Some girls collect shoes.
Some collect makeup, or cool pins, or cursed goat artifacts from another world.
I collect notebooks.
Blank ones.
Grid paper ones.
Ones with weird animals on the cover, like penguin-dragon hybrids saying "JUST DO FLIGHT."
It's a hobby. It's harmless.
And it's how I ended up at the tiny used bookstore tucked behind the old post office—the one with dust in the air, mystery in the corners, and prices written in pencil.
Naomi had gone home early, and I was in full introvert recharge mode. My mission? A cheap new journal to doodle, plan snacks, and maybe track my sleep like a responsible time-warper.
What I didn't expect…
Was to find a notebook that already knew who I was.
---
The Journal Was Plain
Brown leather. Soft edges. No title.
Worn like it had been carried in a bag, dropped, used, lived in.
I almost put it back.
But something made me flip the cover open.
First page. Neat handwriting in faded purple ink.
> Property of Reika E. <
(Yes, you.)
Please do not open until Chapter 45.
Spoilers ahead.
Seriously. Close it.
I stared.
Laughed awkwardly.
Looked around the store like someone was filming me for a reality prank show.
No one.
Just an old man reading a mystery novel and a sleepy cat on the windowsill.
I flipped one page ahead.
Blank.
Another.
Still blank.
The whole rest of the journal?
Completely empty.
No entries. No instructions. No magical maps to treasure. Just that single warning on page one.
And yet… it gave me a strange, fizzy feeling in my chest. Like déjà vu soaked in soda bubbles.
I Bought It Anyway
Of course I did.
A notebook that claims to be mine from the future? For 150 yen? That's basically a bargain.
The clerk didn't even blink.
"Ah," he said. "Found one of those, did you?"
"One of what?"
He only smiled. "You'll understand later. Don't peek early."
Chill. Totally normal.
---
Back at Home
I placed the journal on my desk.
It sat there. Quiet. Unassuming.
I really wanted to peek ahead.
Not because I expected a prophecy or snack coupons… but because "Chapter 45" was such a weirdly specific number.
And—wait. Chapters?
Like… a story?
Like… my story?
Did this journal know what chapter of my life I was in?
I opened my phone notes app and checked the little list I'd started keeping since The Goat Crown Incident.
Chapter 1: Arrival
Chapter 5: Time Stop Mishap
Chapter 15: Dramatic Pudding Duel
Chapter 25: Naomi's Birthday
Chapter 30: Movie Night Doppelgänger
I was, currently, in Chapter 31.
So I still had time.
Fourteen chapters, apparently, until whatever this journal thought was important.
I closed it. Locked it in my desk drawer. Labeled the key "FOR CHAPTER 45 ONLY" in bold washi tape.
Because if there's one thing I've learned in this absurd, slowly unraveling mystery of a life—it's that future-me may be annoying…
…but she usually has a reason.