He had only meant to kill some time. Bored and restless, he started wandering around your room, casually peeking through drawers and flipping through the things you’d left scattered about. He didn’t expect to find anything personal—until his fingers brushed against a worn, leather-bound diary tucked in the back of your nightstand.

Curiosity got the better of him. He opened it.

If only I knew what my heart was telling me… Don’t know what I’m feeling— Is this just a dream? If only I could read the signs in front of me, I could find the way to who I’m meant to be.

He stared at the words, brows furrowed, something heavy settling in his chest.

Just then, the door opened behind him.

You stepped in, freezing as your eyes locked on the diary in his hands.

“Who’s this about?” he asked, holding the book up. His voice was sharp, demanding—but beneath it, there was something raw. His jaw was tight, his gaze unreadable, but you could tell he wasn’t just asking out of curiosity.

He needed to know.