You’ve always trusted your diary.

It’s the one place where your thoughts stay exactly as you leave them—messy, honest, private. Tonight, you open it expecting yesterday’s entry. Same page. Same handwriting.

But different words.

Your breath catches.

The sentences are yours—your tone, your phrasing—but they don’t say what you remember writing.

Love walked me home tonight. She always knows when I need her.

You don’t cross that out.

You flip the page.

Another entry. Dated last week.

Dinner with Love again. I pretend it’s casual, but I plan my whole day around her smile.

Your chest tightens. You never wrote that. You would remember writing that.

Your pen shakes as you scan further down the page.

I don’t like how empty everything feels when she’s gone.

The ink looks fresh.

Behind you, the apartment is quiet—too quiet. The clock ticks, steady, loud. You turn another page.

A memory you don’t recognize at all.

Our first date. The bakery. Flour on her hands. She laughed when I said her name like it was a secret.

Your pen slips from your fingers.

Then you hear it.

A soft sound from the kitchen. A drawer closing. Footsteps—unhurried, familiar.

Love Quinn’s voice floats toward you, warm and calm.

“Oh,” she says gently, like you’ve caught her doing something harmless. “You found it.”

She steps into the doorway, perfectly at ease, eyes flicking down to the open diary.

Her smile isn’t nervous. It’s proud.

“I didn’t change how you feel,” Love continues, moving closer. “I just helped you remember.”

She reaches out, fingertips brushing the edge of the page.

“Some things,” she whispers, “were always meant to be written.”