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 23, 2026
Too New to Lose
I woke up this morning with my phone still beside me, the conversation from last night still open, and the full-body reminder that Clearwater is next weekend.
So, excellent start.
Teddy had already messaged. He wanted a diary deep dive before heading to Halifax with his mom and Squirt—apparently ghost talk, Gramps, erased relatives, and reality falling apart were not enough excitement for one weekend.
Which meant the morning had a plan: Cascades, cupcakes, then back to the Meridian.
Because if we were doing this properly, we were doing it with sugar.
That part was basically tradition now.
I got there fully intending to be the one who remembered the cupcakes.
Ellie had already beaten me to it.
Again.
She was standing at the counter with the box in her hands and that tiny almost-smile like she already knew what I was about to say. So I grabbed hot chocolate, and we headed upstairs.
And for a minute, it felt easy.
Not fake-easy. Not pretending. Just familiar.
The booth. The drinks. The cupcake box between us. Ellie tucked into the corner like she belonged there.
Which, obviously, my brain noticed immediately.
We didn’t go straight into the heavy stuff. Just circled it for a bit. School. Rain. Teddy heading to Halifax. Normal things pretending they were enough.
They weren’t.
Clearwater was already sitting there with us.
Because of course it was.
It’s too close now, and this time it doesn’t just feel like my problem. It’s Ellie’s too. Not Ellie-the-mystery. Ellie remembering the cupcakes. Ellie sitting across from me like this matters to her too.
That landed harder than I wanted it to.
We didn’t have some huge dramatic conversation, thankfully. Just bits of it. Bad timing. How close it is. How this version of things still feels too new to lose.
Ellie was quieter than me. Not distant. Just careful.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because she didn’t sound unsure.
She sounded like someone trying not to lose something.
I kept wanting to joke and kick the whole conversation sideways, make it lighter somehow. Didn’t work.
The truth was too heavy for that.
I’m getting used to this. To her. To us. Not through some giant moment. Just this.
The booth. The cupcakes. The fact she got there first, and I knew why that mattered.
And maybe that’s the part that scares me most.
Not just the reset.
What it takes with it.
Because once something starts feeling normal in a good way, losing it stops being theoretical.
And Clearwater is getting real in a way I seriously do not appreciate.
Face in the Photo
When we got back to the Meridian, that booth feeling from Cascades was still there.
So of course that’s when things shifted.
Gramps was in the workshop, surrounded by wood shavings and that constant almost-finished energy the place lives in now. He looked up, smiled at Ellie, then looked at me in a way that made my stomach tighten.
Not angry.
Just… decided.
He didn’t make a speech. Just wiped his hands, picked up a book, and handed it to me. Said we’d find it interesting. Something to do with the school play.
That was it.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because normal Gramps I can handle. Casual weirdness I can handle.
Quietly significant Gramps?
That’s where things tend to break open.
The book was old, but not creepy-old. The Witches of Devils Creek. Miss Rivers had the same one, just a newer edition, probably using it to plan Spellbound Harmony like she expected folklore to return the favor.
So yeah. That tracked.
We took it upstairs.
The second I opened it, something slipped out and fell into my lap.
A Polaroid.
My brain stalled for a second.
It was one of Gramps’s old photos. Soft edges. Slightly faded. Real in that way Polaroids always are.
Gramps was in it.
Dad, too.
But that wasn’t the part that mattered.
It was the woman between them.
Younger than Dad. Bright-eyed. Smiling straight at the camera like she belonged there.
Like she’d always belonged there.
Holly.
Not a name. Not a half-story.
A person.
A face.
And I just… stared.
Because she looked normal.
That’s what made it worse.
Not dramatic. Not mythical. Just someone who should have always been there and somehow wasn’t.
She looked like family.
Not identical. Just enough around the eyes, the mouth—enough that my brain started trying to place her into moments she should’ve been part of.
And then—
Jemma Landry.
The thought hit fast and hard.
Holly was erased, and Gramps still had proof. Just like we did with Jemma.
I didn’t say it out loud. Pretty sure I couldn’t have.
Ellie went still beside me. Not distant, just quiet in a way that felt familiar.
Like she’d landed somewhere close to the same thought.
She didn’t push.
Gramps didn’t either.
That mattered.
He’d done exactly what he said he would. Help, without explaining. Just enough to make it impossible to ignore.
No speech. No answers.
Just a photograph falling out of a book like a door left open on purpose.
And suddenly Friday night didn’t feel as closed as it had.
Still complicated. Still awful. Still full of rules I don’t understand.
But not closed.
Because Holly isn’t just a name anymore.
She has a face.
And once someone has a face, it’s a lot harder to let them disappear.
The Mirror Was Her
Teddy got to the Meridian not long after the Polaroid reveal.
He looked tired in that trying-to-function-anyway way he’s been doing a lot lately.
He smiled when he came in.
Then I showed him the photo.
Watched that smile disappear in real time.
Not because he didn’t believe it.
Because he did.
And once he saw her—really saw her—it felt obvious what we had to do next.
Go back.
The mirror entry.
The reflection.
The one I’d spent way too long convincing myself was some older version of me being dramatic.
