Finn was staring up at the broken, dome-shaped ceiling, clicking his tongue in boredom. He and Rachel had been at the church almost an hour, and after reading about 10 pages of the journal – which apparently belonged to a guy named Kurt Hummel – they realized they might not want to read the whole thing. Thing was, this Kurt person seemed to be a really unhappy sort of fellow. Like he wrote on January 3rd, 1915, he kept his exterior splendid to look good, but used the journal to write how he was breaking down inside. He never fully explained why he was unhappy, at least in the parts Finn and Rachel read.

Now Rachel had spent over twenty minutes trying to find out more about the war and about the mysterious Blaine, almost tearing the fragile pages ion frustration. She wouldn't believe that the dedication at the first page would be the only mention of Blaine.

"Maybe we should just give up," Finn suggested lamely, thinking that this wasn't how he had planned to spend his night with Rachel. But just in that moment, Rachel's face shone up, a huge smile spreading across her face. "Did you find anything?" Finn asked, sitting up and stretching his sore arms.

"Mhm," she hummed, turning back a few pages. "Look at this," she said, showing the opened pages. "The date for this entry is 12th of February 1915, but when you turn the page, the next one is dated April 6th, 1917."

"So he got bored for two years?" Finn asked, sounding bored himself.

"Finn!" Rachel exclaimed. "Don't you know your history?"

Finn shrugged.

"April 6th, 1917," she explained, "is the day America declared war on Germany, and it's when we became a part of the war."

"Oh," Finn only said. "So what does it say?"

Rachel cleared her throat and started reading from the page.

6th of April, 1917.

Dear Diary.

After a lot of struggling, we meet again.

I do think that I ought to stop complaining though, because I am sensing that it only causes me greater misery. Both with the war, and that of my personal life.

Let me explain what happened today.

Kurt walked sluggishly down the stairs in his house, upset to be woken so early by his parents. It was a Friday, but Kurt had decided to take the day off. However, despite the calls to his mother to let him stay in bed even though it was past nine, his mother had not let him rest.

It was not until he entered the drawing room that he realized they had company. Sitting in the sofas and armchairs, other than his parents, were two men dressed in military clothing. One was older than the other, gray hair and a wrinkled face, while the other one was much younger. The younger man had curly, chocolate brown hair slightly slicked back, and eyes as striking as the sun. Right now they were boring into Kurt.

So maybe the young man was handsome and Kurt envied him for that, but he couldn't think about that. Firstly because he knew it was wrong, secondly because it made him well aware of the fact that he hadn't bothered to get dressed, standing in the doorway to the dressing room in his night gown.

The two military men stood up as I entered. The older one took a step forward. "Good morning, sir. I'm Col Ethan Jackson, and this is Pvt. Anderson." He gestured to the younger man.

Kurt let his eyes wander slowly to the couch where his parents were seated, and they looked up at him expectantly. He turned his eyes back to the old officer, who still seemed to be waiting for some sort of reaction.

"Pleasure," Kurt said stiffly, before wrapping his arms around himself and dragging his feet behind him into the kitchen.

As he reached the hallway, he could hear his mother's hushed voice. "Forgive him. Burt and I fear that he's… suffering from a mental depression. He smiles no more."

Ignoring them, Kurt approached the refrigerator in search for breakfast. After looking through some cabinets, he settled for a bag of crackers. As he turned around, bag in hand and still dressed in the gown, he saw that the young private had followed him into the kitchen. Kurt stared at him for a while, then sat down at the table with the unopened bag.

"Are you not going to eat any more than that?" the private asked in an amused tone of voice, nodding towards the crackers.

Kurt pushed the bag away with his hand before crossing his arms again. "I'm not hungry."

Before the private had time to reply to this, Kurt's stomach decided to make a loud rumble. The private laughed. "I think your stomach begs to differ," he said, smirking.

Kurt's mother, Elizabeth, suddenly entered the room, and Kurt shot his eyes away, sulking. Elizabeth quickly took in the scene.

"It's better if we just give him some privacy," she told the officer, who furrowed his brow in response. "He doesn't eat when people are watching."

Kurt had fixed his eyes on a pile of dust on the floor, but he could still feel how the private's eyes suddenly turned to him. He could feel it, as he had done many times before, how the stare was filled with pity and distaste. He knew what they were all thinking: boohoo, poor little middle class boy who thinks he knows about suffering when he hasn't even been to war. He didn't know why he was feeling so low the last few years, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't shake the feeling of being stuck in your own body, feeling worthless and trapped. He didn't know why he of all people had been chosen by God to get the trait of extreme self-criticism.

