Story

**Title: The Diary of Tomorrow** — The first time I opened the dusty old diary, the smell of old paper and secrets filled the air. I found it in the attic of my grandmother’s house, hidden beneath a pile of forgotten board games and moth-eaten clothes. It was a classic attic, the kind that creaks underfoot and hides treasures from the past. My parents were downstairs, sorting through boxes and arguing over what to keep and what to toss. I was supposed to be helping, but instead, I was drawn to the diary, its leather cover smooth and cool in my hands. Everything about the diary seemed ordinary at first. Its pages were yellowed and delicate, the ink slightly faded. But as I started reading, I quickly realized this was no ordinary journal. The first entry was dated two days before my birthday, last month, and it detailed the events of my surprise party. My best friend, Sarah, had organized it. The diary described how surprised I was, the cake that tasted like summer strawberries, and the song my brother, Jake, played on his guitar. Every detail was spot on. But here’s the thing: I hadn’t written a single word of it. Curiosity piqued, I flipped to the next entry, which described a pop quiz in history class I had taken just last week. Even the questions I struggled with were listed. I couldn't understand how this was possible. I had never owned this diary before finding it today. With my heart pounding, I did the only thing I could think of: I took the diary home. That night, lying in bed, I read through every entry. Each page seemed to predict events in my life, sometimes with more detail than I could remember myself. The handwriting didn’t match mine, but it felt oddly familiar, like a distant echo of my thoughts. The next morning, I woke up with the diary still clutched to my chest. I cautiously flipped to today’s date, and there, in the same neat script, was an entry that made my heart skip a beat: "Today, at lunch, a new student will spill his drink on Emma’s shirt. She will be embarrassed but will end up making a new friend." Emma. That was me. I spent the morning at school in a haze, glancing at everyone suspiciously, half-expecting them to be in on a prank. By lunchtime, my nerves were frayed. I sat at my usual table, trying to act normal while my eyes scanned the cafeteria for any new faces. And then it happened. A boy I hadn’t seen before, balancing a tray overloaded with food, bumped into the corner of the table. His drink flew, and I felt the cold splash of soda across my shirt. He gaped at me, mortified, and I couldn’t help but laugh – it was just too perfectly absurd not to. “Sorry!” he stammered, his face turning crimson. “I didn’t mean to – I’m just terrible with trays. First day jitters, I guess.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, wiping at the stain ineffectively. “I’m Emma.” “Liam,” he replied, offering a sheepish smile. “Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you a soda?” That was the beginning of our friendship. Liam turned out to be funny, smart, and, as I soon discovered, surprisingly easy to talk to. By the end of lunch, I felt like I’d known him forever. As bizarre as it was, the diary had been right. Over the next few weeks, I found myself relying on the diary more and more. Each morning, I’d read the entry for the day, and each evening, I’d marvel at how accurately it had predicted my life. It knew when I’d ace a test and when I’d forget my homework. It knew when Sarah would be in a bad mood and when my parents would have a surprise date night. It was eerie, yet strangely comforting. But there were days when the diary’s predictions weren’t just mundane. One entry warned about a sprained ankle during gym class, urging me to be cautious. Sure enough, I dodged a fall during basketball, narrowly avoiding injury. Another entry suggested I check on our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, who had fallen and needed help. I rushed over, and we called for assistance in time. The diary seemed to guide me to be in the right place at the right time. It was like having a secret ally, watching over me, steering my life in subtle but meaningful ways. Then, one evening in late November, I flipped to the next entry, and my breath caught. The diary warned of something serious: "On Friday, a storm will cause the rivers to rise. Warn your father not to take the backroad home." My dad often took the scenic backroad