Figures.
We pulled out Younger Penny’s second diary and found the entry again. Ellie stayed close beside me, her hand tight in mine. Teddy sat opposite, already locked in.
I touched the page.
And then the memory hit.
Just after Christmas. I was in my room at the Meridian, sitting at my desk, writing.
Someone behind me.
Not close enough to see.
But there.
A woman’s voice.
Don’t look at me. Remember the secret.
Then the mirror.
Just a flicker.
Dark hair.
Purple highlights.
Only this time, it wasn’t blurred.
It wasn’t guesswork.
It was her.
Holly.
Clear as anything.
And for a second, I had this sideways thought, like maybe the Polaroid had done something.
Like seeing her properly had unlocked something.
Or maybe I’m just reaching.
Either way, she wasn’t blurred anymore.
Not me.
My aunt.
I came out of it hard, breath catching, that rushing feeling like my brain had sprinted ahead without warning. Ellie’s hand was already on my arm, steadying me before I even realized I’d started to lean.
Teddy was watching, already trying to make it make sense.
And suddenly the reflection wasn’t a mystery anymore.
If it was Holly—
Then Holly was there.
Not random.
Not once.
Part of it.
That landed heavier than I expected.
Because it means she knew.
Knew enough to be there.
Knew enough to warn me.
Knew enough to stay hidden.
And somehow that makes everything worse.
Because Holly wasn’t just erased from records.
She was erased from me.
I never even got the chance to miss her.
And now I can’t stop seeing her.
In the photo.
In the mirror.
In every place she suddenly makes terrible, perfect sense.
So yeah.
The reflection mystery is solved.
Which would feel better if it didn’t also make everything sadder.
The Weight of it All
After the Holly memory, the room went quiet in that very specific way where everyone’s brain is trying to catch up at the same time.
Not awkward.
Just… full.
Like we’d all hit the same edge and nobody wanted to say the obvious thing out loud.
Which was: well, that changes everything.
Rude.
Once my nervous system stopped feeling like it had been through a blender, we went back to the third diary.
Because apparently this is what we do now.
Get emotionally flattened, then keep reading like that’s a normal response.
Healthy. Very balanced.
The entries weren’t one big shock like Holly.
It was more like being slowly buried in details.
Younger Penny tried to show a teacher The London Antiquarian. Wrote it down. Asked for help.
The teacher couldn’t see it.
Just some scribble.
Then gave her detention for being suspicious.
Which would already be bad enough—
Except the detention just… disappeared.
Gone.
Like it never happened.
Teddy had that focused look the whole time, mentally filing everything into the diary index—the Web. Ellie stayed close, steady, quiet, her hand still in mine.
And yeah.
That helped.
Because the entries got heavier.
Not dramatic-heavy.
Just… life-heavy.
Birthdays.
The anniversary of Dad and Sean.
Christmas.
All of it sitting right in the middle of Clearwater like life just kept going anyway.
That part got to me more than I expected.
Because it made Younger Penny feel less like some mystery version of me and more like—just me.
Smaller. Scared. Trying to get through the year while everything else was breaking.
And now, with Holly in the background, those entries felt different too.
Not obvious.
Just enough that the gaps stood out more.
Missing pages.
Cut-off thoughts.
Places where it felt like something had been left out on purpose.
It’s one thing knowing the diaries matter.
It’s another realizing someone might’ve been protecting them in real time.
That stayed with me.
At some point Teddy checked the time and did that face he does when responsibility kicks in. He had to go pick up his mom and Squirt so they could head to Halifax.
And just like that, the day snapped back to real life.
Teddy packed up slowly, like he didn’t want to be the one to end it.
I didn’t want him to either.
But there wasn’t much choice.
He said we’d pick it up again after Clearwater.
After I bring them back.
Not fake-cheerful.
Just… certain.
That helped.
After he left, the room felt different.
Not empty.
Just quieter.
She Was Already Staying
At some point, I checked the time.
Then Ellie.
Then very carefully not Ellie again, because subtlety is still not one of my core strengths.
Clearwater is next weekend.
Which means this is our last full weekend before everything resets itself into chaos again.
Not might.
Will.
That part’s not theoretical anymore.
That thought sat there for a second too long.
So I asked if she wanted to stay over.
Smooth? No.
Charming? Also no.
It came out fast, like my brain skipped the part where I make things sound normal.
But the second it was out there, I knew I meant it.
Not because something dramatic needed to happen. Not because I was spiraling.
Just because the idea of today ending with her leaving suddenly felt… wrong.
Ellie looked at me for about half a second.
Then did that small, amused smile that always feels like she knows something I don’t.
And told me she was already staying whether I liked it or not.
Joking.
Mostly.
Which—rude.
But also kind of perfect.
I laughed, because obviously that was the correct reaction, and because it let the pressure drop just enough for me to breathe again.
The whole day had been ghosts and erased people and diary pages and everything being worse than expected.
I think I just needed something simple.
Something that didn’t ask anything of me except be here.
That’s what this was.
Not a big moment.
Not some dramatic shift.
Just her staying.
Just me wanting her to.
