hours. Her birthday dinner had turned cold on the table downstairs. The candles had burned out one by one until only thin trails of smoke curled into the air. Arman never came. He didn't call. Didn't even text.
She had locked the door hours ago. Now, her mother's voice came through faintly from the other side, soft at first and then more worried. "Aliana? Please open the door, sweetheart."
But Aliana didn't move. Her gaze was fixed on the page she'd been staring at for the past twenty minutes. The same page that had described tonight exactly—down to the pink dress, the matching jewelry, even the knife cut she got while making dinner. Every word written there had happened.
Her hands trembled as she whispered to herself, "I didn't write this…"
The handwriting looked just like hers. Every loop, every slant of the letters. It was her handwriting. It was, but she didn't remember ever writing it.
Her breath came out uneven as she flipped through the rest of the diary, pages fluttering fast under her fingers. Nothing. The rest were blank. Just that one page, sitting there like it had been waiting for her.
Anger rose in her chest, burning through the numbness that had settled earlier. She grabbed her phone and dialed Arman again. The line rang once, twice, then went silent. No answer.
"Pick up, Arman," she muttered through gritted teeth. "Just pick up."
She wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, her voice breaking. "Why, Arman? What could be more important than tonight?"
He had always been distant, always treating her kindness like it was something inconvenient. Still, she had loved him—since they were kids, since he first smiled at her across the old schoolyard. She had imagined a future with him so many times that it felt real.
-
"Let me in!" Aliana snapped, trying to push past the receptionist blocking her way.
"Miss, please, you can't enter without—"
But Aliana didn't wait. She shoved the door open, the sound of it slamming against the wall echoing through the quiet office. Arman's secretary was standing beside his desk, speaking to him in a low voice. Both turned sharply at the intrusion.
Arman's expression darkened. "You?"
She ignored the tone. Her anger drowned out everything else. "How busy could you possibly be that you couldn't even pick up your phone?"
Her voice trembled slightly, more from the hurt than the anger, though she tried to hide it. She took a few steps forward, her heels clicking against the floor. That's when her eyes caught something on his desk, an open file, a few photographs scattered beside it.
A young woman stared up at her from one of the pictures, pretty, smiling, caught mid-step like someone had followed her. The edges of the photos looked sharp, new.
"What's that?" Aliana's voice wavered for a moment before she looked up again.
Arman's reaction was quick, too quick. He snapped the file shut, sliding it out of view. "Do you not have any manners, Aliana? You don't just barge into my office like this."
"Manners?" Her laugh came out bitter. "I waited for you the entire night. The food went cold. You didn't even bother to text. And now you're lecturing me about manners?"
He leaned back in his chair, his jaw tight. "I told you I'd come if I wasn't busy. Something came up."
"Something came up?" she repeated slowly, stepping closer to his desk. "That's all you have to say?"
Her voice cracked, and she hated it. She wanted to sound strong, but the words came out raw instead.
"You could have called," she whispered. "Just once."
Arman glanced at the secretary, who quickly excused herself and left the room. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving only the tense silence between them.
Aliana's eyes went back to the edge of that closed file, her chest tight. Whoever that girl in the photos was she already knew she wasn't supposed to see her.
"Leave."
The word hit harder than a slap. Arman didn't raise his voice, but the steel in it made Aliana's throat tighten.
"What?" she asked quietly, blinking at him in disbelief.
"Don't make a scene here," he said, already straightening a few papers on his desk like he couldn't even be bothered to look at her. "This is my workplace, Aliana."
Her chest burned. "A scene?" She laughed under her breath, her voice shaking. "I waited for you the whole night. I made dinner for us. And now you're acting like I'm some stranger embarrassing you at work?"
He looked up at her, cold and detached. "You're overreacting. I never promised to be anything more than your fiancé in name. You agreed to this arrangement. So why are you trying to change it now?"
Aliana's breath caught. "Because I care about you! I always have. I've tried to make this work—"
"And I've told you before," he cut her off sharply, "I can't do that."
Something in her broke at the way he said it. Not angry, not sad—just tired. As if she was an obligation he couldn't wait to be done with.
Arman got up, slipping on his jacket with slow, practiced movements. "If you're going to be dramatic, I can't deal with this right now." He grabbed the file from his desk, the same one he'd hidden from her earlier, and started for the door.
"Arman, please—"
He didn't look back. The door shut behind him with a dull thud that echoed in the empty office.
For a long moment, Aliana just stood there, staring at the spot where he'd been. Then her eyes fell to the floor. A single photograph had slipped out of the file, face-down near the leg of the desk.
She bent down and picked it up.
It was the same girl from earlier—young, graceful, smiling faintly at something outside the frame. The picture wasn't taken from far; it was close, almost intimate.
Aliana frowned. She'd never seen this woman before. And Arman… he wasn't the type to chase after random girls or secretly keep their photos. Whoever she was, she meant something.
Her pulse quickened as she turned the photo over, her thoughts racing.
The dinner. The unanswered calls. The silence.
A hollow feeling settled in her chest. Was this the reason he didn't come home last night?
She tightened her grip on the photo, a mix of hurt and determination flashing in her eyes. "Fine," she whispered under her breath. "If you won't tell me who she is, I'll find out myself."