By the time Hiyori was five, her world was already shaped by fear. She hadn't started school yet, but she had learned more about the cruelty of life than any child her age should. While other children laughed and played, dreaming of colorful classrooms and making friends, Hiyori sat quietly in the corner of her small room, her heart heavy with dread.
Her parents didn't love each other. Hiyori was certain of that. Their smiles and laughter in front of neighbors and relatives were nothing more than masks—fragile facades they wore to fool the world. But the moment they were alone, the masks would slip, revealing the bitterness underneath.
Her father's voice was like thunder, roaring through the thin walls of their home. Her mother's sobs were quieter, muffled by her attempts to hide her pain, but Hiyori always heard them. Plates shattered. Doors slammed. Accusations flew like sharp knives, and each one seemed to cut deeper into Hiyori's heart.
She blamed herself.
Maybe if she were quieter, if she didn't ask for toys or sweets, if she were better somehow, her parents would stop fighting. Maybe they'd smile at each other the way they did when others were watching. But no matter how small she made herself or how obedient she tried to be, the yelling never stopped.
One evening, after a particularly brutal argument, Hiyori sat in her room, her knees pulled tightly to her chest. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she rocked back and forth, trying to block out the noise. The guilt weighed heavily on her tiny shoulders, a burden far too heavy for a child to bear.
In the corner of the room sat a notebook her mother had given her—a cheap, unlined book with a plain blue cover. It had been meant for drawing, but Hiyori didn't feel like drawing happy faces or flowers. Instead, she picked up a pencil and began to write.
Her small, shaky letters filled the first page:
"I'm scared. They hate each other. It's my fault. If I wasn't here, maybe they'd be happy. Maybe they wouldn't yell so much. I wish I could make it stop. But I can't."
The words poured out of her like a flood, capturing her fears, her sadness, and the weight of the loneliness that consumed her. The act of writing didn't make the pain go away, but it gave her a place to put it, a way to speak when there was no one to listen.
She wrote about the way her father's eyes darkened with anger, how her mother's voice shook when she tried to defend herself, and the emptiness she felt when the house fell into cold, uneasy silence.
But there were no solutions in her words. Only questions and guilt.
"Why can't I make them happy? Why am I here if I only make things worse? Am I broken?"
Each night, after the fighting subsided, Hiyori would sit with her notebook, writing until her tears blurred the words. She kept it hidden under her mattress, terrified of what would happen if her parents found it.
As the days turned into weeks, the notebook became her only refuge. It was the only place where she could be honest, where she didn't have to pretend to be part of the perfect family her parents tried to show to the world. But the diary couldn't stop the nightmares that plagued her, or the way she flinched every time someone raised their voice.
By the time Hiyori was ready to start school, she was a shadow of a child. She moved through the world quietly, her eyes darting nervously, always watching for signs of danger. She didn't trust easily. She didn't laugh like other children.
Inside, she carried the weight of her family's brokenness, a secret she could never share. And no matter how many words she poured into her notebook, the fear and sadness remained.
Hiyori's first entry in her diary ended with a sentence that haunted her, even as she grew older:
"I'm scared of the world because it feels like home."