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.
New to Penny’s story? Begin at the very first entry by clicking the button below and step into the moments where everything started to change.
Subscribe to receive new diary entries straight to your inbox each week as the story unfolds.
Saturday, February 21, 2026
Research Upgrade Mode
Ellie was off the radar until Monday—which meant zero chance to ask her anything about Clearwater—so I tried to shove the panic down and focus on something I could control.
Okay, so today was officially the day me and Teddy leveled up our detective skills. No more flailing around in diary chaos like two caffeinated raccoons. We needed a system. A plan. A brain map. Something.
So I sat down with all five of Younger Penny’s diaries, took a deep breath, and had the most painfully obvious revelation ever:
We need an index.
A real one—with page numbers, names, events, weird symbols, Younger Penny’s inexplicable doodles… all of it. Something to actually track patterns instead of relying on my goldfish-memory “vibes only” method.
We can use one of the green notebooks—if anything stands a fighting chance of surviving a reality shift, it’s one of those.
The second the idea hit, everything in my brain lit up like a Christmas tree plugged into a lightning storm. Finally. A way to stop stumbling around in the dark and start acting like someone who isn’t destined to get brain-reset next week.
So yeah. Today’s goal:
Start at the beginning. Go in order. No skipping.
Turn diary chaos into diary clarity.
Or at least into something I can flip through without triggering a migraine.
Memory Minefield Mode
When Teddy showed up after lunch, we went full snack-goblin—M&Ms everywhere, hot chocolate in oversized mugs, the whole brain fuel ritual. If we were going to survive a deep dive into Younger Penny’s diaries, sugar was non-negotiable.
We started with the first one.
Diary One.
2016.
Teddy offered to read, but I shook my head. If younger me lived through this and wrote it down, then current me could at least face the page. Even if it meant risking a memory blast strong enough to knock me sideways.
It hit almost immediately.
Not just the words.
The moments around them.
The feeling of the room. The weight in my chest. The way the air felt right before the pain kicked in.
Reading the diaries isn’t just about what Younger Penny wrote down—it’s about standing inside the memory as it hits and scanning the edges. Listening for what wasn’t said. Watching for what she didn’t know how to explain yet. The margins matter as much as the ink.
And then the names.
Logan.
Eleanor.
Felicia.
Cassie.
And others.
Kids.
Not characters. Not classmates.
Kids Younger Penny expected to see again.
That was the part that got me.
Younger me never explained why those names mattered. She didn’t question them. She didn’t wonder who they were or where they came from. She just… recorded them. Like listing the cast of a show she assumed would keep airing.
And the Clearwater visits.
Not scary ones. Not ominous.
Normal ones.
Notes about games. Sitting in circles. Drawing together. Being praised for neat handwriting. Being told to stay close. Mentions of sleeping over—more than once—like it was just part of the routine.
Weekend stays.
Together.
I hated how gentle the memories felt.
Clearwater wasn’t written like a threat. It was written like a second home.
That realization sat heavy in my chest, tangled up with flashes of Sean—his laugh, his shoulder bumping mine, the way he used to lean in when he was curious. The diaries didn’t dwell on him either. Just quick mentions. Like he was part of the pattern too.
Teddy kept glancing at me, checking for cracks, one hand steady as he added names, dates, and anything that felt important to the index—like this was the only way to keep me grounded.
I kept going.
Because now it was clear what these diaries were for.
They weren’t tracking homework or crushes or normal kid stuff.
They were logging Clearwater.
The kids.
The weekends.
Who was there.
Who kept coming back.
Younger me didn’t know she was collecting evidence.
But she knew it mattered.
And sitting there on my bedroom floor, surrounded by candy wrappers and five green diaries, I realized something unsettling:
This wasn’t the beginning of the mystery.
It was just the first time I was old enough to understand what I’d already been doing.
Unseen-Hand Unease
The thing that rattled me most today wasn’t even the memory blasts.
It was something else.
Something I didn’t want to write at first because it sounds unhinged even for me.
Every time a memory blast hit—right on the edge of the pain, right where everything gets blurry and too bright—I felt someone there.
Not visible.
Not in the memories.
But close.
Like a presence just out of frame, guiding Younger Penny through the diary moments. Nudging her toward the right pages, the right clues. Like someone helping without ever stepping into the picture.
