Maybe?

Retreating to my old childhood bedroom, the day's bizarre events churned in my mind like the storm clouds outside. I was still grappling with the reality of the box's unsettling magic when the sound of a car cut through the tempest of my thoughts. I glanced out the window, watching as the familiar vehicle pulled into the driveway of my parents' home—a cozy two-story nestled in the suburbs, where Jenna and I were staying for the week.

I made my way downstairs, the house filled with the comforting signs of a life steeped in mild eccentricity; shelves of science fiction novels, faded posters of space shuttles, and quirky gadgets from yesteryear adorned the living spaces. The warm scent of old books and the faint hum of a vintage computer from Dad's office mingled in the air.

Stepping outside, I welcomed my parents back from their day out visiting friends. Our parents, both in their late forties, carried that unique blend of humor and nerdiness that seemed to run in the family—with Jenna being the outlier. Dad, tall and still sporting the glasses he'd worn since his twenties, had a perpetually amused twinkle in his eye that matched the salt-and-pepper of his hair. Jenna's mother, Susan, whose resemblance my stepsister had inherited, was shorter, with a sharp wit that could catch you off guard.

"Hey, Alex! Did you and Jenna manage to survive without us?" Dad teased, his voice carrying a chuckle as he unloaded a bag from the trunk.

"Quiet as a library, right?" Susan added with a playful smirk, brushing a strand of hair that matched Jenna's natural color behind her ear.

"Yeah, quiet," I lied as I thought of the afternoon's chaos.

Just then, Jenna appeared, her presence disrupting my train of thought. I scrutinized her, searching for any signs that the box's influence lingered. She looked normal, dressed in her usual casual style, but there was an extra bounce in her step, a subtle spark of confidence that seemed out of place. I brushed it off as paranoia, telling myself it was just the relief of being back to her old self.

As Dad and Susan began preparing dinner, the sound of laughter and the rhythmic chopping of vegetables filled the kitchen. Jenna was unusually animated, her voice rising above the sizzle of the pan.

"Mom, Dad, we should totally have a game night!" Jenna exclaimed, her eyes bright. "Remember how we used to play charades? I miss that!"

Susan laughed, tossing a diced tomato into the salad. " I haven't seen you this excited about family time in ages! Who are you and what have you done to my daughter?"

Jenna's enthusiasm didn't wane. "And we should do a picnic tomorrow, weather permitting. It's been forever since we all went to the lake together."

I watched my stepsister, a knot of unease forming in my stomach. Her confidence was striking, not just in the level of her engagement but in the way she seemed to command the room, a stark contrast to the more reserved girl I knew. My mind raced with suspicion—had she used the box while I was in my room? But as her gaze met mine, all I saw was a bright, untroubled confidence that left me second-guessing.

Her laughter mingled with that of our parents, the moment feeling both familiar and foreign. I couldn't shake the sense that something had changed, the invisible threads of our family dynamic weaving a new pattern that I couldn't quite decipher.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I leaned across the kitchen island, trying to sound casual. "So, Jenna, what's with the sudden surge of family enthusiasm?" I asked, watching her closely.

She shrugged, a fluid, graceful motion, and launched into an explanation. "You know, I just think it's important to seize the moment," she began, her voice taking on a lecturer's cadence. "Statistics show that confidence can increase by participating in family activities by up to seventy-five percent, and familial bonds strengthen by sixty percent when engaged in regular group events."

Her use of statistics struck me as odd—Jenna was never one to quote figures. My suspicions solidified into certainty. Excusing myself from the kitchen under the pretense of needing to use the bathroom, I slipped upstairs to Jenna's room. The door was ajar, and I peered inside, scanning for any sign of the box. It was there, on her dresser, looking innocuous yet ominous.

Frustration bubbled within me as I discovered the lock Jenna had placed on the box, effectively barring me from what I sought to confirm. With no way to open it, I returned downstairs, a concoction of anger and concern churning in my gut.

