Male POV Melodramatic Short Stories & Novels

When I was ten, I suddenly gained the ability to see threads connecting people above their heads. And only two people who had slept together would be connected by these impossible-to-hide threads. Over the years, two more threads had appeared above my father's head, and my mother had threatened to divorce him again and again. Because of what I had witnessed, I practiced celibacy after reaching adulthood. When choosing a wife, I placed loyalty above everything else and eventually chose the chaste, aloof genius with not a single thread above her head—Madeline Woods. During my bachelor party the night before the wedding, my closest friends played a game of whoever lost had to let everyone else look through his phone. When it was Oliver Sutton's turn, he clutched his phone tightly and said smugly, "Don't look at mine. She asked me for it eight times last night. The photos aren't exactly fit for public viewing." Everyone immediately started hooting. "You? Eight times in one night? Your girlfriend's pretty desperate. Come on, hand it over and let us have a look." "You're being awfully secretive about your relationship. Has anyone here even met your girlfriend?" I was about to smooth things over when I saw one of the four threads above Oliver's head stretch through the crowd and connect directly to my fiancee, Madeline. But when I had driven her home the night before, there had been nothing above her head. Even half an hour ago, she texted me. "Our wedding night is tomorrow, Flynn. We can finally belong to each other. I love you!" I looked at Madeline standing outside the door, gazing at me with deep affection. Then, I looked at the exhausted Oliver. I raised my glass, forcing down my fury as I lightly clinked it against his. "Oliver, does your girlfriend happen to be someone we know?"

"Mr. Rogers, are you sure you want to do this? Noelle is only five—" I cut the lawyer off and signed my name on the authorization form. "I am." Outside the window, rain poured down in sheets. I looked up at the office building across the street. Behind the floor-to-ceiling windows on the thirty-seventh floor, Rachel Lloyd, the president of Lloyd Group, was in a meeting. She wore a perfectly tailored white suit, her expression icy and composed. Every gesture carried the commanding presence of the queen of the business world. No one knew that this woman was my wife, at least in the eyes of the law. Even fewer people knew that we had a five-year-old daughter. It had been three years. For all three of those years, I had worked as an ordinary driver for her company, driving her to and from work every day. "Mr. Rogers, turn left. Mr. Rogers, stop here." That was all I ever heard from her. She never gave me so much as a second glance when other people were around, as if we truly were nothing more than an employer and her driver. Noelle had learned to call me ‘Dad’ when she was two, but she had never dared call Rachel ‘Mom’. Rachel had made one thing very clear. "Don't let me hear you calling me that in public." Noelle had been a good girl. She never called her Mom again. However, I knew what happened every night. She would curl up in bed, clutching the one stuffed doll Rachel had ever bought for her, and whisper into the darkness, "Goodnight, Mommy. You looked so pretty today. Will you come see me tomorrow?" Rachel had bought that doll three years ago at a convenience store on a whim. It had cost her only $29.90. To Noelle, however, it was priceless. She had held on to it like a treasure for three long years.

On the day my dad gets kidnapped, I call my wife, Eliza Wood, who has a net worth of 100 million dollars, for help while sobbing. After she hears me out, she lets out a chuckle. "I've transferred three million dollars to you. This time, be a good boy and don't bother Leon." I quickly agree to Eliza's condition. After that, I transfer the money into the kidnapper's bank account. But when Dad is about to get released, Eliza pulls off some tricks to retrieve the ransom money and freeze the kidnapper's bank account. Thinking that I've tricked him, the furious kidnapper decides to kill Dad. But first, he torments Dad for three long hours before finally ending his life. When I'm on the way to pick up Dad's ashes, I notice photos of Eliza and her newly-hired assistant, Leon Turner, taking over every billboard and monitor in the city. After dealing with Dad's ashes at home, I call Eliza on the phone. "Let's get a divorce." Eliza and Leon's laughter can be heard drifting over the speaker. "This again? Leon told me that you're spending too much money, so he convinced me to give you a light punishment. Don't tell me you got mad at me because of that."