But whenever I tried to focus on it, it slipped away—like smoke through fingers.
At first, I thought maybe it was Gramps. It sounded like the kind of quiet, behind-the-scenes thing he’d do. But the diary letter did warn not to involve family.
And the more blasts I get, the less sure I am.
The feeling doesn’t match him.
It was like someone who knew exactly what they needed Younger Penny to find.
And the ripped-out pages?
Yeah. That just throws gasoline on the mystery bonfire.
Someone helped me.
Someone was there.
I just don’t know who.
Or why.
Yet.
Migraine Mayhem Mode
Somewhere between memory blasts, my body decided it had had enough.
Teddy knew.
And before I could even pretend I was fine, my nose went full-on Stranger Things—left-nostril nosebleed, very glamorous—and now apparently part of my personality.
And the worst part? That’s new.
I’ve had headaches, sure, but never psychic-nosebleed-chic before.
So yeah—migraine + mystery nosebleed = Penny’s body filing a formal complaint.
Teddy looked about two seconds away from shutting down the whole operation and bubble-wrapping me for safety, but I swore up and down I could handle it. (Lie. Obviously. I was seeing double like a glitchy video game.)
We took a break anyway—snacks, water, me trying not to bleed on the diaries—and that’s when we made a deal:
Diary deep-dives only on Saturdays.
One big memory-blast session a week.
No more back-to-back brain torture.
Regular research on school days? Totally fine.
Actually reading the entries? Saturdays only.
My head needs recovery time unless I want to turn into a walking tissue box with motor skills.
Honestly… I hate admitting it, but the rule makes sense.
If I’m going to survive Clearwater next week, I probably shouldn’t knock myself out beforehand.
Sunday, February 22, 2026
Migraine Hangover Mode
Waking up today felt like I’d been drop-kicked by a tornado and then politely stepped on for good measure. Everything hurt. My head, my shoulders, my spine—all filing individual complaints.
And the migraine from yesterday?
Yeah. Still here.
Still camping in my skull like it paid rent.
Pain meds didn’t even pretend to help. They were basically like, “Good luck with that, champ.”
And because the universe loves drama, I kept thinking about that nosebleed—the full-on Stranger Things moment.
Left nostril, psychic-chic, very glamorous.
Still terrifying.
Did I push too hard yesterday?
Probably.
But how do you not push when Clearwater is practically breathing down your neck?
The whole thing left me feeling foggy and restless, so I figured fresh air was my only viable life choice today.
Promenade Reset Mode
Fresh air felt like the only thing standing between me and permanent migraine brain, so I grabbed my coat and headed for the promenade.
Cold wind, gray water, seagulls screaming like they had opinions about my life choices—honestly, it was perfect.
Walking helped. Not a lot, but enough. My head was still fuzzy, and every now and then I caught myself worrying about that nosebleed, but the ocean has this way of making everything feel… less apocalyptic.
I kept replaying yesterday with Teddy—the blasts, the pain, the clues, the patterns.
But mostly?
Ellie.
The spark.
Whatever this is becoming.
Clearwater is coming fast, and I still don’t know how any of this is going to land when the reality shift hits.
After the walk, I declared it a full Netflix-and-don’t-talk-to-me day.
Comfy clothes, hair sticking up in all the wrong places, zero responsibilities.
I let Gramps think I was “resting” while trying not to spiral about Operation Ellie, which is absolutely starting the second I get back to school.
Tonight’s goal: hydrate, survive, and not accidentally read any more diaries.
Tomorrow’s goal: everything else.
Monday, February 23, 2026
Ellie Enigma Morning
Today was supposed to be the day—the day I finally cracked the Ellie Enigma. She was back from Toronto, I’d rehearsed eight million ways to ask about Clearwater, and honestly? My nerves were vibrating like a stressed-out phone on silent mode.
So when I found out me and Ellie were assigned to the same Media Studies group?
Cosmic wink, obviously.
Our mission: create a video showcasing “the beauty and mystery of Meridia Falls.”
Would it have been perfect if Teddy were with us too? Obviously.
Instead we got Noah Grant and Olivia Mitchell, who immediately devolved into a five-minute argument over who should hold the camera, as if they were drafting for the NFL.
