The journal changes reality

Lila stood in the quiet apartment for a moment, the click of the door still echoing in her ears. Her eyes snapped to the journal lying on the coffee table — still closed, still humming faintly at the edges of her awareness.

She rushed to it, heart pounding.

Throwing herself onto the couch, she flipped it open to a fresh page and, with a shaky hand, scribbled:

"Dear Diary, I am NOT pregnant."

The ink soaked into the page like it always did — silent, final. She stared at it, then waited.

No shimmer. No glow. No sudden warmth in her abdomen.

Nothing.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and leaned back against the couch. “Okay… okay, maybe it doesn’t want to mess with that.”

Her eyes narrowed. Curiosity prickled.

What were the limits?

She bit the cap of her pen, chewing thoughtfully, then turned to a new page and wrote:

"Classes are canceled for the day."

The words felt ridiculous as she wrote them — like a kid wishing for a snow day in the middle of spring.

She stood, shaking her head, and padded into the kitchen to start her coffee. The machine sputtered to life with a familiar hum and steam began to rise from the pot.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it absently — then froze.

It was a message from the campus alert system:

Due to an unexpected facility issue, all classes are canceled for the day. Please check your email for updates.

The phone nearly slipped from her fingers.

She turned slowly, eyes locking back onto the journal still open on the couch.

It just sat there, innocent, quiet.

But she felt it now — the power humming beneath the pages. It listened.

And it obeyed.

Lila wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug, warm and steady in her grip, and stared across the room at the diary.

“What the hell are you?” she whispered.