Welcome to Penny’s Diary, a contemporary urban-fantasy serial. Read new diary entries every Thursday. Supporting readers can also access a weekly Writer’s Commentary, along with immersive audio and eBook editions, after each entry.
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Saturday, May 2, 2026
System Glitch Energy
I picked up the cupcakes from Cascades first.
Because obviously.
Deep Dive Day means sugar. That’s the rule.
For about five minutes, it almost felt normal. Just me, waiting at the counter like that was the only reason I was there.
Then they handed over the box—
And yeah.
Gone.
That feeling again.
Like something’s already moving.
And I’m late to it.
I kept thinking about the blue light from last night.
And the figure.
The way one moved like it wanted me to follow, while the other just stood there watching.
Still no explanation. Still no proof.
Just one more thing sitting under my skin like it belonged there.
I got to the Meridian and Teddy was already waiting.
No greeting. No comment about the cupcakes. No anything, really.
Which—honestly—should’ve been illegal.
He just nodded once, like he was already halfway through whatever this day was going to be.
Ellie showed up a minute later, slid onto the window seat, gave me a small smile. Trying for normal.
“Cupcakes,” I said, holding up the box.
“Essential,” Teddy said.
A beat too slow.
Ellie nodded. “Tradition.”
Right.
Tradition.
Then Teddy said we weren’t doing it in order today.
Just like that. No discussion. Already decided.
I stopped. “We always do it in order.”
“We always did.”
Still not looking at me.
Ellie didn’t jump in—just watched, like she was waiting to see where this landed.
I should’ve pushed it.
That’s the whole point of the rules. Structure. Control. Not letting everything turn into chaos every time something doesn’t line up.
Except…
He wasn’t wrong.
If there’s something in those diaries—something younger me needed help seeing—then we can’t afford to miss it.
And Teddy wasn’t arguing.
He was already moving on.
Like the rules didn’t matter anymore.
Like time did.
Naming Makes it Real
Before we even touched the diaries, I told them about the light.
Not the vague version.
The full one.
Blue. Moving. In the trees first, then out on Main Street. And the figure—dark, still, definitely there.
Teddy stopped messing with the cupcake box.
Ellie looked up straight away.
“Same as the other night?” she asked.
I nodded. “But this time, there was the light… and someone else watching it.”
That sat there for a second.
Teddy did that too-still thing he does when his brain’s already filing something under important.
“Okay,” he said. “So either we’ve got actual ghost activity—”
“You are not opening with ghosts.”
He ignored me, grabbed a scrap of paper, wrote ghost light and watcher, then pinned it to Bobby.
“Let’s park that for now,” he said.
We all nodded a little too quickly.
Then Ellie looked at the altered memory notebook and the index spread out beside us.
“We still haven’t named these,” she said.
That shifted it.
Teddy said it would help. Short references. Faster thinking.
Then he tapped the altered memory notebook, starting there.
Ellie leaned in, thinking. Said it felt bigger on the inside.
Teddy immediately went, “The TARDIS.”
“No.”
Didn’t even think about it.
Ellie blinked. “That was fast.”
“We are not calling it the TARDIS,” I said. “It’s a notebook.”
“It fits,” Teddy said, already more himself again.
“It’s a time notebook,” Ellie added, smiling.
“No.”
Pause.
Then Ellie said, “The Matrix.”
Teddy nodded straight away. Of course he did.
“…fine,” I said. “The Matrix.”
That one stuck.
Then Teddy pointed at the index pages, names, arrows, everything connecting.
Ellie said it looked like a web.
Teddy went full dramatic with “Web of Time.”
“No.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s a lot.”
Ellie tilted her head. “It is a web.”
…yeah.
“…fine,” I said. “The Web.”
“Just that?” Teddy asked.
“Yes. Just that.”
He looked like he wanted to argue.
Didn’t.
I wrote it at the top of the page.
The Web.
Then, without really thinking about it, I added another line above it.
Penny’s Web.
No one said anything.
Teddy tapped the other notebook. “And the Matrix.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I said.
But it felt better.
Not fixed. Not safe.
Just…
Like we weren’t guessing anymore.
Like we were choosing.
And I’m not sure that’s better.
Not My Turn to Touch
With the names settled, there wasn’t really anything left to stall with.
Which meant diaries.
I didn’t reach for them.
