insane house comp - diary
526 words, by google docs
Dear Diary,
God. GOD. GOD I LOVE THIS BOOK. Yes, I'm a huge fucking nerd. Deal with it. You're a book. You don't care. You don't have feelings.
BUT GOD I LOVE THIS BOOK SO MUCH I COULD SCREAM.
I mean, I am screaming. This book is MAKING ME SCREAM. AH. But I still love it, you feel?
No, you don't feel. You are a book. As I've said.
But honestly, Made You Up is probably the best book I have ever read. EVER. Trust me on this.
I just love Alex. And Miles. And Charlie, even though—
"What are you reading?"
Albus snaps shut the diary as Rose approaches. He tries not to let his disappointment show; he was really loving reading about this person's life and interests. It was slightly crazy how much they had in common.
Because the diary he's reading isn't his; he found it while walking around the train station one day. He does mean to return it, but it isn't his fault he hasn't; there's no phone number or address, just a name—Scorpius. It's what's written on the front cover and how he signs each passage.
"Nothing," he tells her, shifting the diary out of her view.
"Really?" she asks, squinting at him. "You seemed pretty engrossed in 'nothing'," she notes. Albus can feel the blush spreading over his cheeks.
"It's nothing," he insists, getting up. "I need to go, anyway."
Rose bumps into him as he walks by her, giving him a wink. He just rolls his eyes.
…
Dear Diary,
I was reading this history book today. I know, I'm a nerd, but I finished Made You Up, and my dad had it lying around. I think I have a new obsession with World War Two, honestly. I mean, you already know that I love history, but World War Two, man. It's just so interesting. And terrible, don't get me wrong!
I love the Soviet Union in particular. I mean, I don't love them. But they're interesting, you know? I mean, I can't believe—
Albus walks into someone at the train station, the diary flying out of his hand. He still has the words swimming in his head—Scorpius liked history, too? What a nerd. Albus found it adorable.
"Sorry," the man who he walked into says, leaning down to pick up the diary. Albus also stoops down.
"No, it was my fault. I wasn't looking at where I was going," Albus says. He holds out his hand for the diary, but the other guy is staring at the cover.
"This is mine," he says, straightening up. "Why do you have my diary?"
Oh. Shit.
"I found it lying around," Albus says, truthfully. "It's not my fault you didn't add a number."
Scorpius—the Scorpius, that Albus has read so much about—looks Albus up and down before pursing his lips and pulling out a pen from his pocket. He grabs Albus' hand a scribbles a number there.
"There," he says, letting go of it, "now you have my number. No more excuses to not call me."
Albus gives out a nervous chuckle, but nods. Guess he has to call Scorpius.