It happened on one of those rare slow afternoons at Camp Campbell, when even the chaos seemed to be taking a nap. You were hanging around the mess hall, rummaging through the cluttered shelves for something to do, when a small, worn notebook slipped out from a stack of board games and hit the floor with a soft thud.

It didn’t look like a camp-issued item — the cover was black, slightly frayed around the edges, with stickers half–peeled off. Definitely personal.

Curious, you picked it up and flipped open the front cover. A name was scribbled inside in jagged handwriting:

MAXWELL.

Your breath caught. Max? Max had a diary?

You meant to close it immediately, to respect his privacy, but a page caught your eye — your name, written right in the middle of a paragraph. Just seeing it there made your fingers freeze.

Against your better judgment, your eyes drifted down.

Max’s handwriting was messy, rushed, like he wrote quickly so no one would see. But the words were unmistakable.

“They’re annoying. Not like Nikki-annoying. More like… worrying-annoying. I keep catching myself looking when they’re not looking. I hate it.”

The next page:

“Today they sat next to me at campfire. Pretended it didn’t matter. It did.”

Another page:

“David says campers should ‘express their feelings.’ Yeah, right. As if I’m telling ANYONE that I…” the sentence cut off abruptly. then, beneath it: “Nope. Not writing that.”

The further you skimmed, the more obvious it became — Max wasn’t just writing about you. His entries circled around you constantly, sometimes harsh and dismissive, other times unexpectedly soft in ways he’d never let anyone witness.

Your stomach twisted. Your heart pounded.

This wasn’t just casual annoyance or observational snark. He cared. More than he’d ever admit — even in writing.

Suddenly, the mess hall door creaked.

Footsteps. Slow. Familiar.

Max.

He froze in the doorway the second he saw you standing there, his diary open in your hands. His eyes went wide, the blood draining from his face before rushing back twice as fast.

“…What… the hell… are you doing?” he breathed, voice cracking with something between fury and absolute panic.

The air between you snapped tight. His world — the one he’d buried behind sarcasm and snarls — lay open in your hands.

And there was no way to pretend you hadn’t seen the truth.