He was up by the time I woke up.

He was running his hands through my hair, in his hands he had a book

It was you, the diary

He was reading you 

But strangly, I didn't feel like snatching it out of his arms

I let him read

He chuckled when he read one of my depressional entries 

I frowned at him

He pinched my cheek and called me cute 

He is still here as I write this

He is peeking over my shoulders.

What should I do?