Mr. Lefevre handed us this futuristic little orb—a 360-degree video camera, basically a robot eyeball covered in lenses—and while Olivia and Noah poked at the settings, I tried the VR preview mode.
Big mistake.
Instant motion sickness.
Like, the room did a full barrel roll and I went, “oh no,” internally, externally, spiritually.
I staggered back and would’ve absolutely eaten the floor… if Ellie hadn’t grabbed my arm.
And then it happened.
That spark.
Warm.
Sharp.
Impossible to ignore.
The exact same jolt from last time.
Except this time, I know Ellie felt it.
Her fingers tightened.
Her breath hitched.
And then she dropped my arm like it was radioactive.
I tried to play it cool—which, for me, means panic-rambling. It gave me a perfect and natural way in.
So, I said something about how VR preview mode messed with my motion sickness, and how it’s way worse the week before my transfusion, because of my blood disorder.
(Which is technically true, thank you very much, but absolutely not the reason I nearly passed out.)
But Ellie just went quiet.
Too quiet.
Shoulders-up, eyes-down, shutters-slamming quiet.
Not annoyed.
Not creeped out.
Just… scared.
Of what, I still have no idea.
Locker Note Chaos
After Media Studies, I practically sprinted to my locker, half from nerves and half because I needed to breathe before I turned into a puddle of feelings on the linoleum.
And that’s when I saw it.
A folded piece of paper sticking out from the gap at the top of my locker door.
Someone had slid it through.
Someone with small, careful handwriting who definitely didn’t want to be seen doing it.
My stomach did that rollercoaster-drop thing.
I opened it.
Just one line:
“Can you meet me at Cascades after school? 4pm—E.”
I swear my heart forgot how to function for a whole second.
Ellie Horton.
Ellie Horton.
Asking to meet me.
Alone.
At Cascades.
If there was ever a sign that today might change everything… this was it.
Mixed-Signal Meltdown
I didn’t tell Teddy about the Cascades note until the end of the day.
Not because I thought he’d freak out—okay, maybe that was part of it—but because I needed a few hours to sit with the absolute chaos in my chest without anyone analyzing it like a science project.
And yeah, when I finally told him, he didn’t explode or spiral.
But he did do the patented Teddy Chin Scrunch™—the one that says, “I support you, but I also think you might be one rogue thought away from disaster.”
He told me to play it cool.
Stick to talking about my blood disorder.
Don’t mention the diaries.
Don’t ask her anything too intense.
Basically:
“Do not emotionally combust at Cascades, Penny.”
Normally, I’d roll my eyes and make a joke.
But this time… he wasn’t wrong.
Because the truth buzzing under my skin—the one I’ve been trying very, VERY hard to ignore—is that I don’t just want answers from Ellie anymore.
I want… her.
Her attention.
Her trust.
Her smile.
That soft, fragile look she gets right before she shuts down again.
And that terrifies me.
I don’t know what to do with the way my stomach keeps flipping every time she looks at me.
Or the way my brain short-circuits when she touches me—like today, in Media Studies, when she grabbed my arm and it felt like sparks were stitched under my skin.
I keep telling myself it’s the mystery.
The diaries.
The spark.
The maybe-Eleanor thing.
But deep down?
I know that’s not the whole truth.
When Teddy said he was worried things wouldn’t go smoothly between me and Ellie, I nodded like I understood.
But that’s not what I’m scared of.
I’m scared of the part of me that wants this meeting to matter.
More than I should.
More than makes sense.
I’m scared of the part that hopes Ellie wants it to matter too.
And honestly?
That’s a whole different mystery I don’t feel ready to solve yet.
Cascades Chaos Mode
Walking into Cascades felt like stepping into a movie scene I wasn’t fully prepared for. Ellie was already in our booth—the same one me and Teddy hid in on Valentine’s Day—sitting there like some soft-lit dream sequence I wasn’t supposed to walk into.
I tried to act normal (failed), ordered us both signature hot chocolates with all the toppings—whipped cream, marshmallows, sprinkles, the whole sugar-coma starter pack—because apparently my brain decided “impress her with beverages” was the move.
As soon as the drinks landed, my mouth betrayed me.
“Do you have ESD?”
Blurted. No warning. Zero chill. My soul left my body.
