That Little Book

What will you do
when the person whose name
is sporadically mentioned in your journal
suddenly discovers that secret little book
that no one ever has access to, except you?
When you have no idea
which part he might have read,
and if, in the few pages he may have flipped through,
he found his name, written in your handwriting,
with such fondness
that you don’t usually ascribe to your other friends?

How will you react
when he casually hands you your treasured little book,
saying it fell from among the things you were carrying?
And as he hands it to you,
straight faced,
innocent-looking,
with no sign of mischief,
he says “This must be your diary?”
And upon checking that little book, you realize
that the bookmark is on the page of your last entry,
and his name on the first paragraph?

What if
he may already have an inkling
of your thoughts about him?
If he was able to get a glimpse
of the words you poured into that little book,
written as if no one will ever read it,
or even just glance at it?
And you ask yourself why, of all people,
should he be the first one to do so?
Will you be embarrassed of that little revelation?
Or would you be glad that at least he now knows?