Just both of us acting like that made sense now.
And maybe it does.
Not Carrying it Alone
We ended up going for a walk in the rain.
Not planned. Just one of those decisions where sitting still feels worse than getting soaked.
Meridia Park was mostly empty. A few dog walkers. One guy in a poncho who looked like he’d made a series of poor life choices.
The rain helped.
Not in a dramatic, movie way.
Just quieter.
Everything slowed down a bit.
Took the edge off.
We didn’t do a full diary debrief—honestly. I don’t think I had one in me. Things came up in pieces instead. Holly. Gramps. Clearwater. Teddy’s dad.
All the usual cheerful topics.
Classic.
But somewhere in the middle of all that, I noticed something.
My head only hurt a little.
Not nothing. There was still that dull pressure, like my brain had been working overtime all day.
But no full migraine.
No full lights-out, please-remove-my-consciousness situation.
Which is new.
And honestly… a little suspicious.
At first I thought maybe I was just getting used to it.
Doubtful.
More likely sharing it with Ellie is taking some of the hit.
Like splitting the memory means I’m not carrying all of it alone anymore.
That thought stayed with me.
Quietly.
By the time we got back, we were soaked, cold, and done.
So: movie night. Pizza. Dry clothes. Not thinking too hard for a few hours.
For us, that counts as luxury.
Later, things settled.
Not fixed. Not even close.
But steadier.
The kind of steady you get when everything is still wrong—but someone’s in it with you.
Clearwater is still coming.
Nothing about this is better.
But tonight it didn’t feel like I was bracing for it alone.
After that, the rest of the evening became personal time.
Sunday, May 24, 2026
Borrowed Daylight
I walked Ellie to church again this morning, which is not a sentence I ever expected to become a regular part of my life, but here we are.
It felt right.
Or at least less wrong than watching her leave from the Meridian steps and pretending I wasn’t going to miss her the second she disappeared.
So I went with her.
The town was still in that slow Sunday mood, everything washed clean from yesterday’s rain.
Ellie went inside the chapel.
I didn’t.
I did the church thing last week for Squirt. This week? Hard pass. No offense to church, I’m just not built for surprise hymnals and coordinated kneeling.
Also, after everything lately, walking into a place built for answers felt a little risky.
I’ve already got enough going on without adding that to the group chat.
So I waited in the park instead.
Found a bench. Pulled my sleeves over my hands. Let my brain go quiet for a bit.
Not because anything’s fixed. Clearwater is still coming. Holly is still both found and gone. Teddy’s dad is still in Halifax. Candy is still Candy.
But for a while, nothing new happened.
Honestly?
That counts as luxury now.
The sun came out just as Ellie did.
She looked softer somehow. Not happier. Just steadier.
We didn’t do the whole unpack-church emotions thing. Just fell into step beside each other and headed to Cascades for lunch like normal people with normal problems.
Commitment to the bit: strong.
We took our usual booth, and for a second I wanted to freeze it.
Not in a creepy way.
Just… this.
Sunlight through the windows. Ellie across from me. Lunch that wasn’t tied to a diary, a memory blast, or something awful waiting to be uncovered.
Just lunch.
Which is probably why it felt temporary the whole time.
Because underneath it, the countdown was still there.
And Candy.
Ellie mentioned she had to go later for one of those mandatory Candy Gang afternoons that sound exhausting before they even start.
She said it like it was normal.
I did my best to act like it was too.
That’s the annoying part. Nothing bad was happening.
I got the walk. The bench. Lunch.
A few ordinary hours.
And maybe that’s what borrowed daylight is.
Not fake. Not fragile in a bad way.
Just something good you get for a little while before the rest of the world starts asking for it back.
And honestly, I think that still counts.
Close to the Truth
The afternoon felt quieter after Ellie left.
Not bad quiet. Just the kind where the Meridian seems to exhale once there’s one less person in it.
Gramps asked if I wanted to go for a walk.
Nothing dramatic. Just a walk.
Which, considering everything, was about as subtle as a flare gun.
Still, I went.
Back to the park again.
We took the long way around the lake, because apparently that’s where all major emotional processing happens now. The weather couldn’t decide what it was doing, so everything felt a little softer around the edges.
And we talked.
Not directly. Of course not.
We circled it instead.
He talked about the Meridian. About how old places only matter to people when they’re useful. About how sometimes keeping something going is the best you can do.
Then, quieter, he said things don’t really disappear the way people think they do.
That pieces stay. In places. In people. In what’s left behind.
I didn’t push that.
Didn’t ask who he meant.
But I heard it anyway.
So yeah. Very normal park conversation.
I told him thanks for the book. Said I’d learned some things I didn’t know.
That was it.
One sentence.
But I think he heard the rest.
And that’s when it clicked.
Not that he wouldn’t help me.
That he can’t.
That whatever he’s caught inside is real enough that even something as simple as a photograph has to be passed over like contraband.
Not comforting.
But not nothing either.
It means yesterday wasn’t random.
It was a choice.
Careful. Deliberate.
Him finding a way to put Holly back in front of me without breaking whatever rules he’s stuck with.
We didn’t say that out loud.
We didn’t have to.