Before he knew it, a single tear rolled down his cheek. His mother hunched by his side and put a hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, it was all too much. He knew that the private in the room must be feeling very uncomfortable, wishing he could be anywhere but there in the room with the wrecked boy. On Kurt's 17th birthday last May, he had reached a new low. Maybe it was the thought of soon being too old to live home, that he had to do something with his life but he did not know what. It didn't exactly help his mood.

"The officers simply came to inform your father about the situation we are facing. It is incredibly kind of them to stop by, since Ethan is a very busy man. But he is a friend of your father's, and has been for a while."

Kurt's eyes snapped open, his forehead scrunching. "What situation?"

"Don't worry, nobody else has died," Elizabeth hurried to assure, knowing that Kurt must think that they had lost someone else. After all, the loss of Harold had taken them all hard.

"Then what?" Kurt snapped.

This time, the private spoke up. "President Wilson's request for the congress to declare war on Germany has been accepted. I believe it was the U-boat attacks on our ships that were the last straw for them."

Kurt met those golden pair of eyes, getting transfixed in their depth. Yet, he found himself nodding.

"So what does this mean to us?" he asked, fearing the answer.

"Soldiers will be drafted," the private explained. "Jackson and I came here today to warn your father that he might have to go into war."

Kurt nodded numbly. His father might have to go to the war. Hell, his father might die in the war. There mere thought was more than Kurt could deal with. He couldn't lose his father.

Elizabeth rose, patting her skirt. "I better see if the gentlemen want some coffee."

She left the room, leaving Kurt alone with the private whose name he couldn't remember. He looked up after a moment, only to find the private watching him. His stomach made another loud rumble.

The private let out a laugh at the sound, why, Kurt didn't know. He didn't find it the least bit funny.

Kurt was surprised to see the private walking over to him, grabbing the bag of crackers Kurt hadn't touched and placing it in front of him on the table, before sitting down across from him. He rested his arms on the table, letting go of his fine demeanor.

He watched Kurt intently. When Kurt didn't move, he smirked again. "Do you need me to look away?"

"You laugh at me," he stated.

"Indeed I do."

Kurt snorted, and gave the private one of his most vicious glares. "You don't know what I suffer."

"I'm sure I don't," he retorted. "I just don't see why you can't eat when you're hungry."

Kurt nodded curtly. He looked at the man up and down, examining his features (strong jaw, clean shaven, strangely triangular eyebrows, smooth but chapped lips, large and rough hands, broad shoulders, strong arms, and torso that was obviously muscular even through the thick uniform). Kurt gulped.

"What's your name?"

"Blaine Anderson."

Kurt hummed in response. Blaine was still staring at him and, to prove him wrong or just to wipe the smirk off his face, Kurt didn't think as he stuffed his hand in the bag in front of him and fished up a cracker. He watched it closely, turned it around in his hand like it was something dangerous. It was small and squared, yellowish with a slightly brown crust. Blaine watched him curiously, and as he brought the small piece of food to his lips, he could feel the lump build in his throat.

He bit off one of the corners and started chewing, keeping his eyes locked with Blaine's amazed eyes the whole time. That ass probably thought I wouldn't do it, Kurt thought. But it wasn't over yet, and instead of it getting easier, he could feel the wet crunch in his mouth growing for every time he chewed. He felt like gagging or throwing up, and his eyes watered up.

Kurt was out of his seat in a second, walking to the other side of the room, with his back to Blaine as he overlooked the backyard. He breathed slowly as chewing became a little easier, and soon enough he forced himself to swallow. He released a shaky breath of relief as he realized it was over.

Suddenly, there was a hand stroking his back, slowly up and down. Kurt almost jumped at the touch, and turned his head to see Blaine standing by him. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he said, and winked.

He withdrew his hand and started walking out of the room as his words dawned on Kurt. He laughed without humor, a cold and awful sound. "You think I'm faking it, don't you?" he accused.

Blaine stopped in his tracks, turned around to face Kurt. His eyes shot to the floor, going back and forth like he was seeing something that wasn't there. "I think you think you're unhappy," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "You think you know about suffering… when you really don't."

"Is that so?" Kurt said bitterly. "And what do you know?"

"How old are you?" Blaine asked, eyes snapping up. "15, 16…?"

"I'm almost eighteen," Kurt said, annoyed.

"Right. And I'm twenty five. Sure, a man could go through life without suffering, but I can tell you, I am not he."

