Stolen Diary

Jason stole my diary. He flaunted it in the dorm. "Helen wasn't even that hard to get. Took me three months to seal the deal. Weren't you guys dying to know what she scribbles in this thing every day? Let's read it together." His roommates crowded around him, hyping him up. "Bro, obviously she’s writing pages of love confessions about you." He flipped to the first page. [I agreed to date Jason just so I could be a little closer to him.] He flipped to the second page. [Why did he have to be Jason's roommate?] The entire dorm went dead silent. 01 When Jason came to find me, he looked like he was about to be sick. I knew immediately that he had read my completely fabricated diary. Hilarious. That’s what you get for being a thief. Hope it eats you alive. I let out a cold, cynical laugh in my head, but on the outside, I kept my smile impossibly sweet and pure. "Jason, what brings you here?" He just stared at me. A few heavy seconds passed before his voice dropped into a low, strained register. "Helen, you're my girlfriend now. I want to introduce you to my roommates." I immediately plastered a look of sheer joy onto my face, pretending not to notice that his expression was darker than a thundercloud. "Really?" I asked, lacing my voice with the perfect amount of nervous excitement. "I finally get to meet your friends?" Jason ground his teeth together. "Yeah. We’re getting dinner tonight." I paused, biting my lip as if I’d just remembered something terrible. "But I have my shift later..." He whipped out his phone without a second thought. A notification popped up. He had just CashApped me twenty grand. "Call in sick," he demanded. "Tell them you have an emergency." I immediately hit refund and put on a mask of righteous refusal. "I can't take your money. How could you even ask me to?" He sent it again. I refunded it again. He sent it a third time. Finally, after Jason aggressively added a note saying "Voluntary Gift" and snatched my phone to forcefully accept the transfer, I let the charade end. Taking a highly satisfying mental screenshot of my new bank balance, I looked up at him with teary, moved eyes. "Jason, you're so good to me." 02 I am a student at St. Jude's Academy. I am also the absolute poorest scholarship student on this entire campus. Jason, on the other hand, is one of the wealthiest blue-bloods wandering these halls. His specific dorm room is practically the academy's own untouchable elite squad. They even have an unofficial fan club. Jason’s biggest daily struggles consist of deciding whether to fly to London or Paris for the weekend, or whether he prefers scuba diving or snowboarding. My daily calculations are vastly different. I have to figure out how to maintain my spot for the highest academic grants, calculate how many part-time shifts I can physically survive this month, and meticulously maintain my persona as the fragile, innocent girl-next-door. The persona is crucial for getting sympathy and maintaining friendly terms with the student body, so I don't end up bullied and ostracized like the poor girls in teen movies. On top of that, I have to mentally track which food delivery coupons are stacking, which stores offer free birthday freebies, and the exact rotation of grocery store discount days. This is the life of the poor. Tedious, exhausting, and endless. Originally, Jason and I minded our own business. We existed in parallel universes. That was until some ridiculous rumors started floating around campus. People whispered that I was impossible to get. That some guy chased me for six months and failed. They also said I wrote in a diary every single day, and that it held my deepest, darkest secrets. My reaction? Pure confusion. First of all, I had no idea who this mystery guy even was. I didn't know anyone was chasing me, period. The second a lecture ended, I was already sprinting out the door for work. If people talked to me, I usually just smiled, nodded blankly, and let the words go in one ear and out the other. As for the diary I supposedly wrote in every day? It was my accounting ledger. I've had a habit of meticulously tracking my expenses by hand since I was a kid. But those rumors somehow piqued Jason's interest. Not only was he obsessed with finding out what was in my "diary," but he also made a bet with his roommates about how many months it would take to get me into bed. I rejected him time and time again. He remained relentlessly, aggravatingly persistent. Then came the breaking point. Jason showed up at the upscale restaurant where I waited tables, paid a customer under the table to humiliate me, and then dramatically stepped in to play the hero. That was the moment I snapped. After my manager tore into me, I walked back out to the dining floor, my uniform still damp and smelling of spilled soup. Under Jason’s watchful gaze, I clenched my jaw tight enough to crack a tooth, forced a trembling, grateful smile, and said softly, "Thank you, Jason." You don't want to be a decent human being? Fine. You can be my personal ATM instead. 