Ellie did.
She picked one up like it was just a notebook. No hesitation. No buildup. Just opened it.
I watched her like she was stepping onto ice I already knew wouldn’t hold.
“You sure?” I asked.
Casual voice.
Not casual.
She said it made more sense if she did it.
…yeah.
That’s the problem.
Teddy didn’t even look up. Said if anything was hidden, he wouldn’t see it. And I shouldn’t trigger anything unless we had to.
Logical.
Annoying.
Right.
I leaned back on the bed, arms folded, like that made me less involved.
It didn’t.
Ellie turned the page.
Nothing.
Another.
Still nothing about people disappearing—but she flagged other things, quick notes for later.
Teddy started feeding it straight into the Web. Names. Arrows. Building it out like this was just another project.
Like this was normal.
I tried to follow, tried not to think about the fact I wasn’t the one doing it.
Like I’d handed over the steering wheel of something that could crash at any second.
Not reassuring.
Ellie kept going.
Calm. Focused.
Like she trusted this.
Like she trusted me enough to do it for me.
That hit harder than I expected.
Because it meant I had to trust her back.
And I do.
Too Many to Be One-Offs
Ellie turned another page.
Paused.
Not long. Just enough.
“Wait.”
Everything in the room stopped.
“We need to see this.”
She grabbed my hand.
No countdown. No warning.
I touched the page.
The memory hit instantly.
A name.
Liam Carter.
A hallway.
Someone laughing—cut off too early.
Then nothing.
No one remembering him.
Just like Jemma.
I grabbed the edge of the bed, steadying myself.
Teddy was already writing. Name. Date. Page reference.
Like he expected it.
Like we all did.
“You okay?” Ellie asked.
“Define okay.”
She didn’t smile.
Just nodded—and turned the page.
The second one hit faster.
The third lingered longer.
By the fourth, I was bracing before it even started.
Curiosity: 0.
Common sense: also 0.
I pressed my hands against my eyes for a second.
Because this isn’t just Jemma.
This isn’t one person slipping through the cracks.
This is a pattern.
Something that’s been happening long enough for me to notice it.
And still not catch all of it.
This Isn’t Just Jemma
We reached the end of Younger Penny’s last diary.
And stopped.
Ellie closed it slowly, like leaving it open felt wrong.
Teddy kept writing for a few seconds. Finishing lines. Connecting things. Forcing it into something structured.
Then even he stopped.
And it went quiet.
Not normal quiet.
Heavy.
The kind that presses down on everything.
I looked at the Web.
Actually looked.
Not just lines and arrows anymore.
Names.
Too many.
Some circled, some half-finished, some just sitting there—like placeholders for people I should know and don’t.
Six.
Seven.
Maybe more.
Teddy wrote out the list and pinned it to Bobby.
And that’s just what younger me caught.
That’s the part that won’t settle.
She was looking for this.
Actively.
And she still missed some.
Which means this has been happening around me.
Since the second diary. Since 2017.
People just… gone.
Not moved away.
Not transferred.
Not “we stopped talking.”
Gone.
Like they were never there.
Except they were.
Because she wrote them down.
Because I felt them.
Because something in me still recognizes the shape of them, even if I can’t hold onto anything real.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“This isn’t just Jemma,” I said.
No one answered.
They didn’t need to.
Ellie was still staring at the Web, but her expression shifted.
“That can’t be what happened to my mom,” she said quietly.
I looked at her.
“People still remember her.”
Not defensive.
Not panicked.
Just… certain.
“That has to be something else.”
And somehow that didn’t make this better.
Because she wasn’t just saying it.
She needed it to be true.
Pretending it’s Normal
Teddy left first.
His mom called. Something about the shop. He said he needed to go back.
But it felt more like he just… needed out.
The second the door closed, the silence crept back in.
Ellie looked at me.
I looked at her.
“…pizza?” I said. “Sleepover?”
Because clearly, I am excellent at emotional processing.
She smiled, just a little. Said both sounded good.
Then she held up her bag like this was already decided.
“Toothbrush. Hoodie. Emergency snacks,” she said. “I come prepared now.”
Of course she does.
The first time Ellie stayed over, I took the couch. Somewhere between then and now, that had quietly stopped being the plan.
And just like that, we committed to ignoring reality properly.