"Neither am I." Who was Blaine to think he had the right to burst into his home and tell him he didn't know about pain? Had he no decency, was he no gentleman? Could he show respect to his seniors but not to his juniors? Kurt was suddenly feeling anger build inside of him. "Well, what do you know? You tell me I'm not suffering, yet you don't seem much burdened. You dress like a soldier, yet you haven't even been to war, have you?"

Blaine's jaw clenched, and his eyes grew cold. "Well maybe I should. At least I could protect our country, unlike a pansy like you."

Kurt's jaw dropped.

Before he could be insulted back, Blaine stormed out of the room. Kurt went back to his bedroom, swiftly avoiding the adults in the living room. If there was one thing he knew, then it was that the last thing he wanted was another run-in with Blaine Anderjerk. But he didn't put his clothes on, instead lay back down on his bed and crawled under the covers.

He must have fallen asleep, because his mother came into his room, asking if there was something he'd prefer for dinner. He grunted in reply and turned his back to her, to which she sighed and left the room.

The bed was suddenly too warm and too uncomfortable, the sheets too crumpled and the cotton in his pillow unevenly distributed. He went to sit by his desk, looking out of the window over the backyard, not noting the rain, only the emptiness inside.

The day had been the first one remotely interesting, compared to the line of endless same old moments passing unnoticed through his life. As if it was calling him, he opened the top drawer of his desk, and in it was the fancy journal he'd long ago stopped writing in. He didn't know why, but he felt like he should give it another go.

So he started writing.

...So, for all the complaining of mine, I found myself with obnoxious visitors and the knowledge that my father might have to go to war. I will definitely keep my not-so-graceful thoughts to myself.

If it turns out that my father will be drafted, I shall not feel like I missed out on the last moments with him. So, I am promising now, to fight these feelings of mine with all my might, so that I can be a better son for both my father and for my mother. They deserve better than me.

Everything will be better soon, I hope.

Starting tomorrow.

Rachel looked up at Finn, who was listening intently. "What did he write the next day?" Finn asked, genuinely interested in what it would say.

Nodding, Rachel turned the page over to check. But her smile fell. "Nothing," she said quietly. "The next entry is from a couple of weeks later, April 21st."

"Read it," Finn urged.

Dear Diary.

France's advance on the Western front was unsuccessful. Mother and I have been listening to the radio for the latest updates the last few days, and trading information with father over the dinner table. I am eating with them again, even though I still don't eat much. The simplicity of me getting out of bed and joining them again, simply trying, is worth the small smile I get from my mother.

Still no word about the destiny of my father, though he said he would try to get a hold of Ethan Jackson again for news. I am praying with all my might that everything will be okay. If it doesn't I don't know what I'll do.

Mother thinks I will go back to my previous state if Pa is shipped away. I think I might too, and that frightens me. But most of all, I am scared for her. If father is in war and I am dead in my body, what will she have left? What is life worth living if there's nothing in it?

That's the question I ask myself every day.

Taking a deep breath, Rachel looked back up from the book. "So that was how he met Blaine," she said. "It's so obvious, though, isn't it? They start of detesting each other and then they fall in love. I hope they get together in the end."

"'Love that will never be ours', remember?" Finn said kindly.

"Oh… right." Rachel closed the diary, thinking. "I wonder what they're doing right now, and if they're still alive.

Finn nodded in agreement.

"What time is it?" Rachel asked, getting her thoughts back to real life.

"Almost ten," Finn said after checking.

"I have to go home before my parents start to worry," she replied, sounding saddened. She didn't want to stop reading; she wanted to find out what would happen next. But she couldn't exactly carry an old, heavy journal around without questions being asked.

Finn sensed Rachel's conflicted feelings. "When can we meet here again?"

Rachel bit her lip. "Day after tomorrow?"

"Okay." Finn rose, watching Rachel tuck the journal back into the floor and concealing it with the board. "We'll continue reading then."

"Okay," Rachel agreed.

They walked out of the church, hand in hand, thoughts far, far away in time. They didn't know yet what they'd find when reading on, but they were eager to find out.

A few miles away, an aged man with hair and skin both as pale as snow, sat on his front porch. He savored in the light breeze of the evening, inhaling deeply through his mouth until his lungs were filled and he almost could taste the scent of the lilies of the valley on his tongue.

The night was clear and there were no clouds in sight. The old man didn't like that. Imagining people lying in the night, trying to imagine silly names to the stars and laughing until they started crying, was the last thing the old man with the tear-stained face needed to do.