Shirine Diary 1

The room was silent, and the dim light from the lamp cast my shadow on the wall, as if I were standing between two timelines.

I placed the journal on my lap and opened to the first dated page...

"17 years old. Today, everything changed."

This was the first time Shirine wrote with true awareness, the first moment when dreams collided with a wall.

"Dad looked at me coldly and said in his loud voice: Finish high school and that's it. No college for girls. Enough education; a woman belongs in her husband's house."

She wrote it like a stab, and I felt the pain between the lines. I had heard those words too... not from my father, but from every father in this family, from every woman who believed that oppression is just another form of parenting.

"I asked him why. He said: Because that's the right thing. That's what people around us say. No one will accept a woman who's more educated than her husband."

"But I wasn't looking for a husband. I was looking for myself."

I paused for a moment, feeling a burning in my chest. Back then, Shirine wasn't just writing for herself... she was writing for me, for the one yet to come.

"From that day on, I started writing. I felt that if I didn't write, I would disappear." "At school, they said I was smart. But smart was never enough in a house like mine. Dad thought I knew too much, and Mom would say: A good girl doesn't look people in the eye."

"But I looked into someone's eyes… and my heart forgot how to behave."

Here, the handwriting in the journal changed. The letters became slightly shaky, as if she was daring herself or afraid of the truth:

"Her name is Yasmeen. New at school. Her voice soft like a late afternoon breeze, and her eyes held something... warmth maybe? Safety? I don't know, but I felt the whole world calm down when she looked at me."

"One day, she helped me gather the papers I dropped, and she asked: Do you like reading? I said yes... and she laughed, saying: You seem like someone who thinks too much."

"From that day on, I looked forward to school just to see her, not to study."

I was flipping the pages like they were pieces of my own heart. Every word was a mirror, every line connected me more deeply to her.

"The first time she touched my hand, my whole body trembled — not from fear, but from life."

"But I knew all of this was wrong in their eyes. That what we had couldn't be allowed. That it had to be buried... like everything good that happens to girls who think." "I used to think I was exaggerating… maybe it was just admiration, maybe just because she was nice. But I was lying to myself. I knew I loved her, but I couldn't say the word... not even to myself."

"I loved seeing her smile, and I wished I could be the reason. I got jealous when she talked too much with someone else. I felt joy when she looked at me suddenly and said: You're strange... but in a way I like."

"They used to say love is a blessing. Then why, when I found it, did it feel like theft?"

"I tried to tell myself I was normal, that what I felt wasn't sinful. But every face at home told me otherwise. Every word on TV, in sermons, even in Mom's prayers... denied who I was."

"One time, when I saw Yasmeen laughing with a boy, my heart ached. Not just with jealousy, but with the pain of knowing I could never be him. I'd never be able to hold her hand in the light. I knew he didn't love her like I did, but the world loved his love more."

"I tried to stay away from her. Talked to her less. Stopped laughing at her jokes. But she came and said: What's wrong? Are you upset with me? And at that moment, my tears betrayed me."

"I didn't know how to explain, but my heart was begging me to tell her: No, I love you... truly."

As Shirine wrote, her pen trembled in her hand... for the first time, she wrote the word clearly:

"I love her."

A moment of silence followed. As if even the ink had frozen.

On the next page, the handwriting was nervous, rushed:

"Today, Mom opened my desk drawer... she saw the notebook. She saw everything."

"She said to me: Are you my daughter? You're filth?!"

"Then... she locked the door from the outside."

The voice Shirine wrote in that last line wasn't a word...

It was a broken sentence.

An unfinished point.

As if the writing had been cut off suddenly.

And that was the last page of this part of the journal.

After I finished the last page, I felt something beneath the lining of the nightstand drawer. With trembling hands, I lifted the paper stuck to the bottom…

There was a single line written in a different handwriting:

"If you found this note, then there's still hope."