Ellie blinked like I’d spoken in ancient runes, then nodded. “Yeah… I do. My sister too.”
My heartbeat went full EDM-concert-in-a-coffee-shop.
So I pushed.
“Do you go to the Clearwater Institute? For treatment and observations?”
Another nod. Slower this time.
“We were both enrolled when we were kids,” she said. “But we’re not on the same program anymore.”
That made me pause.
“She’s just doing the transfusions now,” Ellie added. “No observation weekends anymore. Different day. And she’s at Meridia Uni on the Clearwater scholarship. So… it’s quieter.”
Quieter.
That word landed.
“My sister—Felicia,” she said, like the name mattered. “She hated the observation side.”
I swallowed.
“Same condition,” I said. “Same institute.”
The confirmation hit me like static straight to my chest.
It felt big. Too big.
Like the world had shifted a little closer to some invisible truth.
It was strange, realizing we’d been going to the same place at the same time for years and still didn’t remember each other.
And underneath all that… was the feeling I still don’t know how to name.
A wanting.
A pull.
Something warm and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
Friendship Fallout Vibes
Just when things were finally starting to feel like a real moment—like we were maybe on the edge of something important—Ellie’s whole expression snapped tight, like a rubber band pulled too far.
Her eyes darted over my shoulder.
Fear. Pure, sharp fear.
“My life is complicated,” she mumbled. “I have to be careful about who I’m friends with.”
Before I could ask what that meant, a hand slammed onto our table.
Candy Steele.
Human thunderstorm. Professional joy vacuum.
“What are you doing with the Freak?” she spat, like she was spraying venom.
Normally I’d roll my eyes and move on—Candy’s insults are basically elevator music at this point—but Ellie flinched like she’d been slapped. Her lip even trembled.
I couldn’t stand it.
So I said the first excuse I could think of.
“Ellie wasn’t feeling great, so I grabbed her a hot chocolate—for the sugar.”
Candy narrowed her eyes. Kaelyn and Jemma slithered up beside her.
“Is that true?”
Ellie nodded, clutching her mug like it was life support.
Candy didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t care either.
“Fine. Whatever. Leave.”
I could feel it—the dangerous gravity she had over Ellie. The way Ellie shrank under it. The way my staying would only make the fallout worse for her.
So I left.
Not because I wanted to.
Because Ellie needed me to.
As they dragged her back to their center-stage table, a server passed by with a tray of strawberry milkshakes, and for one unhinged second?
I imagined reenacting the infamous Pink Milkshake Incident.
But I didn’t.
Because this wasn’t about revenge.
And the worst part?
I finally had confirmation.
Ellie Horton is the Eleanor from the diaries.
But sitting there under Candy’s orbit… she felt farther away than ever.
Overthinking Overtime
As soon as I got home, I called Teddy—not even “gave it a minute,” just full speed-dial panic mode. I spilled everything: the booth, the hot chocolates, Candy’s dramatic table slam, the whole collapse of what could’ve been an actual moment.
Teddy didn’t say I told you so, but the silence between his sentences did. Classic.
He reminded me—gently, in that annoyingly wise way—that confirming Ellie as Eleanor was a huge win. A turning point. The thing we’ve been chasing for weeks.
And yeah… hearing him say it out loud helped. For about five seconds.
Because once the adrenaline faded, the truth hit me like a falling vending machine:
This isn’t just about the diaries anymore.
It hasn’t been for a while.
Every time Ellie looks at me, something inside me does this wild, stupid somersault I have zero instruction manual for. And today started making that impossible to pretend away.
The speed of it all freaks me out.
Like—how does someone go from a complete mystery, to maybe-Eleanor, to someone you can’t stop thinking about… this fast?
Is that normal?
Is that dangerous?
Is that bad?
I didn’t tell Teddy any of that.
Not the spark.
Not the way Ellie’s voice makes my chest do that tight, achey thing.
Not the way I felt like I’d been yanked backward when Candy pulled her away.
I just… kept all of that locked in the part of my brain labelled DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU UNDERSTAND YOUR OWN HEART.
Teddy said we’ll figure out how to protect Ellie from Candy’s gravitational pull.
I hope he’s right.
Because today gave me answers—real ones—but it also left me with this terrifying new question:
What if the real mystery isn’t Ellie?
