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935 Words
The rain had been falling since noon, soft at first, then growing heavy enough to rattle against the windows. The sound was monotonous, like a lullaby, but Andrew sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, a half-empty cardboard box in front of him, its contents spilling out in messy heaps. His mother had been after him for weeks to clean out his shelves, and he’d finally caved—not because he wanted to, but because arguing with her was more exhausting than the chore itself.
Around him lay the forgotten relics of his teenage years: bent comic books, crumpled worksheets with half-erased scribbles, a plastic robot missing its arm, even the cracked face of an alarm clock he hadn’t heard ring in years. His room smelled faintly of dust and the musty sweetness of old paper.
Andrew sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. He was seventeen—supposedly standing on the threshold of adulthood—but more often than not, he felt adrift. His friends talked about universities, careers, travel. His parents pressed him about exams and grades, as if the whole of his future could be measured in test scores. But Andrew felt like a bystander to his own life, going through the motions without a script.
His hand brushed against something tucked beneath a stack of old notebooks. He pulled it free: a leather-bound journal, its cover scuffed and edges worn as though it had traveled far. He frowned. He didn’t remember owning anything like it.
Curiosity prickled at him. He untied the frayed string holding it shut and flipped it open. On the inside cover, in looping handwriting, was a name: Andrew. His name.
Andrew’s pulse quickened. He flipped to the first entry.
April 9th, 2035.
He stared at the numbers until his eyes blurred. 2035. That was ten years away. He glanced back at the handwriting. It was unmistakably his—the same way his “A” tilted forward, the same way his “d” curved too sharply at the stem.
The words that followed were written in a voice that was familiar yet unsettling:
“Tomorrow, you’ll meet someone. A girl named Grace will transfer into your class. Don’t treat her like just another face. Watch her carefully. Listen when no one else does. Your choices will decide more than you realize.”
Andrew blinked, then laughed nervously. It had to be some kind of joke. Maybe he’d written it years ago, playing at being his future self. He turned the page, skimming. There were more entries—dozens, maybe hundreds—dated over months he hadn’t lived yet. Each one written in his unmistakable handwriting.
His stomach tightened.
He read the rest of the first entry.
“You won’t believe this now. You’ll probably think it’s nonsense, or some prank you played on yourself. But it isn’t. It’s real. If you follow what’s written here, you might save her. If you ignore it… well, I’ve already lived with that mistake. You don’t want to.”
Andrew shut the book quickly, as though the words might seep into him if he let them. His heart thumped loud in his ears. Save her? Who was this Grace? He’d never heard the name before.
He tossed the journal aside and leaned back against the wall, exhaling. His room suddenly felt smaller, the patter of rain louder. Maybe someone was messing with him. Maybe one of his friends had forged the journal, copied his handwriting somehow. But no—the strokes were too exact, too personal. And what kind of prankster wrote hundreds of entries just for a joke?
Andrew rubbed his temples. He should just forget it. Tomorrow would come, and no “Grace” would appear, and this whole thing would fade like a dream.
But his gaze drifted back to the journal lying on the floor, its cover dark against the pale wood. He picked it up again, almost against his will, and reread the last lines of the entry.
“If you don’t act, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”
The letters were darker here, pressed harder into the paper, as if his future self had been desperate to make the words last.
Regret. The word settled in his chest like a stone. He thought of his father’s disappointed looks when Andrew brought home mediocre grades. He thought of the time he’d failed to stand up for his friend in middle school, too afraid to draw attention to himself. He thought of all the little hesitations and silences that seemed to pile up around him, shaping him into someone he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.
Regret was already a shadow in his life. The thought of carrying one big enough to define his future made him uneasy.
He closed the journal more carefully this time and slipped it under his pillow, though he couldn’t have explained why. Maybe he didn’t want his mother to find it. Maybe part of him believed it was safer there, close to him, rather than tossed back into the box.
The rain softened outside, dwindling to a faint drizzle. Andrew stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, but sleep refused to come. His mind circled the words like moths around a flame.
Tomorrow, you’ll meet someone.
He pressed his eyes shut, trying to convince himself it was ridiculous. Just a coincidence. Just a trick of his imagination. But deep down, beneath the rational protests, a quiet unease stirred.
What if the journal was right?
What if tomorrow really would change everything?
- Writer