By the time the pizza arrived, everything was packed away. Diaries back behind the AC vent. The newly named Matrix and the Web stacked inside the window seat.
Out of sight.
Not out of mind.
We sat on the floor, pizza between us, the TV lighting up the room.
And for a few minutes, it worked.
Normal conversation.
Normal complaints.
Ellie told me about something her sister did at breakfast involving orange juice and a very questionable life choice.
I told her about Teddy trying to color-code chaos like that’s a real solution.
She laughed.
And for a second, it felt like before.
Before the deep dive.
Before knowing.
Which is almost worse.
Because now I know exactly what we’re pretending isn’t there.
Ellie picked the movie.
Of course she did.
50 First Dates.
Apparently, this “basically mirrors our lives.”
The screen flickered to life, the room dimming with it.
Ellie shifted closer, tucking her legs under herself like this was just normal.
Like we were just two people watching a movie on a Saturday night.
Some Things Stay Ours
After the movie, I get it.
Ellie wasn’t wrong.
It kind of mirrors my life.
Not the falling-in-love part.
The remembering.
The rebuilding.
The idea that something only exists because someone made sure it does.
Which, apparently, is now us.
Sustained by a letter and a video.
Not unsettling at all.
We were lying on my bed, the TV off, the room dim except for the streetlight slipping through the blinds.
It almost felt like a normal sleepover.
Almost.
Ellie turned onto her side, watching me.
“What?” I asked.
She hesitated, then asked how much I was going to write down.
“About what?”
“Us.”
That landed.
I stared at the ceiling for a second. Told her I didn’t know.
Which is honest.
For once.
She said all of it. If the paper remembers the memories, not just the words, then the more I write, the more I keep.
Logical.
Very her.
But what if I don’t want to write all of it?
She frowned, asked why.
I hesitated.
Because this part feels… different.
“Because some things are just ours,” I said. “Not everything needs to be documented.”
She studied me, then nodded.
“Okay.”
No argument.
Just that.
And somehow, that made it harder.
Because she gets it.
And she’s thinking about the same thing I am.
That something can matter…
And still disappear.
She said I could still save it.
Write around it.
I looked at her. “That sounds like cheating.”
“It’s strategic.”
Of course it is.
She said to call it something, so I’d know it mattered—even if I didn’t explain it.
I thought about that.
About writing something that doesn’t say what happened…
But still means something did.
“…like what?”
She shrugged.
“Personal time.”
I stared at her.
“That’s the best you’ve got?”
“It works.”
…annoyingly, it does.
“Fine,” I said. “But we are never calling it that out loud.”
She smiled. “Deal.”
We didn’t say anything after that.
Just lying there.
Close enough that I could feel the warmth of her next to me.
Close enough that it felt real.
And for once, I didn’t want to write it down.
I just wanted to keep it.
Exactly like this.
Sunday, May 3, 2026
What if it Stops Working
Breakfast didn’t last long.
Neither did pretending everything was fine.
So I walked Ellie to the Chapel.
No rush. No real reason to take the long way through the park.
But we did.
The morning was clear. Sun through the trees. The lake catching the light like everything was normal.
Like nothing underneath it was breaking.
Ellie walked beside me, hands in her jacket pockets.
Quieter than usual.
Not tense.
Just… somewhere else.
I bumped her shoulder. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The disappearing while standing still thing.”
That got a small huff of a laugh.
Then it faded.
First warning.
She said it felt like the movie.
“I noticed.”
“Did you?” she asked.
“Subtle.”
She smiled, but not fully.
“They make it work,” she said. “In the movie.”
“Yeah.”
“They have systems. Videos. Ways to bring everything back.”
We walked a few more steps. Gravel crunching. Wind through the trees.
Calm.
Too calm.
Ellie slowed slightly.
“What if there’s a limit?”
I looked at her.
She wasn’t looking at me, just watching the path ahead.
“A limit to what?”
“How many times it works,” she said. “How many times we can… reconnect the same way.”
That held.
Harder than yesterday.
Harder than the diaries.
Because this was us.
Not patterns.
Not something we could track or write down.
Something we either keep…
Or lose.
And I don’t have a system for that.
Because remembering something isn’t the same as feeling it again.
Not exactly.
The Chapel came into view through the trees.
Closer than I wanted it to be.
“We’ll figure it out,” I said.
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” I said. “But I’m saying it anyway.”