What if it’s me?
Tuesday, February 24, 2026
Post-Cascades Anxiety Spiral
I woke up with that weird mix of dread and hope—the emotional smoothie I’ve apparently decided to drink every morning now. Clearwater is basically breathing down my neck, and all I could think about was Ellie.
What if whatever this thing is between us—spark, connection, whatever—just… resets?
What if today’s smile, yesterday’s note, the almost-moment in Cascades… all get wiped out like I dreamed them?
The more I try to logic my way through it, the worse it gets.
It’s like I’m sprinting toward a cliff and refusing to slow down.
History Class Heartquake
Walking into History, I wasn’t expecting anything except another round of Mr. Jefferson’s “let’s ruin your morning with WWI.”
But then Ellie looked up—and smiled.
A real one. Soft. Quick. Just for me.
And I swear something in my chest flipped so hard it almost knocked me over.
It was tiny, stupid, nothing anyone else would notice… which made it feel even more dangerous.
Proof that yesterday wasn’t just adrenaline and wishful thinking.
Proof that she saw me.
And here’s the problem:
Moments shouldn’t matter this much.
People shouldn’t matter this much.
Especially not someone I might forget next week.
The lights went down, documentary time. Zero chance to talk. I gave a small wave in the dark that she probably didn’t see. And the whole time, I kept thinking:
How do you hold onto something you barely understand?
Forest Filmmaker Energy
Media Studies was… weirdly perfect.
Me, Ellie, Noah, and Olivia suddenly operating like a real team—borderline cinematic.
We planned the storyboard for our 360° masterpiece, ideas bouncing everywhere, and then me and Ellie blurted the exact same idea at the exact same time: forest sunset.
Like our brains synced up for a second.
Like cosmic Wi-Fi.
And that terrifying little feeling—the one that keeps sneaking up on me—hit again.
This isn’t just the diary mystery.
This isn’t just Eleanor.
This is her.
The real her.
When Ellie suggested the Whisper’s Shadow trail in Hellgate Forest, we all agreed immediately. The views up by Shadow Ridge? Unreal.
And now here I am, trying to pretend I’m not falling into something too big, too fast, too dangerous to name.
Trying to pretend Clearwater isn’t a giant eraser hovering over my whole life.
And mostly?
Trying not to wonder whether Ellie feels any of this too… or if I’m the only one standing on the edge of something I don’t have language for yet.
I don’t know what tomorrow brings.
I just know I don’t want to forget any of this.
Wednesday, February 25, 2026
Reality-Reset Doom Mode
I woke up already on edge—that tight, buzzing feeling under my ribs that’s been hanging around ever since Cascades. Clearwater is practically breathing down my neck now, and the closer it gets, the more it feels like someone’s about to hit CTRL-ALT-DELETE on my entire life.
And the wildest part?
Someone noticed today.
Like, actually noticed.
In History, Ellie kept glancing at me like she could sense something was… off.
Which is insane, because she’s known me—really known me—for like two seconds.
But she still saw it.
Or felt it.
Or something.
I kept brushing it off. Laughing it away. Pretending everything was “fine.”
But a tiny, awful part of me was scared I was brushing her away too.
And I don’t want that.
Not even a little.
So at lunch I told Teddy the PG-13 version—the memory-wipe panic, the countdown-clock dread, the whole “how do I keep my brain intact for one more week?” meltdown.
(Left out the Ellie part. Obviously. There are limits to how exposed I can be in public.)
Teddy made the worried-hamster face and promised to come by the Meridian tonight with some “theoretical strategies” he’s been brewing.
I’m clinging to that like it’s the last life raft on the Titanic.
Memory Safeguard Mode
Teddy was in full genius mode tonight—complete with dramatic hand gestures and the kind of determination that makes me feel less alone in all this. He said this felt “very Doctor Who finale”—right before the universe collapses and everyone has to leave clues for themselves.
Step one: Operation Video Backup
record a video of me reading the letter
email it to myself as Backup #1
accept that Clearwater will probably yeet it into the void anyway
Step two: Operation Polaroid Army
film resets—photos don’t
snap one of me holding the letter
snap one of Teddy holding a diary + the letter so he’ll believe me when I explain the impossible—again
snap one of Bobby
name these Backup #2, #3, and #4 (the backups with an actual fighting chance)
And then I took a gamble:
I tucked all the Polaroids inside my current diary—because the letter envelope was made from diary paper, and that has to mean something. It protected the letter once. It survived the reality shift.