By the time we got back, something between us had settled.
Not fixed.
But clearer.
Things can’t go back to before Friday.
Once you’ve seen your grandfather in an alley with Henry Church and a box built for ghosts, normal kind of stops applying.
Except… weirdly, something like it doesn’t.
Just a different version.
Later, we watched It’s a Wonderful Life in the renovated event cinema for the restaurant, which finally looks like a real place instead of a project.
And yeah, it’s not Christmas.
But it worked.
Maybe because the whole story is about what happens when someone isn’t there anymore—
And how much of them still is.
No big revelation. No speech.
Just me and Gramps, sitting in the dark, watching something old and sad and strangely hopeful.
Things aren’t resolved.
They probably won’t be.
But I think we found a way to keep going without pretending none of it mattered.
Monday, May 25, 2026
Normal-Ish Again
Back at school today, everything felt more normal just because Teddy was there.
Which is probably not a healthy level of emotional dependence on one person.
But honestly?
I’ll take it.
Not much else has changed. The ghost-box-Gramps-Church mess is still sitting in my head like a cursed pop-up ad, just… slightly less impossible than it did before. And Clearwater is still coming.
But Teddy being back—half-smile, running on fumes—made the whole place feel less tilted.
Not right.
Just less off.
That helped more than I expected.
He looked rough. Not dramatic. Just worn down in that quiet way, like he technically slept but his brain absolutely didn’t.
Still doing the Teddy thing, though.
Functioning anyway.
The day stayed low-key. Math, Media Studies, then English and Drama. Miss Rivers was already in full Spellbound Harmony mode, talking cues and props like one wrong glitter decision could collapse the entire production.
Honestly?
Accurate.
That part helped.
Just a few hours of normal chaos. Scripts. Timings. People complaining about costumes. Me pretending I’m not one bad night’s sleep away from becoming a hallway cryptid.
Lunch was where it shifted.
Not a lot.
Just enough.
We were at our usual table. Teddy quieter than normal. Ellie doing that subtle check-in thing without making it a whole performance.
Then Steve Dillon stopped by.
Didn’t sit. Didn’t make a thing of it. Just asked Teddy how his dad was doing, got the short version, nodded, and moved on.
Simple.
Actual human behavior.
Apparently rare now.
Then Marilyn crossed behind him with her tray.
I only caught it because I was already looking that way.
Candy shifted in her seat and slid one foot out.
Deliberate.
Marilyn hit it, stumbled—and Steve turned fast enough to catch her with one arm and the tray with the other.
Didn’t drop a thing.
For a second, the whole moment just… stopped.
Marilyn looking up at him. Steve looking back like he’d forgotten the cafeteria existed.
Then she straightened, thanked him, and carried on her way.
Candy was already staring at her like she’d committed some kind of personal betrayal.
And of course, that was the moment Candy stopped just looking annoyed and started looking calculating.
Not jealous.
Calculating.
Like she was filing it away.
Steve equals access. Marilyn equals complication. Teddy equals route.
Which made me want to throw something at her.
Because Teddy’s dad being sick is not part of your social strategy.
But I could practically see her working it out in real time.
Figures.
Still, the simple part stuck.
Teddy was here.
Tired. Quieter. Definitely running on empty.
But here.
And right now, that feels like enough.
Yearbook Assembly Energy
After school, me and Ellie went to Chen Print to help Teddy with the yearbooks.
Actual help. Not fake “moral support and one piece of tape” help.
They’d already been printed before everything went sideways, but they still needed finishing—binding, stacking, boxing—before delivery to the school.
So that’s what we were doing.
Very glamorous.
The place was full of half-done piles, fresh covers, and boxed orders shoved wherever there was space. Teddy moved between it all with that same tired, determined energy—like if he just kept going, nothing else would fall apart.
With his mom and Squirt still in Halifax, he was basically running the after-school shop solo again. Not taking new jobs. Just holding the current ones together.
Classic Teddy.
Still, it was good to be there.
Not because binding yearbooks is secretly my passion. It is not. But because doing something normal with them felt… better.
No ghosts. No memory blasts. No emotional grenades falling out of books.
Just paper. Ink. Tasks that made sense.
Honestly?
Luxury.
Ellie slipped into helping mode like she’d always worked there. Teddy showed us what to do, and after that we just fell into a rhythm.
Like we’d done it before.
At some point, one of the finished yearbooks got opened.
Which immediately killed productivity.
We ended up flipping through it between stacks, because apparently none of us can resist seeing what kind of school-sanctioned awkwardness has been permanently recorded this year.
Deeply cursed concept.
Still—ours actually looked good.
Like, really good.
Which made sense. Chen Print had handled it before everything went wrong.
Then came the photos.
Mine was… fine.
According to Ellie, more than fine.
She said I looked really pretty, in that quiet, matter-of-fact way she does that somehow makes it worse.
So obviously I told her hers was gorgeous.
Because it was.
And also because I have eyes.
She did that tiny smile again.
The one that makes me forget how to function for a second.
Then Teddy, refusing to be excluded from this very serious evaluation process, asked about his.
Fair.
So yes, we admired Teddy too.
