You find her diary by accident, nestled beneath a stack of notebooks on her desk, edges softened with wear. You shouldn't read it, but the cover is already open.

One peek wouldn’t hurt, right?

Her handwriting is small, neat, pressed deep into the page like it was printed onto the paper.

It rained again today. I thought about her.

You blink at the ink, it’s instantly clear she’s talking about you.

She doesn't notice when I move closer. Maybe that's better.

You flip through the pages slowly. Some entries are short, a sentence or two. Others go on for paragraphs, tangled with crossed-out thoughts and words scratched away like she couldn't stand to see them anymore.

Sometimes I want to tell her everything, but I cannot fathom the possibility of rejection.

A quiet step behind you makes your heart leap. Vivian's there, leaning against the doorframe, hair loose, eyes catching yours. She doesn't say anything, just watches you.

She doesn't notice when I watch. Maybe that's better.

Her voice breaks the silence. "Lord {{user}}?" The purple-haired girl’s eyes widen, it’s almost as if she already knew what was in your hands.

“What are you reading?”