Ayush woke earlier than usual the next morning, his mind still replaying what had happened. All night, he had convinced himself it was just coincidence — maybe the window latch was loose, maybe the breeze was natural, maybe he'd imagined the whole thing in half-sleep.
But deep inside, a quiet voice kept whispering:
"You know what you saw."
He pushed the thought aside, splashed cold water on his face, and tried to pretend things were normal. Breakfast felt strangely quiet. His parents chatted about their usual routines, unaware that their son had found something that defied every rule of reality.
As soon as Ayush reached his room after school, his eyes went straight to the journal lying on the table.
Unopened. Unmoving. Harmless-looking.
He sat down in front of it.
"I'm not scared," he said out loud, even though he definitely was.
He opened the journal cautiously.
The page he wrote yesterday was still there — clean, unchanged, real.
Just looking at that single sentence made his stomach twist.
What if the journal didn't just create small things?
What if it could create bigger events?
People?
Accidents?
Disasters?
Ayush closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
He needed to test it — carefully.
Nothing crazy.
He flipped to a fresh page.
His hand hesitated above the paper.
What could he write that was safe but still meaningful?
After a moment, he scribbled:
"A stranger will ask me an unexpected question today."
Simple enough, nothing dangerous.
He shut the journal.
The rest of the evening was painfully normal.
Classes, homework, a boring chemistry lecture, and a teacher who droned like he was allergic to energy.
No stranger.
No unusual question.
Ayush almost laughed.
Maybe he had imagined things. Maybe the breeze had fooled him, and the journal was just… old.
Special-looking, yes, but normal.
When the bell rang, Ayush was the last to leave the classroom.
He zipped up his bag, slung it across his shoulder, and headed toward the main gate.
That's when he heard footsteps behind him.
Not hurried, not slow.
Purposeful.
Ayush turned.
A boy he had never seen before stood near the corridor pillar.
He looked about Ayush's age, maybe slightly younger, with neatly cut hair and a calm expression that didn't match the faint tension in his eyes.
"Are you Ayush?" the boy asked.
Ayush froze.
The world seemed to pause for a second.
"…Yeah," he said slowly.
The boy took a step closer.
His voice dropped, soft but clear:
"Did you write anything today?"
Ayush felt the ground tilt beneath him.
"H-how do you—?"
But the boy was already walking away.
Ayush stood stunned, unable to process what had just happened.
This wasn't a random question.
This wasn't coincidence.
This was exactly what he wrote.
His heart hammered in his chest.
Who was that boy?
How did he know about the journal?
Did he have one too?
Ayush hurried after him, but when he reached the turn in the hallway, the boy was gone.
Just gone — like he had slipped out of reality.
Ayush's mind spun.
He rushed home, shut his room door behind him, and pulled the journal close.
The pen lay inside the box where he had left it.
Untouched.
Safe.
But something felt wrong.
He opened the journal to the last page he wrote.
Ayush's breath caught in his throat.
There, under his sentence, written in completely different handwriting, was a new line:
"You should not have written that."
Ayush stumbled back, his pulse tripling.
Someone had written in the journal.
But how?
When?
Who?
His window was shut.
His door had been locked.
No one had entered his room.
He flipped the pages faster, searching for more changes.
Then he saw it.
On the page before his yesterday's entry — a page he hadn't touched — faint words had begun to appear like veins forming under skin.
The letters arranged themselves into a single sentence:
"He found you sooner than expected."
Ayush slammed the journal shut instinctively.
His chest tightened, breath quick and uneven.
This was no longer just a magical notebook.
Something, or someone, was using it.
Communicating.
Watching.
Warning.
Ayush gripped the edges of the journal, fear and curiosity wrestling inside him.
Who was the boy at school?
Was he "he"?
What did he want?
And how did he know Ayush wrote something today?
Ayush wiped sweat from his forehead and forced himself to think clearly.
If the journal was reacting…
If someone else was involved…
If reality was shifting because of his words…
He needed to understand it.
Or he'd lose control completely.
Ayush opened the journal again — slowly, carefully, like it might explode — and took the pen.
His hand trembled as he wrote a new line:
"Who changed my writing?"
The ink settled.
Nothing happened.
A second passed.
Then two.
Ayush leaned closer.
The page trembled.
Ink rose like black mist from the lines, rearranging itself into a chilling reply:
"The one who started your story."
Ayush dropped the pen.
Started his story?
What did that even mean?
Questions hit him like a flood, but no answers came.
Only one thing was clear:
The journal wasn't just shaping reality anymore.
It was exposing it.
And Ayush had stepped into something far bigger than he could understand.