03 Jason took me to a high-end French bistro. When we arrived, all three of his roommates were already seated at a plush corner booth. Even though they tried to hide it, I could feel the sheer weight of their stares burning into me. People are so predictable. None of them actually liked me, but the second they thought I was secretly in love with one of them, and that I only used Jason to get closer, their fragile male egos and morbid curiosity skyrocketed. The smugness radiating off them was practically suffocating. A bunch of voyeuristic trust-fund brats. I cursed all three of these bored rich boys to hell and back in my head, but my face remained a mask of polite shyness. I even added a micro-detail, gently pulling my hand out of Jason's grip. It was the ultimate subtle giveaway of a girl terrified to hold her boyfriend's hand in front of her true crush. Jason felt it instantly. His expression darkened again. He grabbed my hand back, lacing our fingers with a bruising grip, though his voice remained sickly sweet. "Helen, these are my roommates. You’ve probably seen them around campus." I nodded, pressing my lips into a tight line, completely refusing to speak. Knowing Jason, I knew he would never confront me openly. First, his ego could never handle admitting he snooped through my diary. Second, he definitely felt played and was currently burning alive with the need to figure out which roommate was the "him" in my entries. Third, the sheer competitive drive. The moment he realized I was into his roommate, I stopped being a casual bet and transformed into a prize he had to keep at all costs. Men. So predictable. Rich or poor, they’re all the same. Their thoughts are broadcasted right on their faces, decoded in a fraction of a second. As we reached the table, Jason was still burning holes into the side of my head, trying to track my eye movement to guess which roommate I was swooning over. But why would I ever give him the answer? I didn't look at a single one of them. Instead, I looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Jason, aren't you going to sit down?" Jason remained entirely speechless. 04 The atmosphere at the table was wound tighter than a snare drum. Oliver broke the silence first. "Jason, we haven't ordered yet. Why don't you see what Helen... uh, what your girlfriend wants." Oliver had these bright, golden-retriever eyes, strong features, and dimples when he smiled. He exuded this effortless, sunny optimism. I honestly didn't blame him. If my family owned ten historic estates in the city center, I’d be pretty damn optimistic too. He slid a leather-bound menu toward me. The page was a dizzying blur of French culinary terms. I couldn't recognize a single dish. I could, however, read the numbers on the right. One appetizer cost my entire month's rent. The sheer audacity of the prices was making me want to eat the rich. I gently pushed the menu back, offering a timid smile. "I've never had any of this before. You guys can just order for me." Oliver took it back. "Alright, Jason, you take the lead. You definitely know what she likes." Jason had absolutely no clue what I liked. All he knew was that I usually inhaled whatever was put in front of me. But I knew exactly what to do. I had done my homework. The files uploaded by their unofficial fan club were highly detailed. Jason loved mangoes. But Oliver was deathly allergic to them. So, I furrowed my brow slightly and whispered to the waiter, "Excuse me, none of these dishes have mango in them, right?" The table plunged into silence once more. Jason stared at me. Oliver stared at me. I looked around, the picture of pure confusion. "Is something wrong? I just asked because I can't eat mangoes." Before Jason could even open his mouth, I delivered the checkmate. "Jason, you didn't know?" Under my soft gaze, Jason completely froze. He couldn't admit he didn't know. After all, his current persona was the deeply devoted boyfriend who had spent months winning my heart. But if he claimed he knew, it would be a blatant lie. Because I just made it up. I love mangoes. I literally drank a massive mango slushie this morning. Oliver, quick on his feet, smoothed things over. "Wow, what a coincidence. I'm allergic to mangoes too." I sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the senior girls in the drama club for all the acting tips they’d shared. I also thanked the universe for the few indie film extras gigs I did for cash. I lowered my eyelashes, sitting in quiet stillness for a