We finally made it to the County Clerk's Office with only fifteen minutes to spare before they stopped processing marriage licenses. Our friends were already gathered at the bottom of the steps, urging us to go inside. "Come on, get in there! After everything you two have been through, you finally made it in time for the eighth try!" My best friend, Ryan Chapman, had red-rimmed eyes as he reached over and straightened my tie for me. I was just about to walk inside when Chester Snyder, Melissa's childhood friend, suddenly spoke from the back seat. "Wait. My lucky bracelet broke. I need to fix it first." I stopped. Melissa stopped, too. "Okay. No rush." Chester lowered his head and began adjusting the bracelet, then looked up at me with a smile. "Don't worry, Zane. I will have it fixed in a minute. "I made these lucky bracelets especially for the two of you. They are supposed to bring good luck and help keep your marriage smooth." When he finished, he casually handed his phone to Melissa. "Can you hold this for me?" Melissa took it without a word. The chatter around us suddenly died. The friends who had been cheering us on moments ago exchanged uneasy looks. I looked at Melissa. "Melissa, the County Clerk's Office stops processing marriage licenses at five. "If we go in now, we will make it just in time." Melissa frowned and glanced at the time. "I'm already here. A few more minutes won't make a difference." I watched her stand beside the car, patiently waiting while Chester fixed his bracelet. Then, suddenly, I smiled. I lowered my head, took out my phone, and sent a message to a number I knew by heart. [You said that if the eighth attempt failed, you'd consider giving me a chance.] [Get to the County Clerk's Office before five.]

On my 18th birthday, I stabbed my father. My father adamantly insisted that he had simply tripped, so I was never charged with a crime. Everyone called me an ungrateful pig. Only one reporter was willing to interview me. "Your father adamantly shielded you from blame. How can you be so heartless?" I smiled faintly. "Live with me for one month. If you can endure that, I'll show you the truth."

On my birthday, my girlfriend of ten years, Bella Dixon, tells me she wants to propose. I arrived at the spot, overjoyed, only to see smoke everywhere as my mom, Hannah Moore, screams from inside the house. Trauma from the fire three years ago overwhelms me again, leaving me breathless. To save Mom, I claw my hands raw over the short distance of 16 feet, leaving a trail of blood behind me. When I throw open the door, trembling, I see Mom laughing heartily with her godson, Jasper Wilder. Disgust fills her eyes when she sees how pale I am. "Thanks to Jasper's exposure therapy, you're finally desensitized. Hurry up and thank him." Jasper turns off the sound effects on his phone and leans against Bella's shoulder, laughing and giving me a playful wink. "Jason was such a good sport. Though all that blood, ash and bodily waste was pretty disgusting. Hannah, thanks for your support. I finally have enough material for my PTSD treatment case study." Bella steadies Jasper, then meets my disbelieving gaze. She says casually, "Jasper is only trying to help you. Instead of avoiding it, facing a real-life situation like this is much more effective." The sight before me makes my breath hitch, and I can't even form a complete sentence. "Alright, go clean yourself up. Hannah and I are taking Jasper out to celebrate first." As I watch the three of them leave, my legs finally give out, and I slump to the floor. I have PTSD from that fire years ago, when I tried to save her. Yet she shows me no sympathy and thinks of me as a burden. Even Mom is willing to put on an act with an outsider and use my traumatic experience as research material. In that case, I may as well leave your world for good.