That got a small smile.
Real this time.
“I like that plan.”
“Good,” I said. “Because it’s the only one I’ve got.”
No Time to Sit Still
I waited in the park.
We’d agreed to meet for lunch, and instead of heading back to the Meridian, I walked around the lake.
Same path. Same view.
Long enough to start replaying everything I’d said.
Which, for the record, is never a good idea.
My phone buzzed.
Ellie: Service’s over.
I pushed myself up from the bench and headed back toward the Chapel.
She was already outside when I got there.
“How was it?” I asked.
“Church?” she said.
“Yeah.”
She shrugged. “The usual.”
Which somehow answered everything and nothing at the same time.
We walked back to Cascades.
Upstairs. Same booth.
Ours.
Routine.
Something that sticks.
At least for an hour.
We ordered without thinking, and for a few minutes, it was easy again. Conversation slipping into that rhythm we’ve somehow built.
Not forced.
Not careful.
Just there.
Until it wasn’t.
The shift was small.
Ellie stirring her drink a little too slowly.
Me noticing.
Then she said one word.
“Candy.”
And just like that, we were back.
“Candy won’t wait forever,” she said.
“No,” I said. “She won’t.”
That’s kind of her whole thing.
Pressure.
Timing.
Control.
If she thinks something’s slipping, she tightens the grip.
Which means we don’t just have a plan.
We have a clock.
If Teddy couldn’t get Steve on board tonight at the Dillons barbecue—
We were out of options.
“We just need enough time,” I said. “So when we do it, it works.”
But sitting there, in the same booth that’s supposed to feel safe, didn’t feel simple anymore.
It felt like everything was closing in at once.
Candy.
The barbecue.
The resets.
Us.
All of it moving toward something I couldn’t quite see yet.
And for the first time, standing still didn’t feel like an option.
Monday, May 4, 2026
Some Things Stay
I knew what today was the second I woke up.
Didn’t say it out loud.
Didn’t write it down straight away.
Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting it sit.
Because once you name it, it gets heavier.
It’s the anniversary.
My grandmother.
Hope Summers.
That’s one thing that’s never slipped.
Never reset.
Never felt uncertain.
That stays.
I carried it through the day without really acknowledging it.
Classes. People. Conversations.
All of it happening like normal.
And underneath—that quiet awareness.
Not loud.
Not overwhelming.
Just there.
Gramps didn’t ask.
He just said it.
“After school. We’ll go over.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
That was enough.
For now.
Disqualified By Default
By mid-morning, the school had decided we were all suddenly very invested in saving lives.
Posters everywhere.
BLOOD DRIVE THIS WEEK BE A HERO MERIDIA MEDICAL CENTRE
Which felt… a little intense for a Monday.
They had sign-ups outside the gym, and someone from the medical center was handing out flyers like this was completely normal.
Which, okay.
It probably is.
Just not when your brain is already stuck on things like memory loss and people disappearing.
That adds a layer.
I stopped long enough to read one of the posters.
Time slots. Consent forms. Eligibility requirements.
Official. Structured. Controlled.
“They’re giving community hours for it,” someone said behind me.
Of course they are.
Because nothing says “voluntary good deed” like attaching a reward.
Ellie ended up next to me in the hallway.
She gave a small shrug.
We both already knew.
ESD.
Disqualified.
No forms needed.
No decision to make.
I didn’t sign up.
Didn’t hover.
Just stepped back.
Because apparently, saving lives is something we don’t qualify for.
Which feels like the kind of irony I’m not supposed to think too hard about.
Back in Play
Lunch was loud.
Too loud for how much was already in my head.
Teddy dropped into the seat across from us like he’d been waiting all morning.
Which, he definitely had.
Also, he was wearing a Star Wars T-shirt.
Of course he was.
Ellie clocked it immediately. “May the Fourth be with you.”
Teddy lit up. “Finally, someone respects the day.”
I looked between them. “What day?”
“Star Wars Day,” Teddy said, like that explained everything. Something about May the Fourth sounding like May the Force.
Right.
Of course it does.
And that was the end of my education on that.
Then he got straight to it.
He’d spoken to Steve at the barbecue.
He was in. Happy to help. We just had to say when.
That got both of us.
“Then we hold off,” I said.
They looked at me.
