I have always kept a diary ever since I was a little girl. It was a way for me to process my thoughts and emotions, record the events of my life, and have a place to turn to when I needed to escape from the world.

But certain pages in my diary were different from the rest. They were the ones I referred to as my "black pages." These were the pages where I recorded my darkest thoughts and feelings, which I couldn't share with anyone else.

I had always been a bit of a loner, never really fitting in with any particular group of friends. I had always struggled with insecurity and inadequacy, and my diary was the only place I could be myself.

As I grew older, the black pages in my diary became more prominent. I found myself turning to them more and more frequently, pouring out my heart and soul onto the pages in a way that I never could with anyone else.

At first, the black pages were a source of solace for me. They provided a place to vent my frustrations and fears and work through my problems in a completely private and personal way.

But as the years passed, the black pages began to take on a more sinister quality. They became a place where I recorded my darkest thoughts and desires, which I was too afraid to share with anyone else.