[ Epilogue ] Tag, you're it

Dear Diary,

This might be the last time I write in you. Or the first. Hard to tell anymore. Pages keep showing up that I don’t remember writing, and I’m starting to suspect that either (a) I’ve developed an extremely concerning sleep-scribbling hobby, or (b) someone else has editorial access to my brain. Neither option feels like a win.

Here’s what’s changed:

1. The library is gone. Not “locked up” gone, not “oops, wrong street” gone. I mean gone gone. Bricks flattened, dust settled, as if the place erased itself from the map and politely vacuumed afterwards. Everyone swears it’s been abandoned for decades. “You must’ve been daydreaming,” they say. Right. Because daydreams usually leave glowing footprints and motivational hostage notes.

2. My shadow has started practicing independence. It doesn’t lag behind anymore—it gets ahead. Sometimes I catch it stepping into corners before I do. Sometimes it turns around and waits, like it’s daring me to follow. And once—only once—it winked. Do you have any idea how deeply unsettling it is to be winked at by your own silhouette?

3. The notes haven’t stopped. They’ve just… upgraded. They appear in mirrors. On rain-slick windows. Once, inside a sandwich wrapper. (“Curiosity is hunger. Eat wisely.” Whoever’s writing these is either a prophet or a marketing intern gone rogue.)

Here’s the part I haven’t told anyone: I think the choice they keep dangling—doors, circles, stairs—isn’t about where to go. It’s about when.

The diary isn’t recording. It’s rehearsing.

Because yesterday, I found an entry written in my handwriting, dated for tomorrow. It described me waking up, brushing my teeth, opening the fridge, and finding another note tucked between the lettuce and the milk. And this morning, guess what? Word-for-word. Down to the smudged ink.

Which means this isn’t a diary at all. It’s a script.

And if that’s true, then either:

I’m not the author.

Or I’m not the protagonist.

So which one am I, Diary?

Maybe that’s the final joke. Maybe none of these words belong to me. Maybe I’m just the middleman between ink and reader, pretending this is my life when it’s really just the page turning itself.

If you’re reading this, then congratulations—you’ve joined the cast. That’s what curiosity buys you. That’s what “spend wisely” means. The story doesn’t end; it just changes narrators.

So. Tag. You’re it.

— Me

P.S. Don’t look at your shadow too long tonight. Trust me on this one.