“We drag this out,” I added. “Use the ‘freedom’ Candy’s given us for as long as it holds.”
I glanced at Ellie. She gave a small nod.
“And when it doesn’t,” I said, “that’s when we bring Steve in.”
Teddy leaned back slightly, like that part was handled.
Then he mentioned he’d signed up for the blood drive.
I blinked. Asked why.
He said it got him out of Math and History.
Worth it.
That might be the most honest reason anyone has ever donated blood.
“Efficiency,” he said.
“I doubt Candy will be lining up for that,” I said. “Red’s not really her aesthetic.”
Ellie smiled slightly.
Said I wasn’t wrong, but Candy does give blood.
That stopped me.
Her. Marilyn. Kaelyn. Regularly.
Just not here.
Private donation drives, organized through her dad.
They get the day off school for it.
That tracked.
Better perks.
Of course it did.
Because apparently even something like that has levels.
Too Visible
It happened too fast.
One second we were talking.
The next, Steve Dillon was standing at the table.
Saying hello like that was normal.
Which, to him, it probably was.
To everyone else?
Not even slightly.
But I wasn’t looking at Steve.
I was looking past him.
Candy.
Already watching.
Of course she was.
Her expression didn’t change.
That was the problem.
It settled.
Like something had just confirmed itself.
Steve turned and headed back across the room.
Didn’t even make it halfway.
Candy lifted her hand.
Not a wave.
A signal.
Ellie saw it.
Of course she did.
“I’ll be right back,” she said. “Candy wants an update.”
And just like that, we were split.
Teddy and I stayed where we were.
Watching without looking.
Waiting without knowing.
“That went well,” Teddy muttered.
“Define well.”
He didn’t answer.
Because there isn’t one.
I kept my eyes on Ellie.
On the way Candy leaned in.
On how easy it all looked.
Like this was exactly what she’d been waiting for.
Like we’d just moved something forward without meaning to.
Something just tipped.
And I don’t think we can untip it.
Some Things Stay
The Garden of Remembrance at Veiled Isle looked the same as it always did.
Still.
Quiet.
Like the world agreed to leave it alone for a while.
Gramps walked ahead, hands in his coat pockets.
I followed.
Same as always.
Mom was invited.
She declined.
Something about plans with friends.
Which—fine.
Except it’s not.
We didn’t talk when we got there.
Didn’t need to.
“She liked this place,” he said eventually.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“She said it felt… calm.”
“That tracks.”
That got a small breath from him.
Not quite a laugh.
Close enough.
I looked at her name.
Hope Summers.
And it felt steady.
Not like the memory blasts.
Not like everything else that shifts and slips.
Just there.
Like it always had been.
Like it always would be.
Stories That Don’t Fade
Dinner was quieter than usual.
Not awkward.
Just… settled.
Like the day had already taken enough out of everything, and we were both fine leaving it there.
We ate at the counter.
Same seats.
Same view out the window.
Routine.
Something that stays.
He was the one who brought her up.
Not directly.
“She used to burn the toast,” he said, like we were already mid-conversation.
I huffed out a small laugh. “That feels like a skill.”
“Oh, it was,” he said. “Very consistent.”
And just like that—we were talking about her.
Not heavy.
Not formal.
Just stories.
The way she moved things around in the kitchen and forgot where she’d put them.
The way she insisted certain songs sounded better on vinyl, even when they clearly didn’t.
The way she’d sit in the Meridian when it was empty, just watching the screen.
I didn’t interrupt. Just listened.
Because the way he told it was like she was still here.
Not in something slipping, not in something I had to chase or piece back together.
Just there.
“She would’ve liked you figuring all this out,” he said at one point.
“All what?”
He gestured vaguely. “Everything.”
“That feels like a stretch.”
He smiled slightly. “She liked people who didn’t leave things alone.”
“…that tracks.”
“Very much so.”
We fell quiet again after that.
Not empty.
Just full.
There’s a lot I don’t trust right now.
Memories.
Patterns.
What stays.
What doesn’t.
But this feels different.
This doesn’t feel like something I could lose.
And for once, that feels like enough.
Tuesday, May 5, 2026
New Door, Same Me
After school, I stopped by the Meridian.
Gramps said there’d been an “update.”
There was.
A proper back door.
Not the fire escape. Not the slightly questionable apartment access we’ve been pretending is fine for years.
An actual door.