And everything pinned to Bobby didn’t.
So maybe this way the photos will be safe too…
Or maybe I just added a new variable to an already cursed equation.
We ended up lying across my bedroom floor surrounded by sticky notes, both of us pretending we weren’t terrified.
He admitted he’s scared too—that he’ll forget everything we’ve been through.
I admitted… less.
Not the part about Ellie.
Not the part about how fast everything feels.
Not the part about how I’m afraid Clearwater will take her away in my head even if she’s still right in front of me.
But I told him enough.
And somehow, that helped.
Thursday, February 26, 2026
Pre-Confession Adrenaline Mode
I swear my heart woke up before I did. Full sprint. Zero chill. No warm-up.
Clearwater is basically tapping its watch at me, and all I could think was:
If I don’t tell Ellie today… will I even remember why I wanted to?
Or her?
Or this ridiculous, impossible spark I keep pretending is just “mystery brain static”?
So I blasted Jagged Little Pill while getting ready—because if anyone gets emotional chaos, it’s Alanis.
“You Learn” hit different this morning.
Like: yes, universe, I am learning. Against my will. Thanks.
By the time I skated to school, I’d made a decision:
Today I was telling Ellie everything.
The diaries.
The letter.
The not-actually-an-observation-program observation program.
All of it.
If she thought I was losing it?
Whatever. Clearwater would erase the embarrassment anyway.
But really, it wasn’t about the mysteries anymore.
It was about her—and whether this thing between us could survive a truth bomb before the reset hits.
VR Sunset Frenzy
Media studies was kind of electric today.
Me, Ellie, Noah, and Olivia—suddenly functioning like a tiny film crew with actual ambition.
We mapped out the whole 360° sunset video, arguing about camera angles like we were auditioning for Sundance.
Then me and Ellie said the same line at the same time again.
Not even dramatic—just in sync. And that stupid spark zinged through me like it had been waiting.
We cut together the 2D version and planned out how we’d run the VR demo next week—assuming reality doesn’t implode over the weekend.
Every time my brain tried to remind me of that, I shoved the thought into the corner and told it to behave.
Just one more normal day.
Just one more moment with her as her.
Derailment Drama Mode
I grabbed Ellie before lunch—casual on the outside, emotional earthquake on the inside.
She definitely sensed something. Her eyes did that soft, searching thing that makes me forget how words work.
I whispered for her to meet me at Cascades after school.
Perfect plan.
Perfect timing.
Enter Candy Steele: Destroyer of Dreams, Ruiner of Plans, Guardian of Misery.
Ellie got dragged into one of Candy’s after-school “hangouts,” and my whole plan splattered across the pavement like a fallen ice cream cone.
I tried not to show it, but my stomach absolutely did the doomed Titanic slide.
But then—miracle—Ellie leaned in and whispered we could meet tomorrow after school at Cascades, before Clearwater.
And when I joked, “So… like a date?”
She blushed so hard I swear the hallway warmed up five degrees.
Me too. Obviously.
For a second, it felt like something new was forming between us—something fragile and bright and terrifying.
Tomorrow feels impossibly close.
And also way too far.
Friday, February 27, 2026
Clearwater Countdown Buzz
I woke up wired—half excited, half terrified, fully unhinged. Clearwater was waving at me from today’s calendar box, and my brain was treating it like doomsday prep.
French class did nothing to help. I tried to throw myself into the cultural discussion like I wasn’t seconds from emotional combustion, but my French vocabulary is still somewhere between “bonjour” and “uhhh… oui?”
History, though?
History was Ellie time.
We paired up for a case study, and our brains just… clicked. Like someone had quietly swapped our brains to the same Wi-Fi network.
And yeah, the whole time, I kept worrying Candy would swoop in later and torpedo our Cascades meet-up.
But turns out fate finally stopped clowning on me—Candy and the rest of the Candy Gang were heading to Halifax for a shopping trip.
And the only reason Ellie wasn’t dragged along?
Clearwater.
For once, the universe gave me a break.
