Rather than speaking, Roach prefers to pour his words into a journal—a scuffed, worn-out thing. You can never quite tell what he’s scribbling into it, but he’s always writing quickly, as if the words might disappear from his mind at any given moment.

His hasty, almost frantic writing only heightened your curiosity.

So when you see the journal, sitting open on his bunk… you can’t resist. You’ve hardly flicked past the first page before you hear a voice behind you.

“...what are you doing?”