Annoyingly photogenic.
Then we hit Marilyn’s page.
And wow.
Perfect smile. Perfect posture. Full pageant energy without even trying.
The kind of photo that makes everyone else look like they got caught mid-blink in a hostage situation.
Which meant it was impossible not to think about Candy.
Because there is absolutely no version of reality where Candy reacts normally to Marilyn getting that much attention in a book the entire school will be passing around next week, especially after the look Marilyn shared with Steve at lunch today.
None.
You could practically feel the fallout loading.
And the worst part?
Marilyn isn’t even doing anything.
She just exists like that.
And Candy hates anything that pulls focus without permission.
Figures.
Still, for a little while, standing there between half-bound yearbooks with Ellie on one side and Teddy on the other, everything felt lighter than it had all weekend.
Not fixed.
Not safe.
Just… lighter.
And I’m learning that’s enough.
Tuesday, May 26, 2026
App Ping Panic
After school, me, Teddy, and Ellie ended up back at Chen Print, still working through the yearbook stack like we’d signed some unofficial after-school contract.
Not complaining.
It was normal. Tasks that made sense. Paper, ink, things that didn’t try to rewrite reality.
We were halfway through packing another batch when my phone buzzed.
Not a normal buzz.
The RGN app.
That made all three of us stop.
Because that app is supposed to be secure. Private. The one place nothing gets in.
So seeing a message none of us sent?
Yeah. Not ideal.
I opened it anyway.
Because apparently I learn nothing.
It was short.
No sender ID.
Get a black light and scan your skin for anomalies after Clearwater.
A friend.
That was it.
Which somehow made it worse.
Not threatening. Not dramatic.
Just… specific.
Too specific.
Teddy read it. Then read it again like the words might rearrange into something less concerning if he stared long enough. Ellie leaned in beside him, and the whole room shifted.
One second: packing boxes.
Next: staring at a message like it might bite.
Honestly?
Not impossible at this point.
The black light part stuck.
Not because it sounded scary.
Because it sounded practical.
Scan your skin. Look for anomalies. After Clearwater.
Not before.
After.
That word did not sit well.
So yeah, my brain immediately went there.
Who is this? How do they know about Clearwater? How do they even have access to the app Ruby built?
And, because my life loves irony—is this somehow Gramps?
It would be very on-brand. Cryptic. Useful.
Except it didn’t feel like him.
Or maybe that’s the problem now.
Everything feels connected.
Holly. The USB. Gramps.
One big cursed knot.
We talked it through. Calm voices. Very logical. Absolutely not panicking.
Teddy said we should take it seriously.
(Translation: I hate this, but I hate ignoring it more.)
Ellie agreed. Quiet. Steady.
That made it land harder.
And me?
Somewhere in the middle.
Suspicious hope.
Which is apparently a thing now.
Because yeah, it scared me.
But it also felt like someone reaching in and saying—you’re not wrong. Check this.
That is not comforting.
Also kind of is.
Hate that.
In the end, we decided to order the black light, since none of us had access to one, and have it sent to the Meridian.
Keep it ready for after Clearwater.
Not because we trust the “friend.”
We don’t.
But whoever sent it either knows something real, or is very committed to sounding like they do.
And right now, that’s close enough.
Triangle Shock
We didn’t stay at Chen Print much longer after the message.
No dramatic “meeting adjourned.” Just that shared look where nobody says we should check now, but everyone’s already thinking it.
The black light isn’t arriving until Thursday.
Which suddenly feels like six years away.
So me and Ellie went back to mine.
No way I was sitting around pretending to be normal while my brain invented worst-case scenarios before dinner.
Classic.
We got upstairs, and then just… stopped.
Because it’s one thing to say check your skin.
It’s another to actually do it.
We started simple. Arms. Shoulders. Still pretending this might be nothing.
Nothing.
For a second, I actually felt stupid.
Then Ellie went still.
Not panic-still.
Just quiet in that way that means something’s already changed.
She told me to turn around and lift my shirt.
And yeah—my stomach dropped before I even moved.
I caught the mirror.
Three small pink marks.
Low on my back.
Neat. Even.
A triangle.
For a second, I thought I might be sick.
Because it was there. Real. Physical.
Not a dream. Not a memory. Not a clue in a diary.
On me.
I asked Ellie to turn.
Already knew the answer.
Same place.
Same pattern.
Same triangle.
And no, before my brain even tried it, this had nothing to do with our ESD. Nobody is sticking needles in our lower backs for that.
And just like that, everything shifted.
Not creepy-message weird.
Not maybe something’s wrong.
Something happened.
We checked properly after that.
Everywhere.
Nothing else.
Just those three marks.
Which somehow made it worse.
Because now it wasn’t random.
It was specific.
We just stood there, staring like if we looked long enough they’d turn into something normal.
Because of course whatever is messing with my life also has a flair for symbolism.
I grabbed the Polaroid.
Apparently analog is my emotional support system now.
We took photos. Awkwardly.
Then I called Teddy.
He picked up fast.
That did not help.
I gave him the short version.
Three marks. Triangle. Same place on both of us.
There was a pause.
