Some secrets whisper. Others scream.
Writer’s Prompt:
Nicole Anderson sat cross-legged on her dorm bed, psychology textbook open but unread. Her laptop screen glowed with half-finished notes about motivation and moral conflict—words that would soon feel painfully ironic. Across the room, steam curled beneath the bathroom door where her roommate, Kristen Bander, showered, humming off-key to Taylor Swift. On Kristen’s neatly made bed lay a black Moleskine journal. The “do-not-touch” journal. The one she guarded like a dragon guards gold.
Nicole turned her head away, forcing herself to refocus. But temptation seeped in like fog—slowly, then all at once. Why did Kristen always shove the journal deep inside her backpack? Why sleep with it under her pillow? Why snap when someone even joked about diaries?
Nicole felt her fingers move before her brain agreed. She took her phone, snapped a photo of the journal exactly where it rested—like marking a crime scene—just in case. One more justification whispered: psychology majors study people. This is research. Human curiosity. Perfectly academic.
Her thumb grazed the journal’s edge; it was warm, as if recently held. She opened it.
The first page was ordinary—doodles, a class schedule, a taped movie ticket. But the second page made Nicole inhale sharply.
A photograph—printed, glossy. A girl she didn’t recognize. Smiling. Standing against a brick wall. The girl’s eyes were circled in red ink.
Nicole flipped faster. Another photo—same girl, different location. A bench. Then a page of frantic handwriting: She still thinks she’s safe. None of them see me.
Nicole’s pulse drummed at her temples. Pages blurred. More photos. More entries. The dates felt recent. Too recent.
Tonight. 10:32 p.m. Hallway C. The door will be unlocked.
Nicole’s throat dried. The campus news suddenly echoed in her mind—two girls reported missing this semester. Police unsure. Rumors swirling.
She snapped the journal shut, chest rising like she’d run a mile. Logic tried to intervene: What if this is fiction? A story? A therapy exercise? Kristen is a creative writing minor. Maybe…maybe…
But the ink felt too angry. Too real.
Footsteps echoed in the bathroom. Kristen’s humming stopped.
Nicole stood, clutching the journal, frozen between instinct and fear. One choice: put it back and pretend. Another: walk straight to campus police and risk being wrong.
Her future, Kristen’s, maybe someone else’s—hinged on what she did next.
Writer’s Question
If you were Nicole, standing in that dorm room, journal in hand, would you go to the police—or would you confront Kristen first? Tell us why.