Where is it?
That thought went through my head a million times. The phrase started overlapping as I tore through the contents of my bag, hoping that maybe just once, if I go through my bag one more time, the outcome with change.
Where is it?
I carelessly threw the contents of my bag everywhere, anywhere, trying to find the small, black notebook that I kept my thoughts.
No, the outcome hadn't changed. It wasn't there.
Some person, somewhere, had my diary. My personal, private diary, and they were probably reading it.
Who has it?
That replaced my previous question. Hopefully someone from school didn't find it. That would suck some major ass.
People would know about the ginger that I saw from the corner of my eye, the one that mocks me.
They would know about my secret infatuation with Len.