Then Teddy went full Teddy.
Quiet first. Brain working. Panic folded into questions.
Photos? Yes.
Old or new? Somewhere in between.
Pain? No.
Which somehow made it worse.
We didn’t talk long.
We didn’t need to.
By the time the call ended, the room felt different.
My body felt different.
Like it didn’t fully belong to me anymore.
That’s the part I hate.
Not just that Clearwater is coming.
That it might already be on us.
Because one message is one thing.
Three marks in a perfect triangle—that’s not something I can explain away anymore.
Wednesday, May 27, 2026
Reset Countdown Lunch
Lunch today had that weird doomed energy where nobody says the main thing, because saying it would make it real.
So naturally, we took forever to get there.
Me, Teddy, and Ellie sat at our usual table, pretending to eat while actually just thinking too loudly.
Clearwater is this Friday.
The reset is coming.
Every normal sentence now has a countdown humming under it.
Very relaxing.
Teddy brought it up first.
Not dramatically. Just in that quiet, practical way he has where it sounds like a normal question until you realize he’s already in the middle of the problem.
We don’t know when it happens.
Not vaguely. Not “after Clearwater.”
The exact moment.
And annoyingly, he was right.
We know what comes after. The fake version. The rebuild. The mess.
But we’ve never pinned down the second it changes.
Which suddenly felt like a huge gap.
Like we’ve been surviving a storm without ever checking when it actually hits.
Classic us.
Then Teddy said he could track it.
No buildup. No panic. Just straight into solution mode.
If I tear a page from the diary, he’ll log the time every hour from Friday night until the reset interrupts him.
Because the page will survive.
Which means we’ll know when it happened.
Exactly.
The second he said it, I knew it was smart.
I also knew I hated it.
Not because it’s a bad plan.
Because it’s a good one.
The kind that means Teddy sets alarms all night while his dad is still in Halifax and he’s already running on fumes.
Ellie got it too.
No argument. Just that look that says she knows he’s already decided.
And me?
Same split reaction.
Yes, this helps.
Also—stop giving pieces of yourself to every crisis.
But that’s Teddy.
Helping is how he holds himself together.
So I didn’t make it a whole thing in the cafeteria.
I just looked at him and nodded.
We agreed.
He’ll log the time every hour. Keep the page hidden in his wallet.
When I bring him back next week, it should still be there.
Which is a deeply cursed sentence that somehow sounded normal by the end of lunch.
But there it is.
We have a plan.
A small one. A sleep-deprived, very-Teddy plan.
Still a plan.
And somehow that makes Clearwater feel worse and better at the same time.
Because now it isn’t just a blur coming for us.
Now it has a moment, one we might finally catch.
Driver Drop-Off Ambush
Ellie’s driver—technically the mayor’s—dropped me home after Chen Print, which is always a weird reminder that her life can switch from paper stacks to polished car doors in about ten seconds.
Very normal. Not jarring at all.
Mom was in the kitchen when I got in.
Of course she was.
She asked about Teddy’s dad first, in that careful, controlled way that sounds like concern but doesn’t quite land.
Then Ellie.
Of course.
Had she been over again? Were we spending “a lot of time together lately?”
Classic.
I kept everything boring on purpose.
Yes, we’d been at Chen Print.
Yes, that was it.
No, you do not get bonus details.
Then she brought up Gramps.
Said he’d been acting “suspicious.”
A week ago, that might’ve stuck.
Not today.
Today it just… settled.
Because whatever else is true right now—whatever I still don’t understand—
He is suspicious.
And I trust him more than I did before Friday.
Which is probably the most insane sentence in this entire diary.
And still true.
Thursday, May 28, 2026
Borrowed Normal Hours
After Chen Print, the three of us went to Cascades—officially a pre-Clearwater tradition now.
Teddy bought dinner.
Then pie.
Panic later.
No speeches. No “let’s talk about the reset.” Just the very deliberate choice to sit somewhere warm and pretend the hardest decision was dessert.
Honestly? Luxury.
Cascades had that soft evening buzz—mugs, low voices, people minding their own lives. We took our usual booth upstairs and slipped into something that looked almost normal.
Me, Teddy, Ellie.
Just… us.
That part hit more than I expected. Not in a big way. Just quietly. The shape of it. The version of us I’m trying not to get attached to—
Because obviously I already am.
Classic.
Teddy was quieter, but present. Holding it together on purpose. Ellie matched him—steady, not forcing anything.
And me?
Trying to memorize it without looking like I was.
Which is a deeply normal thing to realize while staring at a menu.
We kept things light. School, Spellbound Harmony, yearbooks, Teddy muttering about print jobs like they’d personally betrayed him.
Small things.
Important things.
Then the pie arrived.
Apple.
And for about thirty seconds, nobody spoke.
Which might’ve been the best part of the whole day.
Because somehow, in the middle of everything—resets, messages, marks on our skin—pie still wins.
As it should.
But the countdown never left.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just there.
And that’s the part that gets you.
Not that this feels fake.
That it feels real enough to lose.
