The Diary That Knew My Future

I found the diary in the attic on a rainy Monday morning.

I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was looking for my old winter boots when a cardboard box fell from the dusty shelf. Papers, broken photo frames, and a leather-bound notebook scattered across the wooden floor. At first glance, it looked like any abandoned diary with its cracked brown cover and frayed edges. But when I picked it up, I felt a shiver run down my spine, as if the air around it had turned colder.

Curiosity outweighed fear, and I flipped open the first page. In neat cursive handwriting, it said:

“Tomorrow, you will wake up with a slight fever. Drink ginger tea, and you’ll recover quickly.”

I frowned. What kind of diary writes future entries instead of past memories? I laughed at the absurdity, closed it, and tucked it into my tote bag to read properly later.

The next morning, I woke up feeling weak, with a burning throat and heavy head. Fever. Remembering the diary, I made ginger tea before taking medicine. By evening, the fever vanished, leaving me spooked. Was it just a coincidence?

The second entry was even stranger.

“Wednesday – wear your white dress. He will notice.”

I hadn’t worn that dress in months. But on Wednesday, with trembling hands, I put it on. At university, as I was grabbing coffee, Daniel – my quiet crush from Literature class – walked past, paused, and smiled.

“Nice dress,” he said, his voice warm. My cheeks burned with shock and delighte

By the time Thursday came, I was obsessed. I stayed up all night reading the rest of the entries. They weren’t vague predictions like daily horoscopes. They were specific details of my life:

“Friday – your professor will announce a surprise quiz. Prepare Chapter 5.”

“Saturday – call your mother. She needs you today.”

Avery prediction came true. The quiz happened, and I aced it. When I called my mother on Saturday, she burst into tears, relieved to hear my voice after her lonely, anxious week.

Days passed in a blur of fear, wonder, and dependence. I stopped making decisions on my own. Every morning, I woke up and read the next line:

“Sunday – avoid the blue car on Oak Street.”

I listened obediently, taking a longer route to the grocery store. That afternoon, I read about a speeding accident on Oak Street. A blue car crashed into a pole, leaving the driver severely injured.

But then came the entry I had dreaded all along:

“One day, the diary will end. When it does, your choices will matter again.”

I didn’t want it to end. I needed its guidance, its certainty. But on a cold Tuesday morning, I flipped to the next page and found it blank. I turned the pages frantically. Blank. Blank. Blank.

I felt my chest tighten with panic. How would I know what to do tomorrow? What if something bad happened? What if I lost everything without its directions?

That night, I cried myself to sleep clutching the diary to my chest. When I woke up the next morning, my room felt different – warm sunlight pooled onto my sheets, and birds chirped outside. For the first time in weeks, I sat by the window, closed the diary, and watched the sky change colours with the rising sun.

I realised the diary had become my prison. Each word on its page controlled my every move. Now, with blank pages staring back at me, I felt a strange peace wash over my anxious heart.

I made my own breakfast, chose my own clothes, and walked outside without fear.

I was free to make mistakes again. Free to choose wrong turns and right turns. Free to write my own story – not in a leather-bound diary, but in the way I lived each unpredictable day.

And somehow, that felt like the truest kind of future I could ever have.