I tested the handle.
It opened easily.
Too easily.
No creak. No resistance.
Just—open.
Inside felt different.
Like someone had tried to make it make sense.
“Well?” Gramps asked.
“It’s efficient,” I said.
“That’s the point.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “I don’t like it.”
That got a small laugh.
“Didn’t think you would.”
I stepped back outside and let the door close behind me.
Then went around the side alley to the front.
Didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
The front entrance looked the same, even if the lobby was still out of action.
Big. Dramatic. Slightly over the top.
Correct.
“I think I prefer the main entrance.”
Obviously.
Gramps nodded once. “So do I.”
Too Quiet Without Them
It felt off when I got home.
Not unusual. Just… noticeable.
The kind you only clock when something’s missing.
Mom was out doing her thing.
Teddy was at the print shop.
Ellie was at Candy’s place—enforced participation.
That grated more than it should.
I dropped my backpack on the bed and just stood there for a second, like something was supposed to happen next.
Nothing did.
No Teddy talking at double speed.
No Ellie quietly clocking everything before the rest of us caught up.
Just me.
“Cool,” I muttered.
Very convincing.
I checked my phone. Put it down. Picked it back up.
Still nothing.
Classic.
I ended up lying on my bed with ice cream, half-watching whatever was on TV.
And that’s when it hit.
Not dramatic. Just… there.
I’m getting used to them.
To this.
Teddy filling the space.
Ellie balancing it.
Me somewhere in the middle.
And when they’re not here, it feels off.
I stared up at the ceiling.
“This is fine.”
Which is, statistically, never true.
Because it’s not just the noise.
Or the distraction.
It’s them.
What they bring into the room.
What they bring into me.
Especially Ellie.
…which is a thought I did not stay on.
Not unpacking that on a Tuesday evening.
I pushed myself up off the bed. Moved. Did something. Anything.
Because sitting still just makes it louder.
It’s not a bad quiet.
Just a reminder.
I’m not doing this alone anymore.
And apparently, I don’t want to.
Wednesday, May 6, 2026
Almost There Feels Different
Teddy found us before we even sat down.
Which is never neutral.
“Good news,” he said, like he’d been holding onto it all morning.
I glanced at Ellie. “He only opens like that when it’s either very good or very bad.”
“Recently more good,” Teddy added.
“Debatable.”
He ignored that. Of course.
“Final components are arriving today,” he said. “Everything. Once they’re in, I can actually build the laptop.”
That hit.
Not dramatic.
But real.
Progress.
“That’s actually huge,” I said.
“It is,” he said, already halfway into building it in his head.
“How long?” Ellie asked.
“A few hours. Depends how cooperative the universe feels.”
“Historically?” I said.
“Not very.”
Then—
“Also,” he added, like it was nothing, “I picked the perfect day for the blood drive.”
I frowned. “That’s a sentence I didn’t expect.”
“By the time I’m done, there’s basically no school left. Which means I can sign out, get home, and start straight away.”
“Efficiency,” I said.
“Exactly.”
I shook my head, because this is Teddy—focused, energized, already three steps ahead.
Normal.
Except something felt slightly off.
Not obvious.
Just… a fraction.
Like he was pushing through it instead of just being in it.
“You okay?” I asked.
He blinked. “Yeah. Why?”
“You’re intense.”
“I’m always intense.”
“More than usual.”
Ellie was watching too.
Not obvious.
Just… noticing.
“I’m fine,” he said, a little quicker. “Just want to get this done.”
Not an answer.
But close enough that I didn’t push.
Not here.
“Okay,” I said. “Go build your masterpiece.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“Bold assumption.”
“Accurate one.”
The bell cut it off—noise, movement, normal school chaos rushing back in.
Teddy grabbed his backpack, already halfway gone.
I watched him for a second longer than I meant to.
Because something about that felt off.
Not wrong.
Just… not fully right.
Ellie leaned closer. “You noticed that too.”
“Yeah.”
We didn’t say anything else.
Not everything coming together feels like progress.
Sometimes, it feels like a countdown.
Thursday, May 7, 2026
Normal Feels Strange
Morning classes were… there.
English happened. Something about structure and themes, which felt a little ironic considering my life currently has neither.
Then Media Studies, which was actually useful for once.