"Jenna, can we talk? In private?" I asked, my tone more serious than I intended, drawing a curious look from our parents.

"Sure," Jenna replied with a nod, her confidence unwavering as we stepped into the living room.

"What's going on, Alex?" she inquired, her posture relaxed, a stark contrast to the tension I felt.

I didn't mince words. "Did you use the box without me?" I accused, my gaze fixed on her, searching for any telltale sign of guilt.

Her denial was swift, her confidence unshaken. "No, Alex, why would I do that?"

The certainty in her voice sowed a seed of doubt, but I shook it off, unwilling to be swayed. "Jenna, please. I know something's off. Just be honest with me," I pressed.

She hesitated for a moment, then a small sigh escaped her lips. "Okay, yes, I did," she admitted. "I put that self-confidence book in there. The one I've been trying to apply for years. It's no big deal, really."

As she spoke, she delivered another quote from the book, as if to rationalize her actions. "Confidence is the cornerstone of leadership. If you don't believe in yourself, how can you expect others to believe in you?"

I grunted, frustration evident in my voice. "Jenna, you're quoting statistics and acting all… different. It's weird. Can't you see that?"

Jenna gave a nonchalant wave of her hand, attempting to brush off my concerns. "Alex, you're overthinking it," she said. "I promised I wouldn't use it without you around, but this was just a little nudge for myself. It's not like I turned into someone else."

I could feel my frustration mounting. "But that's just it, Jenna. You did promise. And whether it's a 'little nudge' or a complete transformation, it's still using the box," I reminded her, my voice tinged with the weight of the situation.

With a shrug that radiated her newfound self-assurance, she replied, "It's nothing, Alex. I simply accelerated what I was already working on by reading that book." I realized then that arguing with her in this state, with her brimming with magical confidence, would be futile. With a resigned sigh, I decided to retreat, thinking to myself that I'd find a way to stop her, consent or not.

As she turned to leave, a question nagged at me. "Wait, Jenna. How did you manage to change yourself without changing your clothes? You still look…normal."

She stopped and looked back at me with a sly smile. "Simple," she said. "I took my clothes off before putting the book in the box. That way, there were no clothes to alter." Her smile grew wider, almost triumphant. "Then I just got dressed again."

My mind froze at her confession, images flashing unbidden as she sauntered back to the kitchen. The implication was clear—Jenna had found a way to alter herself discreetly, as long as the changes weren't too drastic. As I stood there, the weight of her words settled over me; she could use the box without me noticing… Maybe I could use the box without anyone else, her included, noticing it either?

Retreating to the solitude of my bedroom, I sank into the desk chair, my thoughts a tempest as tumultuous as the growing night outside my window. The dinner preparations continued below, the clinking of cutlery and murmur of conversation drifting up to me, a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

I needed to gain control of the box. If Jenna wasn't going to play by the rules, then why should I? The realization was tainted by my desire for her, and I knew deep down that I was using her betrayal as a thin veil to justify my impending actions. But the urge was too strong, and the rationale, however flimsy, gave me the permission I sought from my conscience.

As the sky darkened, a plan began to form. Stealing the box and breaking the lock was the most direct approach, but it was flawed. Jenna would notice the box's absence immediately, and any drastic changes could draw unwanted attention. The box's magic seemed to work solely with her, making her the only target and necessitating discretion on my part.

No, the solution lay in subtlety. I had to influence her actions without her knowledge. But how? She would certainly notice if the lock was tampered with or if there was an unfamiliar object inside. Or would she? Maybe there was a way to pick the lock and insert something with a minimal but noticeable impact—something that wouldn't immediately alert her to my meddling.

As I sat in my room, the gears of my mind turned restlessly. I needed an object subtle enough to be overlooked, yet potent in its influence. It had to be something that could nestle within the pages of the self-confidence book Jenna had used, something that would gently nudge her toward being more receptive to my desires. Submissive, perhaps, or simply unaware or uncaring of the control I sought to exert.