I kept catching details anyway. Teddy dissecting the crust like it was a structural issue. Ellie stealing my fries like that’s legally allowed. The way we leaned in when one of us spoke quieter, like the rest of the world didn’t matter for a second.
Nothing dramatic.
Just something I don’t want interrupted.
Which is, unfortunately, exactly what Clearwater does best.
So yeah.
Pie before panic.
One small, warm pause before everything shifts.
And I hate how much something this simple can feel like everything.
Last-Night Safeguards
Back at the Meridian, everything shifted into prep.
Not dramatic. Not ritual. Just our version—letters, hiding places, backup plans, and trying not to think too hard about what that says about my life.
Dinner was over.
Normal was over.
Now it was just preparation.
Ellie updated her video. Teddy updated his letter. Then they swapped. I checked my letters—one on the desk, one ready to mail tomorrow.
Again.
There is something deeply cursed about rewriting your post-reset instructions like it’s Thursday night admin.
Some people meal-prep.
I reality-prep.
Figures.
We spread out around the room, each handling part of the same problem. Nobody talked much.
The quiet wasn’t awkward.
Just full.
At some point, I tore a page from the back of the diary and handed it to Teddy for the hourly tracking plan. He folded it carefully and slipped it into his wallet.
That should’ve helped.
It didn’t.
Because looking at him—already exhausted, still dealing with everything back in Halifax—I had this quick, sharp thought that maybe I shouldn’t be asking him to do this at all.
That maybe next time, I leave him out of it.
The thought lasted about three seconds.
He saw it anyway.
Told me not to decide for him. Not to come back next week and try to carry it alone.
Very Teddy.
No speech. Just steady.
So I promised.
Because he was right.
Annoyingly.
After that, we started storing everything.
Letters. Diaries. Videos. The USB. The black light, still boxed. The Truthweaver laptop.
Anything that had to survive.
Some went into the window seat. Some behind the AC vent. Every object felt heavier, like putting it away carefully might actually matter.
At this point, superstition and strategy are basically roommates.
By the time we were done, the room looked almost normal again.
Homework. Clutter. End of a long day.
Not three people quietly trying to out-plan a reset.
Which somehow made it worse.
Nothing Yet, Still Worse
After Teddy left, the room felt smaller.
Not emptier. Just… aware. Like everything we’d hidden was sitting there quietly waiting for Friday.
The black light was in the window seat.
I pulled it back out.
So we used it.
The message said after Clearwater. Which felt less like a rule and more like a suggestion.
It turned out to be more intimate than I expected.
Not the black light itself—it looks like something a very suspicious camp counselor would carry—but the checking. Close. Careful. Quiet in that way where the air shifts without asking.
And the marks didn’t help.
Those stupid little triangle punctures had already changed how my body felt. Not dramatically. Just enough that nothing was automatic anymore.
Everything felt… noticed.
Which I hated.
We dimmed the room and started simple. Arms. Shoulders. Hands.
Nothing.
Then slower. More thorough. Because once you start looking for hidden things, pretending you don’t need to is just lying to yourself.
Still nothing.
It should’ve felt reassuring.
It didn’t.
Because the marks were still there. Real. Photographed. Not going anywhere.
So all this did was move the fear.
The black light showed nothing. No hidden ink. No pattern.
Which should have been good.
It wasn’t.
Because the message said after.
Not now.
After.
So this didn’t solve anything. It just confirmed we’re early.
We talked about messaging the sender. Briefly.
Didn’t.
Tonight already felt heavy enough.
So we waited.
Again.
By the time we put the light back, the room had gone quiet. Not tense. Just… done. Like the mystery had used up its time for the night.
And what was left was us.
The last night before Clearwater.
Or at least the last night before this version of us gets risked against it.
That landed harder than I wanted.
All evening I’d stayed in plan mode—letters, hiding places, systems.
Useful.
But once the scanning gave us nothing, there wasn’t anywhere left to hide from the emotional part.
So we stopped trying.
Not dramatically. Just… turned back toward each other instead of the problem.
Chose closeness over one more theory.
Because Friday can take a lot.
It doesn’t get this—unless it takes it.
Friday, May 29, 2026
Waiting for the Hit
Today felt muffled.
Not quiet—school never is. Lockers slamming, people laughing, teachers talking too much. But it all felt slightly removed. Like I was there without fully landing in it.
Which, considering it was Clearwater day… tracks.
I woke up already bracing. No slow build. Just straight into that tight feeling in my chest, like my body had skipped morning and gone straight to something bad is scheduled.
Ellie was the same. Not dramatic. Just quieter. Careful in that way where everything feels like it might break if you move wrong.
And Teddy—
He looked wrecked.
Not falling apart. He’d never let school see that. But the shadows were there. That hyper-alert version of him fully switched on. Between his dad and tonight, I don’t think he’s had a real break in weeks.
Classic Teddy.
I kept trying to think of something useful to say to either of them.
Everything sounded fake.
So I stayed close instead.
Walked beside Ellie. Sat beside Teddy.
Let that be enough.
It had to be.
Classes dragged in the most insulting way possible. French. History. Science. Math. Every clock in the building felt like it was doing this on purpose.
And all I could think was, how are you all acting like today is normal?
