Aarav's eyes snapped open.
The pit, the stitched figure, the endless plain of flesh—gone. He was lying in his own bed, sheets tangled around him, drenched in cold sweat. Pale morning light streamed through the curtains, casting gentle patterns across his desk.
For one fragile moment, he dared to believe it had all been a dream.
The diary sat quietly on the table. Its cover was still, its edges ordinary, no longer pulsing with veins or heat. His heart hammered against his ribs as he stumbled toward it, half-expecting it to vanish.
But the moment he touched his arm, reality cut through the illusion. Black veins slithered beneath his skin, faint but unmistakable, like ink spreading through his blood.
"No… no, this can't—"
A voice interrupted him.
"Aarav?"
He whipped around. His mother stood in the doorway, smiling softly.
"Breakfast is ready. You don't look well," she said, her tone calm, familiar.
Relief struck him like lightning. She was here. Alive. Normal.
But then—her smile didn't fade. It lingered, stretched. Her eyes didn't blink. The warmth in her voice hollowed into something cold.
"Ma…?" Aarav whispered.
Her lips twitched. The smile cracked wider, splitting at the edges. A thin line of blood trickled down her chin, but her grin only grew sharper.
And when she finally spoke again, the sound wasn't her voice at all.
> "Do you know how many faces I can wear, Aarav?"
His breath caught. His mother's skin peeled in strips, fluttering like loose pages torn from a book. The ribbons of flesh circled the room, sticking to the walls. The paint dissolved, replaced with parchment. His desk, his bed, even the floor beneath him—every surface turned into paper.
Pages.
Pages filled with words. Words he didn't write.
The whispers from the diary filled the air, overlapping, relentless:
> "You are already inside."
"You are already inside."
"You are already inside."
Aarav clutched his head, screaming, but the words wouldn't stop. His mother's shredded form spun faster and faster until she dissolved into nothing, leaving behind only the suffocating stench of ink.
The diary slammed shut on the desk. Silence crashed down.
He blinked.
And he was back in his bed again.
Sheets normal. Curtains normal. The diary sitting quietly on the desk.
But this time… something was wrong.
On the ceiling above him, scrawled in thick, dripping ink, was a single sentence:
"Chapter Twenty-Five."
The letters oozed downward like veins, crawling toward him. Aarav's body froze, his mind spiraling.
He wasn't living his life anymore.
He was living the diary's story.
And the story was still being written.