We picked up where we left off on the sunset video with Noah and Olivia—editing, timing, figuring out how to make something look intentional instead of accidentally good.
It was… normal.
Which felt weird.
Like we were all pretending this was the only thing going on.
Like everything else—the diaries, the names, everything sitting underneath—had just been paused for a bit.
Noah kept tweaking transitions. Olivia adjusted the color grading for the tenth time.
By lunch, that feeling hadn’t gone anywhere.
Teddy dropped into the seat across from us and immediately rolled up his sleeve like he’d been waiting for the reveal.
“Proof,” he said.
There was a tiny mark on his arm.
“That’s it?” I said. “That’s the dramatic result of your heroic sacrifice?”
“I donated blood,” he said. “Not a limb.”
“Debatable,” I muttered.
Ellie smiled. “You survived. Impressive.”
“Barely,” he said. “But I did get out of Math and History, so—worth it.”
Of course that was his takeaway.
Then he launched into a full breakdown of the laptop build—parts, configurations, cooling decisions I did not ask about.
I nodded like I understood.
I did not.
Ellie did that thing where she looks like she’s following along while definitely not following along.
Teddy, unsurprisingly, did not notice.
Classic.
But underneath all of that, he was excited.
Back to normal.
Or at least closer to it.
And I was very okay with that.
Stolen Time Still Counts
Gym blurred into noise and movement.
Then Drama.
Rehearsals for Spellbound Harmony Part 1 were still going, which mostly meant standing around, pretending we knew what we were doing, and trying not to get in the way.
Standard.
Somewhere in the middle of that, Ellie found me.
Not obvious. Not a big moment.
She just slipped into place next to me like she always does now.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
“Hey.”
A beat.
Then she asked if we could hang out after school.
That got my attention.
“Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”
She hesitated for half a second.
“Meridian,” she added. “I want to try something.”
Something.
Great.
Love that.
“Should I be concerned?” I asked.
“Probably,” she said.
At least she’s honest.
But she smiled a little after that, and whatever this was, it didn’t feel like a bad idea.
Which, historically, means it’s either a very good one…
Or the kind that changes everything.
More Than a Poster
We headed straight to the Meridian after school.
Ellie didn’t explain what she wanted to try, which had my stomach somewhere between excitement and nerves.
When we got to my room, she didn’t sit. Didn’t wander.
She went straight to my desk.
To Bobby.
To the missing poster.
Jemma Landry.
Flat. Faded. Generic.
Not enough.
She said it wasn’t right.
I told her it was all we had.
“For now,” she said.
Then she held up her sketchbook.
And I knew.
She said Jemma deserved more than something people walked past.
That landed.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
Then she tapped her temple and said she needed to see her again. Properly.
I grabbed one of the diaries.
She flipped to the entry and reached for my hand.
Contact.
I touched the page.
The memory hit.
Jemma.
Not missing.
Not erased.
Alive.
Laughing at something I couldn’t hear.
It didn’t matter.
It was the feeling.
She was there.
It passed quickly. It always does.
But this time it didn’t feel like something slipping.
It felt like something being given back.
By the time we came out of the memory, Ellie was already moving.
Sketchbook open. Pencils out. Sitting cross-legged on my bed like she’d planned this all along.
I sat opposite her, watching.
She didn’t rush. Didn’t overthink.
Every line, like she was pulling Jemma back into the room piece by piece.
And for a second, it felt like she was.
Without thinking, I reached out and started twisting a strand of Ellie’s hair.
When I realized, I pulled back.
She caught my hand.
Told me not to stop.
So I didn’t.
I kept playing with her hair, watching the drawing take shape.
Because this felt different.
Not like the diaries.
Not like the Web.
Not like chasing something we didn’t understand.
This was holding onto something.
On purpose.
When she finished, she didn’t say anything.
Just turned the sketch toward me.
Jemma.
It was her.
Of course it was.
Ellie doesn’t miss things.
We pinned it over the flyer.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Like that mattered.
Like it changed something.
Maybe it did.
Friday, May 8, 2026
This Was Not Casual
Teddy was already there when we got to lunch.
Waiting.
Which—immediately suspicious.
And worse, he looked excited.
Not normal excited. Not “I fixed something minor, and now I’m going to over-explain it for ten minutes” excited.
Focused.
Like he’d been counting down to this.
“You’re late,” he said the second we sat down.
“We’re on time,” I said.