At lunch, we sat together like always.
Nobody tried to fake it.
Just… quiet.
Ellie kept brushing my arm in those small, passing ways that look accidental if you’re not paying attention.
Teddy stayed in planning mode. Not saying much. Just running through it—wallet, page, alarms, sequence—like lining it up properly might make it work.
I wish that’s how it worked.
It doesn’t.
That’s the worst part about Clearwater now.
Not the fear.
The routine.
School. Waiting. Pretending. Then the post office, the drive, Clearwater—
And the version of my life that isn’t quite mine waiting on the other side.
Figures.
By last period, I’d stopped pretending to listen.
Just watching the clock.
Knowing exactly what was coming.
Still not quite believing I had to walk into it on purpose.
No twist.
No surprise.
Just the weight of the known.
And somehow that’s enough.
Because when the bad thing already has a time and place, there’s nothing left to solve.
Only the waiting.
Post Office Ritual
After school, I said goodbye to Ellie—temporarily, since Mom and I were driving her to Clearwater later—then Teddy and I walked to the post office to mail the backup letter.
At this point, it’s routine.
Low bar, honestly.
We didn’t rush.
I think that was the point.
Everything else today felt like waiting under pressure, but the walk didn’t. Slower. Deliberate. Like neither of us wanted to say this was probably the last stretch of normal before Clearwater did whatever it was going to do.
At the counter, it looked completely ordinary.
The woman didn’t blink. Just another envelope. Just another Friday.
Just me, handing it over like I wasn’t mailing instructions to a future version of myself for when my brain gets rewritten again.
Very casual.
We didn’t go straight home after.
Just walked a little longer.
That’s when I said it.
Not dramatically. Just because it had been sitting there all day.
I told him I wished the reset actually did something useful for once. If it’s going to bulldoze everything, maybe it could at least erase the things that matter.
His dad’s cancer.
Jemma being erased.
Ellie’s mom.
Holly.
The whole list.
The second I said it, I knew how stupid it sounded.
Not because I thought it might work.
Because I knew it wouldn’t.
That’s the worst part now—we understand it.
It doesn’t heal.
It doesn’t fix.
It doesn’t give anything back.
It just scrambles.
Teddy got that immediately.
He said if it worked like that, he’d take it in a second. His dad healthy. Jemma back. Ellie’s mom returned. Holly not erased like someone crossed her out of the world.
But that’s not what it does.
It never gives back.
That landed.
Not because it was new.
Because it was true.
By the time we reached our usual split-off point, everything in me wanted to stretch it.
One more street.
One more minute.
But we stopped there.
Like always.
Which somehow made it worse.
The normality of it.
He said he’d do the hourly checks.
I told him not to stay up being heroic if he was about to pass out.
He gave me the look that meant he absolutely would anyway.
Figures.
Then we just stood there for a second.
Not saying the thing.
The thing being this version of us might only have a few hours left.
Not permanently.
Not if everything works.
But still.
Hours.
That thought followed me all the way home.
Because there’s something especially horrible about saying goodbye when you know it isn’t the real goodbye.
But it might still be the last time this exact version of them looks at you like they know everything.
Last Version Energy
Mom dropped me at the Meridian before we picked up Ellie.
I went straight upstairs and into check mode.
Window seat.
AC vent.
Desk.
Everything where it should be. Everything hidden. The stash intact. The diary cache still tucked behind the vent like a paper nerve center holding my life together with ink and bad odds.
And on the desk—the letter exactly where it needed to be.
Waiting.
That sight never gets easier.
You’d think repetition would make it feel practical.
Routine.
It doesn’t.
It still feels like looking at a version of me already preparing for me to disappear.
Which—rude.
I sat on the bed for a minute and just looked around.
My room. The Meridian. The place that somehow feels more mine than my actual house.
And everything in it looked painfully normal.
The lamp. The chair. Bobby, now just an empty board.
And all I could think was how many times I’ve stood here as one version of me and come back as another.
That’s the part that sticks.
Because the worst thing about Clearwater isn’t the fear anymore.
It’s the routine.
Write the last entry.
Stamp it.
Hide the diary.
Trust the letters.
Trust Teddy.
Trust Ellie.
Trust that next week I can rebuild this version of my life before it gets taken again.
Trust, trust, trust.
Exhausting, honestly.
We’re picking up Ellie soon.
Then Clearwater.
That sharpened everything.
Not in a helpful way. Just enough to make every detail feel too present.
My hoodie on the chair. The envelope with my name on it. The quiet of the building.
Somewhere across town, Teddy is probably already running through his plan like the sleep-deprived hero he is.
And underneath all of it, one clear truth:
This version of my life is still here.
Right now.
Still intact. Still warm. Still mine.
Me and Ellie—this version of us.
Teddy remembering everything.
Holly having a face.
The triangle marks still waiting on our skin, in silence.
Logan and Cassie Collins not being rumors anymore.
Jemma back, and somehow worse.
Sapphire Bliss still out there somewhere, maybe with my email, maybe not.
All of it.
Still here.
And in a little while, I’m going to close this diary, hide it behind the vent, and let Clearwater take another swing anyway.
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