The Diary Said So...

November 16th, 1997

I woke up this chilling morning expecting a call from my mother. She cut it short with me last night, so I figured she’d call. Surprisingly, that didn’t happen. Weird, I must say. Mom always completes her monologue. Always.

I tried ringing a few times, but oh well, no response. That’s okay. It’s a beautiful cold morning, might as well go out for a cup of coffee and a book date with myself in my favourite antique bookstore.

So that was that. I got dressed, tied my hair up quickly, grabbed my bag, and headed straight for the store. I didn’t even eat I wasn’t that hungry. My coat wasn’t warm enough, but I wore it anyway.

Uncanny morning, I must say.

How’s everyone still tucked in bed at 10 a.m.? I didn’t question it though. The roads were fogged up, and I could barely see past the bookstore window. Everything felt… paused.

I explored the bookstore. Wow. I haven’t been here in ages.

The books looked so well preserved, but hang on… That one looked like the odd one out. Torn cover. Rippled pages. It was absolutely obnoxious.

I was a curious one, though. I picked it up and flipped through it.

It was a diary.

This is absurd. How come this diary looked like it survived both world wars, yet the words inside were perfectly shielded?

I flipped the pages slowly, my fingers grazing the yellowed paper. It still didn’t make sense. The cover was torn, the pages looked like they’d been soaked and dried in a war zone, but the ink inside was crisp. Almost new.

I stopped at the first proper entry.

“November 16th, 1997 – 11:42 a.m.

A girl in a green coat walks into the bookstore. She finds me. She doesn’t realize she’s being watched.”

What?

I looked down at myself.

Green. Coat.

I blinked. The clock on the wall ticked to 11:42.

I whipped around. The store was empty… wasn’t it?

I scanned the aisles again. No one. But now my heartbeat was climbing.

Was this a prank?

No. No one knew I’d be here. Not even Mom.

I flipped to the next page.

“She picks up the diary. She reads this very line. She doesn’t understand what’s happening yet, but she will.”

I slammed the book shut and staggered back.

My mouth went dry. My hands were shaking.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t possible.

I turned toward the counter, ready to ask the clerk if someone had dropped off a strange book lately, but the counter was empty.

Then I realized something even worse.

There was no clerk.

There hadn’t been anyone here the whole time. Not a single customer. Not a whisper. Just me… and the diary.

And then I did something stupid.

I opened it again.

The ink was moving.

Not like it was fading—but like it was being written, right in front of me. Words appeared, one by one, as if someone invisible was scribbling them down.

“She opens the book again. She watches the words form. She’s about to run… but it’s already too late.

My legs moved before I could think. I turned and bolted toward the door.

Locked.

I rattled it, yanked it, pounded on the glass. Nothing.

“She panics. She tries the door. But the store has chosen her.

My eyes darted back to the diary in my hands. What do you mean chosen me? Almost like it heard me, the diary wrote again.

“You will change the future, but not before it changes you.”

I wasn’t going to die in a bookstore. Not today.

I backed away from the locked door and sprinted to the back of the shop, slamming through a dusty storage room stacked with boxes. There, a window, half-cracked open. No hesitation. I climbed up, kicked the frame, and tumbled out into the alleyway behind.

My knees scraped the pavement. I didn’t care. I was out.

I ran, full-speed, heart clawing its way out of my chest, until I reached the main road. Cars. People. Life.

Everything looked normal again.

I stopped to catch my breath near a newspaper stand.

“Miss, you alright?” the old vendor asked, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded quickly. “Just… just needed some air.”

Then I heard a faint flutter.

I looked down.

The diary was still in my bag.

I pulled it out, heart pounding again. My hands were trembling, but I opened it anyway, because I had to know.

New words were forming.

“She runs. She escapes. She thinks it’s over. But it’s only just begun.”

“Right now, she’s standing by the newsstand, thinking about going home. Wondering if this is real. Wondering if she’s losing her mind.”

I froze.

“She reads this line. Then the next.”

"And then she looks up, and sees him.”

I looked up.

Across the street, a man in a brown coat was staring directly at me.

Not casually. Not accidentally.

He was waiting.

The diary continued.

“She’ll try to walk away. He’ll follow. She’ll run again. But this time, he won’t let her go.”

"Because he has one too.”

One too?

I took a slow step back, then another. The man didn’t move...yet.

The diary flipped its own page. On its own.

My skin went cold.

More handwriting appeared.

“Welcome to the story.”

“Yours ends in seven days.”