Fourteen

Whatever waited on the next page—

it didn’t look extraordinary.

It looked childish.

The paper felt thinner than I remembered.

Old.

Fragile.

Like if I held it too tightly, even the memory would tear.

And suddenly—

there she was.

Fourteen-year-old me.

Messy handwriting.

Uneven margins.

Too much confidence for someone whose English clearly needed help.

I smiled before even reading.

At the top of the page, it said—

'I am writing this diary in English because I like English.'

I laughed.

"Of course you are."

That sounded exactly like me.

Simple.

Direct.

And unnecessarily dramatic.

That was such a fourteen-year-old thing to write.

No explanation.

No hesitation.

Just confidence.

As if liking English was enough reason to write an entire diary in it.

And honestly—

maybe it was.

The next line made me laugh even harder.

'My English is wrong somewhere because I am 14 years old when I write letter.'

"Somewhere?" I whispered.

"It was wrong almost everywhere."

But strangely—

it felt cute.

Not embarrassing.

Just... honest.

I kept reading.

'This is the time period of Corona virus of 2020-21. I think who was read this diary, he/she will not in that period. But I am there.'

I stopped for a second.

That sentence was terrible.

But somehow—

it perfectly captured fourteen.

That confidence.

That innocence.

That belief that your diary is documenting world history.

I smiled and kept going.

'As I tell you that our schools were close in the month of March.'

Yes.

That much was true.

And then—

the next line.

The one that made me laugh out loud.

'My school was close on which paper? It was math! I hate math.'

I covered my face.

"Oh wow."

I could actually imagine myself writing that.

Probably with a huge smile.

Probably feeling like life had finally done something nice for me.

The entire world was entering lockdown.

People were scared.

The news was terrifying.

And fourteen-year-old me was celebrating a cancelled maths exam.

Honestly—

fair enough.

The next line only made it better.

'I am praying to God on that day that anyhow my maths paper cancelled and "Hurray!"'

"That is so embarrassing," I muttered.

But I was smiling.

Actually smiling.

For the first time that night.

Maybe that was the strange magic of old diaries.

They don't just show you who you were.

They remind you how loudly you used to feel things.

At fourteen, happiness was simple.

Cancelled exam?

Best day ever.

Unexpected holidays?

A blessing.

No school?

Pure joy.

No overthinking.

No pretending.

No complicated emotions.

Just excitement.

And while reading her words—

I realized how much I missed that version of myself.

That loud version.

That unfiltered version.

That girl who could celebrate something as small as a cancelled exam like she had won a war.

Somewhere along the way—

I had become quieter.

Heavier.

More careful.

I moved to the next page.

Still smiling.

Expecting more dramatic complaints.

More bad grammar.

More little chaos.

But the smile slowly faded.

Because the handwriting had changed.

It looked slower.

Less excited.

And somehow—

older.

The next page didn't begin with excitement.

It began with a complaint.

And for some reason—

that frightened me more.

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