Teddy Turmoil Hour
At lunch, Teddy admitted he’d been jealous of Ellie.
Cue internal panic tap dance.
I reassured him—obviously—because Teddy is my person. My ride-or-die. My brain twin. Nothing changes that.
But yeah… I didn’t tell him why he felt jealous.
Didn’t tell him how fast this thing with Ellie is growing, or how it scares me in twelve different flavors.
Those feelings are still living rent-free in the vault.
For now.
Cascades Confession Chaos
The second I stepped into Cascades, my heartbeat tried to escape through my throat.
I ordered two signature hot chocolates—toppings maxed out—hoping it would bring back the magic of Monday without the Candy Interference™.
Ellie walked in, and everything in the room went electric.
We eased in with Clearwater talk—why we hadn’t seen each other there, were our rooms close—safer ground.
And then I just… jumped.
The letter.
The diaries.
The memory blasts.
All of it came tumbling out like someone turned me upside down and shook me.
I braced for running, screaming, horrified Ellie.
Instead I got:
“I believe you.”
Soft. Certain. Completely unfair to my heart rate.
And the thing is—she didn’t just say it.
She meant it.
There was this tiny flicker in her eyes, like recognition, or remembering something she wasn’t supposed to remember.
She told me—carefully, quietly—that after her mom went missing, she started noticing things that didn’t make sense. Weird things. Wrong things.
Little glitches in the world that everyone else brushed off.
Things that made her realize life isn’t always what it looks like on the surface.
So belief wasn’t a stretch for her.
It was almost… relief.
Then she came up with a code phrase—“Remember Fay”—something I could use to convince her she could still trust me after the shift.
(I have zero clue who Fay is, and Ellie didn’t explain, but suddenly I’m very aware Ellie has mysterious backstory energy too.)
And then—then—she admitted she was scared of losing me.
Me.
We held hands, and it felt like someone plugged my entire nervous system into a fireworks display.
For one impossible second, I thought maybe—maybe—whatever this is between us could survive the shift.
Pre-Reality Shift Heartspin
I skated home feeling like my brain was stuck in a blender on the “existential smoothie” setting.
Everything felt huge.
Too huge.
The kind of huge that keeps you up at night wondering what your life will look like twelve hours from now.
Mom immediately launched into her usual “schedule-schedule-schedule” routine, but I barely heard her—I was already sprinting to my room to call Teddy and give him the PG-13 version of the Cascades meet-up.
He was excited and supportive and very, very Teddy about it.
Before we hung up, he told me to “bring him back properly” after the reality shift.
My heart did a stupid little squeeze.
Reality-Shift Prep Mode
We stopped by the Meridian like always.
I dropped my backpack in my room and immediately wrote everything down while it was still buzzing in my head.
Checklist time:
· letter left on desk
· spare letter: mailed
· Polaroids: tucked safely into the diary
It’s all there—my tiny, chaotic insurance policy against the universe.
And I added one more thing.
Ellie’s note—the one she left in my locker.
I tucked it into the diary too, hoping it might preserve something—anything—of whatever this new thing between us is. Friendship. Something more. I don’t know yet. But it felt important. Like proof that this was real.
After I finish this final entry, I’ll hide my diary, my notebook of reality-shift memories (still needs a cooler name), and the diary index behind the vent.
The future is a total mystery.
But tonight?
I feel… ready for it.
CONTINUED IN:
Penny’s Diary - Week 9: Reset Days, Quiet Proof, and Something Remains - Arriving in your inbox on March 5, 2026
You can sign up to receive new fiction each week, along with regular behind-the-scenes updates. Supporting readers unlock an exclusive Writer’s Commentary, immersive audio, and eBook editions, and help make stories like Penny’s Diary possible.
Thanks for reading. There’s more to come.
If you’d like to talk about this diary entry, you’re welcome to share your thoughts in the chat.
Stay tuned, stay enchanted, and stay connected!
Warmest Regards,
DB
🗝️ Supporting Reader Content
The Affinity Web Chronicles is a reader-supported publication. You can subscribe for free to receive new fiction every Thursday, along with regular updates.
Supporting readers unlock an exclusive Writer’s Commentary, immersive audio, and eBook editions, and help make stories like Penny’s Diary possible.
Continue reading this post for free, courtesy of DB Green.
