One Truth Per Day

The diary had no title, no lock, no name. Just a plain black leather cover with pages that smelled faintly of old ink and rain.

Rayaan found it wedged between the floorboards of his newly rented apartment. He had only moved in two days ago—fresh start, new city, no emotional baggage. At least, that was the plan.

The first night, he opened it absentmindedly before bed.

"Truth #1: Your boss, Mr. Karan Malhotra, embezzled 4.2 million rupees last year. He buried the evidence in a USB drive labeled wedding photos."

Rayaan laughed nervously. He closed the book. Just a joke. Some prank. The previous tenant messing around, maybe.

But curiosity is a stubborn itch.

The next morning, unable to resist, he asked his boss about wedding photos—casually. Mr. Malhotra froze, dropped his coffee, and asked who told him.

Rayaan didn’t answer. He just smiled and walked away, heart pounding.

That night, the diary’s second page was filled.

"Truth #2: Your neighbor Rekha listens to her dead husband’s voicemails every night. She believes they change depending on her mood."

This time, he waited. At 11:58 p.m., the next page was blank. At exactly 12:00 a.m., fresh black ink bled into the cream paper—like it was being written by an invisible hand.

By the fifth night, Rayaan had learned:

His best friend once left a hit-and-run victim to die.

His landlord has been watching tenants through hidden cameras.

His ex is pregnant—and it’s not her current boyfriend’s child.


Every night at midnight: One page. One truth. One person he knows.

Each one was verifiable. Every page turned into a dark mirror reflecting the filth behind friendly smiles.

But on the tenth night, everything changed.

"Truth #10: Someone close to you is planning to kill you."

Rayaan’s breath hitched. His eyes darted across the apartment. Every creak of the building sounded like footsteps. Every shadow deepened.

He didn’t sleep that night.

By morning, he had installed a lock on his bedroom door and texted vague warnings to all his acquaintances. He even carried a pocket knife.

The diary gave no names. Just truths. Cold, sharp, and cruel.

He wanted to burn it—but couldn’t. It felt alive now, like destroying it would invite worse things.

Day 12:

"Truth #12: Your mother lied about your father’s death. He’s alive and in a mental institution two cities away."

He visited. The truth checked out.

His father wept at the sight of him. "They told me you were dead," he whispered.

Rayaan couldn’t speak. He had no room left for grief or rage.


---

By the 17th night, the diary took a darker turn.

"Truth #17: You killed someone when you were six. Your parents erased the memory to protect you."

He laughed. “Ridiculous.”

Until he found the newspaper clipping:
"Local Child Accidentally Causes Death of Babysitter With Firearm."

It was dated the same week he had that recurring childhood nightmare—the one with blood and sirens.

The next night:

"Truth #18: The diary feeds on your disbelief. The more you doubt, the stronger it becomes."

He stopped laughing.

The diary had more than just ink. It had power. It wasn’t recording truths—it was revealing what the world wanted hidden.


---

On the 30th night, the diary gave him the final blow.

"Truth #30: Tomorrow, you will write the next truth. With blood. Or the truths will start writing themselves in the bodies of those you love."

Rayaan stared at the words. His fingers trembled. There was a small silver blade beside the diary that hadn’t been there before.

Was it always going to end like this?

The next night, he picked up the blade. He pricked his finger. Red drops stained the page. Then he wrote:

"Truth #31: I am not the first. I won’t be the last."

The ink shimmered. Then sank into the page like it had always belonged there.

The diary closed itself.

And Rayaan understood.

The truths never end.

Only the writers do.