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The Diary

 It was raining heavily that evening. He rushed out of the restaurant holding his diary inside his trench-coat, tightly clenched to his chest. The diary, his personal diary, has been more than a bunch of bound papers for him. It has been his sole companion all these years; asking about his day and listening to his words patiently with no judgment at all. 


He took shelter under a tree and waved his hand to a cab while still holding the dairy with the other hand. He got inside the cab and took out the dairy as soon as he got seated. He opened to the page where he left off. A drop had managed to seep through the guards into today’s freshly written account. He wiped the page with his palm which in turn smeared a word out of the last sentence. 
"not"
He read the newly formed sentence.
"I can handle it."
He shifted his gaze to the drops collected on the cab’s window, getting heavy and rolling down the surface, then he looked back at his diary. There was a smile on this face, a smile of rejoicing.
His diary had spoken to him for the very first time in all these years.

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