long moment. When I finally lifted my gaze, I let my eyes meet Oliver’s, making sure my expression was unbearably soft and tender. When he finished speaking, I murmured, "Yeah. What a coincidence." In reality, my peripheral vision was working overtime, scanning all three guys across the table. Look down, look up at Oliver. Look down, look up at Sebastian. Look down, look up at Zane. I made sure no one felt left out. Everyone got a dose of the lovesick gaze. Three parts lonely, three parts admiring, two parts melancholic, and two parts restrained. My eyeballs were practically cramping, but it was hands down the Oscar-winning performance of my life. Oliver stiffened. He looked completely out of his depth. He shifted out of his relaxed, leaning-back posture, sitting up straight. Then, he shot a covert, highly disapproving glare at Jason. 05 Jason was sitting right next to me. From his angle, he completely missed the visual masterpiece of my eye acting. But he didn't miss my physical acting. Like right now. Before the food even arrived, I very naturally reached over and moved the cup of hot tea away from my own placemat, sliding it across the table. Jason stopped moving and stared at me. I looked straight past him. "President, shouldn't you take your medicine first?" Sebastian was the student council president of our academy. At St. Jude's, where the students practically ran the administration, he was basically the local emperor. Sebastian wore silver-rimmed glasses. He had this classically handsome, refined face. He looked like old money personified, always impeccably polite, but keeping a freezing distance from everyone around him. In short, he was a massive snob. But again, I understood him. If I were the sole heir to a global Fortune 500 conglomerate, I’d be even more insufferable than him. Jason snapped at me, "What medicine? What are you talking about?" I let my eyes linger on Sebastian, holding his gaze. Jason was clearly losing his mind. The muscle in his jaw was practically vibrating as he shot Sebastian a lethal, "so it’s you" glare. "I tried out for the student council recently, but..." I started, letting my voice trail off into a melancholic sigh. I left plenty of blank space for their imaginations to run wild. A few seconds later, I visibly pulled myself together, forcing a bright, brave smile. "So, I found out the President has a bad stomach." There was absolutely zero correlation between those two statements. I did try out for the council. And the reason I didn't get in was that I failed the very first round of interviews. I had applied for the position of Council Secretary, which was basically the emperor's right hand. I took the application incredibly seriously. I even quit two of my part-time jobs just to prepare. I was absolutely determined to get that role. First, as secretary, I would be second-in-command. I could walk around St. Jude's like I owned the place. Second, I would only ever have to suck up to Sebastian. If anyone else tried to boss me around, I could just drop a "the President needs me" and watch them back off. Third, I was usually too busy to care about extracurricular credits. I literally pulled weeds on campus for extra cash. But working directly for the council? My academic credits would be maxed out effortlessly. Fourth, and most importantly, I figured I could slowly win over the masses, stage a coup, or just wait for Sebastian to graduate early, leaving me as the new reigning monarch. Who wouldn't be tempted by that kind of power? I certainly was. I even studied Sebastian’s files meticulously. He had gastric issues. The classic, generic CEO stomach illness. I made sure to memorize it, knowing it would be a perfect tool for kissing up to him later. But despite scoring first place on the written exam, I was booted in the first interview. Because I couldn't compete with the girl who had just donated a million dollars to the council’s event fund. She was the president of Sebastian's fan club, throwing endless piles of cash just to breathe the same air as him. I tossed and turned all night after that, genuinely wondering if I got plastic surgery to look like Sebastian, someone would throw a million dollars at me too. I watched the sunrise and still couldn't let it go. But Sebastian definitely knew nothing about this. He could never have guessed my dark, treasonous plans to usurp his throne. Right now, he just looked slightly stunned. His pale tea-colored eyes locked onto mine, a complex swirl of emotions shifting behind his lenses. After a long pause, he said, "Thank you." I immediately blurted out, "...You never have to thank me." Jason looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. His eyes were practically shooting lasers, glaring at Sebastian. Meanwhile, I simply