Chapter Four: The Diary in the Desk
By lunchtime, Isabelle had developed a strategy: smile politely, speak as little as possible, and take mental notes on everything.
She sat alone under the old oak tree—ironically, the one she'd admired on her way in. It cast long shadows across the grass, and for a moment, it felt like she wasn't part of this world at all, but observing it from behind a glass pane.
A soft breeze rustled the leaves as she opened her lunchbox. Everything inside looked unfamiliar, from the neatly sliced sandwiches to the sparkling water bottle with tiny strawberry stickers. It was another reminder: this life wasn't hers. Not really.
"Still avoiding the lunch crowd?" The voice belonged to Alex.
She looked up, shielding her eyes. "Something like that."
He sat down across from her, resting his arms on his knees. "You've been... different lately."
"People keep saying that," she said, more sharply than she meant.
Alex didn't flinch. "Well, you used to call me a walking Wikipedia. Now you barely say two words to me."
She blinked. "Walking Wikipedia?"
"You asked me to tutor you in biology last month. Twice." He paused. "You also threatened to draw a mustache on my face if I fell asleep during group work."
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "I sound kind of terrible."
He grinned. "No, you were fun. Still are, I think."
They sat in a silence that wasn't uncomfortable. But Isabelle couldn't shake the thought: whoever "Belle" was before... she'd been someone with real relationships, real stories. She had to learn them. Fast.
That afternoon, in Literature class, she was assigned to her usual seat—back row, near the supply shelf.
She opened the desk, expecting only textbooks. But something was wedged in the narrow gap between the wooden top and the frame. A small, leather-bound notebook. Dusty. Worn.
She pulled it free and flipped through it.
At first, it looked like random musings:
"Everyone sees the version of me they expect. But none of them actually see me.""Sometimes I dream of waking up somewhere else, as someone else.""Do you ever feel like your own life doesn't belong to you?"
The handwriting was hers.
But the thoughts—those thoughts—were far too close to her own.
Her fingers trembled as she turned another page. At the bottom corner was a name, like a signature.
Belle Morgan
Her full name.
Had she written this... before the "rebirth"? Or had Belle—the original—left her something?
Either way, it was a message.
And Isabelle suddenly realized: this new life wasn't just a second chance.
It was a mystery.
And she was at the center of it.