Future me was trying to warn me.
The journal was sitting on my kitchen table when I got home from work.
At first, I thought someone had broken into my apartment.
I froze in the doorway, staring at the black leather notebook resting beside my coffee mug like it belonged there. The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and rain tapping softly against the windows.
Nothing else looked disturbed.
The deadbolt was still locked.
The windows were shut.
No missing valuables.
No overturned furniture.
Just the journal.
Slowly, I stepped closer.
My stomach tightened the second I touched it.
Because I recognized it immediately.
The worn leather cover.
The scratch near the spine.
The faded elastic band wrapped around the center.
It was mine.
Or at least… it would be.
I had seen that exact journal three days earlier while standing in line at a bookstore downtown. I almost bought it because I liked the cover, but I ended up putting it back before checking out.
I never owned this journal.
But somehow, it was sitting in my apartment waiting for me.
My name was written inside the cover in black ink.
Not just my name.
My handwriting.
A cold wave of nausea rolled through me while I flipped through the pages.
Most of them were already filled.
Dates.
Descriptions.
Entire conversations.
At first, none of it made sense.
Until I turned to the page marked tomorrow’s date.
And read the first sentence.
“Do not answer the phone at 11:14 p.m.”
I stopped reading and blinked hard, trying to convince myself I was misunderstanding what I had just seen. Slowly, I glanced down at my watch.
5:34 p.m.
A nervous chill crept up the back of my neck.
My mouth suddenly felt dry. I swallowed a few times and looked back down at the journal, half expecting it to disappear from my hands like some stress-induced hallucination.
It didn’t.
The black leather cover remained exactly where it was, heavy and real beneath my fingers.
My hands were shaking now.
I told myself there had to be a rational explanation. Someone was messing with me. Maybe a friend somehow copied my handwriting. Maybe I bought the journal and forgot. Maybe exhaustion was finally catching up to me.
But none of those explanations felt right.
Because deep down, I already knew something impossible was happening.
I took a slow breath and continued reading.
The next entry made my stomach tighten instantly.
“By now you’ve checked the locks twice.”
My eyes snapped toward the front door.
Without even realizing it, I had.
The journal continued.
“You’re about to walk into the kitchen and look out the window above the sink. Don’t panic when you see her standing across the street.”
Every muscle in my body locked up.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move.
Then, against every instinct screaming at me not to, I slowly turned toward the kitchen.
One step.
Then another.
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet. The air itself felt heavy, thick enough to choke on.
I reached the sink and stared at the dark reflection in the window for a moment before forcing myself to look outside.
At first, I saw nothing except rain falling beneath the flickering streetlamp.
Then lightning flashed.
And for half a second—
Someone was standing across the street staring directly at my apartment.
Tall.
Motionless.
Wearing my face.
…To Be Continued…