I began to list possible objects in my head, searching for something with the right properties. Submissiveness… the concept echoed in my thoughts. A key came to mind. A key to something I owned, a private token of entry that might symbolize opening her up to my influence. But it needed to be small, inconspicuous.

My car key was the first to come to mind, but I quickly dismissed the idea. It was too large, too obvious, and the thought of Jenna potentially sprouting wheels was absurd enough to draw a chuckle from me, easing the tension that had taken hold.

Scanning my room, my eyes fell upon an old box that held my childhood diary. A small, nondescript box that came with a lock and a tiny key. I hadn't thought about that diary in years. I moved closer and extended my hand, the metal of the key cool to the touch. I turned it over, a grin spreading across my face. How fitting, indeed. A key to a box, a box filled with my intimate thoughts and desires.

With purpose, I rose from my chair, the key to the diary box firmly in my grasp. The challenge now was to unlock Jenna's box without damaging it, a task that required a delicate touch and the right tools. A memory flickered to life, recalling Dad's old lock pick set—a Christmas gift from a few years back. We'd all spent hours hunched over the transparent training locks that came with the kit, jostling for turns, each of us boasting about our skills as amateur locksmiths. I had been quite good at it, if I remembered correctly.

My confidence buoyed by the memory, I knew I had to act swiftly, before the call for dinner brought an end to my window of opportunity. The lock pick set would be in the basement, I surmised, likely nestled among Dad's array of tools and oddities that cluttered his workbench.

Without hesitation, I slipped out of my room, my footsteps light as I made my way down the staircase. I could hear the laughter and chatter from the kitchen, a comforting backdrop to my covert mission. Reaching the basement door, I descended into the cool semi-darkness, the familiar smell of sawdust and oil greeting me.

The workbench was as I remembered—tools laid out with care, yet a controlled chaos reigned over the space. I scanned the shelves and drawers, my eyes finally landing on the familiar leather case of the lock pick set. It was tucked away behind a box of nails and a well-used hammer. With a surge of triumph, I retrieved the kit and pocketed it, ready to return to Jenna's room and face the tiny lock that stood between me and the next phase of my plan.

Nervously, I slipped into Jenna's room, my heart pounding at the risk of being caught. Her space was an eclectic mix of femininity and tomboy charm—a pair of worn soccer cleats sat next to a stack of outdoor adventure magazines on her bookshelf, and posters of her favorite sports teams adorned the walls amidst a scattering of band posters. A well-used backpack lay on the bed, its pockets bulging with the remnants of her latest hike.

With trembling hands, I knelt before the box, the lock pick set spread out before me. My initial attempts at picking the lock were clumsy; the pins refused to shift into place, and time was slipping away. Just as panic began to set in, Jenna's voice floated up from below, calling out, "Dinner's ready!"

Her words were like an electric jolt, sharpening my focus. With Jenna downstairs and with our parents likely seated at the dinner table, this was my chance. I couldn't afford to waste another second. I steeled my nerves and, with a deft touch, the pins finally clicked into place, and the lock sprung open.

My hands shook as I opened the box, quickly sliding the small key into the spine of the self-confidence book. I then re-locked the box and returned everything to its original state, the lingering fear that Jenna might experience a noticeable transformation in front of our parents heavy in my mind. I had to trust that the key's influence would be subtle, that it wouldn't alert her or anyone else to the change.

Tentatively, I peeked over the railing at the bottom of the stairs, my heart thundering with the fear of what I might find. To my immense relief, Jenna stood there, visibly unchanged, her arms crossed in a display of her newfound confidence as she met my gaze.

Trying to maintain an air of nonchalance, I began to descend the stairs, each step deliberate in an attempt to mask my inner turmoil. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion and hope, wondering if the key had taken effect or if I had simply been lucky that Jenna looked the same.

As I reached the final step, Jenna leaned in, her voice a conspiring whisper that tickled my ear. "What have you been up to, Alex?" She glanced around, ensuring no one else was within earshot, then flashed me a mischievous wink. "Don't worry, I won't tell a soul."