This time, it’s going to be a different story, dear diary. 

I’m just worried because this might be my last.

Darling, all I know are sad songs. 

-

Where I lived, grew up a boy, of age sixteen. He had thin, sharp eyes, a lanky, tall build, and nervous fingers. When he came to sing, I felt intimidated. This boy was everything I was not. He and I never became friends. 

My debut came three years prior to him, who is yet to learn how to crawl in this industry. We parted ways soon after we met, I only came to know his name – Junhong, and that he had a crazy potential in his thin frame. 

Life has had its ups and downs. I’ve made through with some hits, some falls, some gossip, some drugs, some women – and he?

Where had he been all this time?

He just showed up out of nowhere. 

It was a reality show.

I liked them, honestly. 

I was here for fun, but him, I wasn’t so sure. 

He was always tense, second-guessing his words and never saying much. He was a bore, he had very little camera time. Honestly, he knew not fun. I don’t know why it intrigued me so much. Dumped into the sea for a game, we were competing for dinner, winners, a crab-meal, and losers, instant ramen. 

He won. 

It was awkward. The directors started to discuss if they should fake a reaction from the rest of the group, and I honestly could take it no longer.

Tapping my cigarette on a shell, I sat down next to him. He inched further, as if I had walked into his private space. “Why are you here?” I asked, out of curiosity. 

“… Fans had asked me to. I don’t think I’m making them very happy.”

I ended up laughing, almost doubling over. That saved the episode. “Dear little Junhong, have fun for yourself, not for the fans.”

-

No one wanted to room with him, but we had no choice but to pair up for the next game. I volunteered. I’m not usually the nice kind. Junhong is too interesting. I just had to figure out what’s in his head. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t talk. I found out in the evening, when shooting was over. 

“You don’t like ramen?” 

“No.”

If you ask him boring questions, he will give you boring answers.

“Isn’t that bird annoying?” I rolled my eyes, glaring at a bird that just wouldn’t shut up. 

“The fault must have partly been in me, the bird was not to blame for his key.”

“Huh?” I turned my head around to see Junhong hunched over a magazine, and he lifted his eyes to spare me a glance. 

“Minor bird, by Robert frost. Never heard of it?”

I raised a brow. Did he quote a poem? I was a little surprised. I haven’t gone through many poems, I must admit. “No… what’s it about?”

He put his paper away and crossed his hands over his chest. “That’s arguable. What do you think?”

Junhong was that sort of person. 

One that had too much conflict inside himself. 

If you ask him the right questions, he’ll open like a book. 

-

I took him to a club, weeks later.

“You don’t drink?” I nearly choked on my cham