lowered my head, murmuring softly, "You're all Jason's friends. It's the least I can do." Then, I secretly reached out and hooked my pinky finger around Jason’s. His blazing fury froze solid on his face. He whipped his head toward me, only to find me smiling at him, my eyes curved in a crescent, looking utterly, innocently sweet. Jason was rendered completely speechless. He silently turned his head back toward the table. But he didn't unhook his pinky from mine. 06 Jason's final roommate was Zane. He had the kind of face that practically invited trouble, possessing the sharp, striking bone structure of a runway model. Even though he always looked halfway to sleep and dressed like he couldn't care less, slipping on a plain white tee made him look like he was headlining a designer campaign. Because of this, he sat at the very top of the academy's "Most Smashable" list. I have no idea who invented that list, but they were a genius for finding a loophole in the school's strict anti-gossip firewall. Back then, Zane and Sebastian's fan clubs were in an all-out turf war over the number one spot. I took fifty bucks from my desk-mate, guiltlessly rejected the class rep's aggressive lobbying, and cast my vote for Zane. My desk-mate claimed Zane was incredibly laid-back, easily the most approachable guy in their elite circle. She even showed me his social media. He replied to almost every single comment. But my eyes were entirely locked on the actual content of his post. Zane had uploaded a screenshot casually mentioning that his mutual funds had a solid return that month. The string of zeros was blinding. I counted them one by one. Tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, millions... twenty million. I took a moment to imagine a reality where my monthly passive income was twenty million dollars. If that were me, I would love absolutely everyone on this earth. I would be entirely devoid of negative emotions. But Zane genuinely had real problems. His father had four wives and three sons. His mother was the first wife, but she was the least favored. His father never gave him an ounce of paternal love, only cold, lifeless money. I felt deeply sorry for him. Because if someone handed me that much cold, lifeless money, I would gladly offer them the most scorching, passionate fatherly love imaginable. So, for a long time, whenever I looked at Zane, my gaze was filled with warm, parental affection. That was until Jason decided to make my life hell, and my hatred officially extended to their entire suite. I hope every single one of these entitled, meddling snobs rots. 07 During dinner, Zane and I barely exchanged a single word. Not until I excused myself to the restroom. When I walked out, Zane was leaning against the tiled wall, watching me. He must have just splashed water on his face. His dark hair was slightly damp at the edges, a stray drop of water tracing the sharp line of his brow bone. I immediately averted my eyes, playing the skittish fawn. "Zane." He looked thoughtful for a second before a slow, easy smile spread across his face. "Helen. We aren't total strangers, are we?" I quickly ducked my head, kicking into high gear with my performance. I hid my hands behind my back, pinching my own fingertips until the knuckles turned white. We had actually crossed paths before. One of my old part-time jobs was at a late-night diner right next to the luxury racing club he frequented. Every time he finished burning rubber on the track, I was still on shift. "Haven't seen you around lately," he noted. I was genuinely surprised. We had barely exchanged three sentences back then, yet he actually remembered me. "It wasn't a good fit," I replied vaguely. Why else does anyone change jobs? The pay wasn't good enough, obviously. And I had found something that paid more. But Zane’s imagination clearly took a wild detour. His expression shifted into something incredibly subtle. He asked, "Then back then... why were you always still there every time I left?" I wanted to scream. Because I was on the clock! I had to wait to clock out, or I would have been gone hours ago! But Zane was staring at me with intense, searching eyes. I took a few seconds to let the silence stretch, then lifted my gaze to meet his, making sure my eyes looked devastatingly earnest. "If you saw a light still on when you were leaving... did it make you feel a little happier?" According to my research, Zane was notorious for wasting electricity. His penthouse was always blazing with lights, burning brightly through the entire night. Combining his background, his deep-seated family trauma, and his whole vibe, I made an educated guess: the guy was terrified of the dark. Just like stomach ulcers, nyctophobia was apparently a must-have fashion accessory for the