“Debatable.”
Ellie gave me a look. He’d been waiting.
Clearly.
Teddy leaned forward.
And for a second, I thought we were about to get the full version. The ramble. The diagrams we didn’t ask for.
Instead, he stopped.
Looked around the cafeteria.
Then back at us.
And just like that, the energy shifted.
I looked at Ellie.
She gave me the same look back.
Yeah.
This was different.
I asked what had happened.
He said it had.
And that was it.
No explanation. No details.
Just… that.
“Okay,” I said. “I don’t like that tone.”
“You shouldn’t,” he said.
Great.
Love that for us.
He glanced around again, too quick to be casual.
Then leaned in slightly.
He said he’d finished the laptop. It was working. Everything.
Real progress.
Finally.
But there was an “and.”
There’s always an “and.”
Ellie asked.
I didn’t bother pretending there wasn’t one.
He nodded.
There was.
A pause.
Small.
Heavy.
Then he said he couldn’t talk about it here.
That landed harder.
Not “won’t.”
Can’t.
Not out loud. Not on a call. Not anywhere it could be picked up.
Ellie straightened.
I leaned back.
Because that changes things.
I asked what he found.
He shook his head.
Not here.
Of course not.
“Library,” Ellie said.
Already moving.
Decision made.
We followed.
Not Something You Say Out Loud
The library was quiet like usual.
Maybe even more than usual for lunch.
We took a table at the back—out of the way, out of range of anyone pretending not to listen.
Teddy didn’t sit right away.
He dropped his backpack, looked at both of us, then said one name.
“Ruby Weaver.”
Nothing.
I frowned. Asked who that was.
He said she made the USB.
That hit.
Immediate.
Ellie leaned in, asking if he was sure.
He nodded. Said it was buried, but she admitted it in a video.
“So what,” I said, “just some random hacker?”
“No. Not random.”
She exposed a corrupt company.
They hit back.
Doxed her.
Old enemies came after her.
So she disappeared.
Went underground.
Not heard from again—
Until now.
Ellie asked if he knew anything else about her.
Teddy shook his head. “Not much. Just—she went by something else.”
“What?”
“Truthweaver.”
That landed.
In a way I didn’t like.
“So that’s it?” I asked. “A name and an alias?”
“No,” he said.
And that was the shift.
“That’s not the important part.”
Something in my chest tightened.
I asked what was.
He didn’t look at Ellie.
He looked at me.
“Her aunt.”
I frowned. “Okay…?”
He didn’t rush it.
Didn’t soften it.
“Vanessa Colby.”
Everything stopped.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Still.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe properly.
Because my brain was already trying to reject it before it could settle.
“That’s not—”
But it was.
I knew it was.
Vanessa Colby.
Not distant.
Not abstract.
Mine.
The woman who stepped in front of a drunk driver.
The woman who didn’t get out of the way in time.
The woman who saved me.
I swallowed.
Hard.
Ellie said it quietly. That it wasn’t a coincidence.
No.
It wasn’t.
Nothing is anymore.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Because this wasn’t just a connection.
This was already part of my life.
Before I even knew any of this existed.
This Doesn’t Feel Accidental
Even after dinner—after an hour on the phone with Ellie going over it again—I still couldn’t get it to sit right.
Ruby Weaver.
Truthweaver.
Vanessa Colby.
I kept running the names through my head like that might make them settle.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made the connections clearer.
And worse.
Because it’s not just one thing.
If it was just the diaries, fine.
Weird, but contained.
But it’s not.
It’s everything.
The diaries.
The patterns.
The USB.
And now the person who made it.
Not random.
Not separate.
Connected to someone who was already part of my life before any of this started.
I sat there for a while, trying to follow it through.
Not the what.
The when.
Because that’s the part that won’t leave me alone.
The timing.
Now.
After the diaries.
After we started seeing patterns.
After we finally knew enough to recognize what we were looking at.
That’s when this shows up.
Not earlier.
Not later.
Now.
Too clean.
Too precise.
It didn’t feel like it had just landed in our lap. It felt placed there.
And that’s the part I don’t like.
Because coincidences happen.
But this doesn’t feel like one.
CONTINUED IN:
Penny’s Diary - Week 19: Truth Locked In, Pressure Closing, and Everything Falls - Arriving in your inbox on May 14, 2026
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