Dink Rosser is from Wairoa.
He's also just moved to Auckland for his first year at uni, which feels like a much bigger jump than anyone warned him about.

Dink thought university would be a reset. New hall. New people. New version of himself. Instead, he's juggling lecture theatres, gym sessions, terrible hall food, and a twin brother he can't quite seem to escape no matter how far apart they live. Braden looks like him, sounds like him, and somehow always manages to be two steps ahead, even when Dink has no idea where they're both heading.

Between coursework, late-night walks, and trying to work out where he fits, Dink reconnects with a childhood friend whose presence starts to pull him off balance. What begins as familiar comfort quietly turns into something heavier. Conversations don't line up. Memories blur at the edges. And the harder Dink tries to keep everything together, the more things slip sideways.

There are good days.
Gym sessions that make him feel solid again.
Corn chips eaten by the bowlful in places where no one asks questions.
Unexpected friendships that form without pressure or expectation.
Moments of laughter that feel earned, not forced.

And then there are the other days.
The ones where his head won't cooperate.
Where exams feel harder than they should.
Where he realises he might not remember things the way they actually happened.

As the year unfolds, Dink begins to understand that survival isn't about fixing everything or saving everyone. Sometimes it's about knowing when to stop chasing fires and start paying attention to who's still standing beside you.

Diary of a Boy From Wairoa is a sharp, funny, and quietly unsettling coming-of-age story about first-year university life, fractured memory, and the strange comfort of not having all the answers. Set in Auckland's halls of residence and told with raw humour and honesty, it explores friendship, family, and the moments we misremember without realising it.

This is a story about growing up without a neat resolution.
About belonging without guarantees.
And about learning that showing up, even imperfectly, might be enough.