ultra-rich. Sure enough, Zane’s casual posture faltered. He looked completely caught off guard. Before he could recover, I walked right past him. Just as I passed his shoulder, I paused my steps and let my voice drop to a breathy whisper. "I just want you to be happy, Zane." 08 After dinner, Jason walked me back to my dorm. He immediately started fishing for information. "So, my roommates aren't too bad, right?" I nodded, then rose slightly on my tiptoes, leaning close to him. Whatever he was about to ask died in his throat. He watched, mesmerized, as I reached up, my arm brushing his neck, and plucked a stray fallen leaf from his hair. We were standing dangerously close. His breathing hitched, his eyes dropping to stare at my face. I smoothly pulled the leaf back, hiding it in my palm, and looked up at him with a bright, adoring smile. "Your friends are great, Jason. But to me, you're the best." He didn't speak for a long time. This arrogant, high-and-mighty heir had clearly never been in a real relationship. Even after we officially started dating, he hadn't even held my hand properly, too obsessed with figuring out how to steal my diary. He was a decent thief, sure, but in the game of pure, romantic manipulation? He was way out of his league. I would bet my life he had never dealt with a move like this before. "I’ve never had food that expensive before," I added softly. "Thank you for spending so much on me." "What do you usually eat, then?" he blurted out. I stayed quiet. Something seemed to click in his head, and a flash of regret crossed his face. When he had been "chasing" me, eight out of ten times he bumped into me, I was eating from a cheap takeout styrofoam box. The other two times, I was choking down convenience store rice balls or discounted bread. The dining halls at St. Jude's were notoriously overpriced. But I didn't see the problem. What’s wrong with boxed lunches? There are elite-tier boxed lunches out there. The one I frequented was a hidden gem I had struck gold with—cheap, delicious, and massive portions. The owner always slipped me extra crispy pickled cucumbers and radishes, and since I paid for a monthly meal plan, she gave me a massive discount. But Jason clearly didn't share my culinary worldview. He looked instantly agitated, pulling out his phone and aggressively tapping the screen. "You're my girlfriend now. Stop eating that garbage," he said, his voice gruff. "Take the money. If I'm busy, buy yourself something decent. When I'm free, I'll take you out." Garbage? It had carbs, a protein, and a vegetable! I mentally apologized to the sweet lunch lady on his behalf. On the surface, I slipped perfectly into my fragile, hesitant persona. After a few rounds of weak protests, I reluctantly accepted the transfer. "Honestly, just eating with you makes me happy," I said. "Even instant noodles would taste amazing." Then, I reached into my bag and pulled out a small plastic Tupperware container, handing it to him. Inside was a bizarre, lumpy mango concoction that looked like a culinary disaster. "I can't eat mangoes, but I know they're your favorite," I said softly. "I tried making this this morning. It doesn't look great, and I wasn't even going to give it to you... you can just throw it away if you don't want it." It really did look terrible. It was the leftover pulp and absolute dregs from the mango slushie I had made myself that morning. I had meant to throw it in the trash but forgot. As I handed it over, my sleeve slipped down just enough to reveal a cluster of faint, red spots on my wrist. It looked exactly like an allergic reaction. —During dinner, when Oliver mentioned that people with severe allergies break out in hives just from touching the fruit, inspiration struck. I had rushed to the bathroom and drawn them on with a red pen. Jason’s gaze zeroed in on my wrist. He went totally mute. Only after I frantically yanked my sleeve down, playing the part of someone trying to hide her sacrifice, did he finally let out a low, rough "Yeah." "I'm going to head up now, Jason," I said. "See you tomorrow." "See you tomorrow," he echoed. I walked up the stairs and stopped at the third-floor landing, peering out the window. Sure enough, Jason was still standing by the entrance, frozen like a statue. Then, the statue moved. The statue opened the container and started eating my biohazard waste. The statue looked like it wanted to gag, but it powered through, swallowing the disgusting mush down. Two minutes later, my phone buzzed. Jason: Thank you, baby. It was delicious. I couldn't hold it in anymore. I let out a sharp, breathless laugh. Feeling guilty? Feeling regret? Heart bleeding for me? Realizing you’re a complete monster? Oh, honey, we are just getting started. Jason, you absolute amateur.