Every month, Mom gives me 400 dollars for living expenses. But it's not a simple transfer. No, there's a whole approval process involved. Before I even see a single cent, I have to post an itemized breakdown in the family group chat—meal and drink costs, phone bills, and whether I've bought anything I shouldn't have. When my older sister, Michele Judd, sees it, she sends a laughing-crying emoji. "Are you sure he's in college? This is more like he's filing an expense report at work." My younger brother, Mikey Judd, chimes in. "Mom's only doing this for his own good. He grew up in a small town, so he is more prone to spending recklessly." Mom doesn't scold them and just tags me directly. "Stop playing the victim. Give me a more detailed breakdown." That night, I cut open my tube of toothpaste and squeeze out a little blob more. The next day, Mom posts family vacation photos on her social media. In the pictures, Michele is staying in an ocean-view room, while Mikey is holding a brand-new camera. Mom captions the photo, "As long as I'm able to, I'll spare no expense to give my kids whatever they want." I stare at the photo, and a laugh escapes me. As it turns out, she isn't incapable of loving her children. She's simply excluded me from being one of them.

To keep my grandmother's failing organs stable, I simmered a medicinal broth for her every day and strictly controlled her diet. Then the Whitmore family's long-lost real son was brought home. "You're feeding my grandmother something that looks like slop? Julian Whitmore, what kind of heart does a fake son like you have?" The butler wiped sweat from his forehead. "Sir, this is Mr. Whitmore's specially prepared medicinal broth. The old madam's been drinking it for years, and her health has only--" "Shut up!" Tyler Whitmore threw an all-foreign-language menu in my face. "I've consulted top nutritionists overseas. What Grandma needs now is protein!" "I've had the finest bluefin tuna flown in. From now on, I'll handle Grandma's diet myself." My grandma, Irene Whitmore, stayed silent. She merely glanced at me, which counted as approval. I forced out a smile and turned to leave. "Fine. Then take good care of her." They had no idea Grandma had been poisoned with a rare tropical toxin. That bowl of medicine was a suppressant I had prepared specifically for her. Once she stopped taking it and touched seafood or other triggering foods, the poison would backlash instantly.

On the morning we were supposed to leave for our elopement trip to the stunning Calistia Mountains, my girlfriend, Jeanie Portman, was nowhere to be found. Worried something had happened to her, I drove to her family's house to look for her, only to find the whole neighborhood strung with wedding banners and streamers. A big outdoor reception was underway, the tables loaded with food. Jeanie stood there in a white gown, leaning into my foster brother's arms as she poured him a toast. Relatives showered the two of them with compliments, calling them a perfect match, while my father sat at the head table, grinning so wide he could barely close his mouth. I nearly lost it and started toward them, but my mother yanked me into a corner before I could get there. "What's gotten into you, making a scene like this? His birth parents died saving your father and me. Handing Jeanie over to him is the least we can do to pay that debt back." My voice shook as I demanded to know why no one had told me sooner. My mother just gave me a flat, dismissive look. "Because you're a teacher, and you've got too sharp a tongue for your own good. If we'd told you ahead of time, you'd have blabbed it to the whole world, and then how were the two of them supposed to have a proper wedding? "That's enough. Don't make a scene. "You've got a stable job. You won't have any trouble finding someone else. Don't ruin our family peace over some woman." I looked past my mother, toward the red carpet where Jeanie and my foster brother stood glowing with happiness, then at the relatives cheering beside them. Something inside me went hollow.

I was born with an intellectual disability and congenital analgesia, the inability to feel pain. Since I was a child, I had been the human punching bag who took beatings meant for my younger sister. Whenever my sister was caught sneaking snacks, Mom would grab me by the hair and slam my head against the wall. Blood would run down my face from my head, yet I never made a sound. When my sister was caught cheating in an exam, Mom whipped me with a belt the entire afternoon. My skin split and my flesh torn, yet I could still manage a smile. Every time she saw me covered in injuries, my sister would throw her arms around me tightly and cry her eyes out. She would say she was wrong and promise never to misbehave again. Mom would be pleased at that, convinced she had disciplined us well. And so, for sixteen years, I had endured every punishment meant for my sister. Until the latest monthly exam, when my sister dropped a place in the rankings. Mom called her over as usual and, out of habit, she raised her hand toward me. The slap sent the back of my head crashing into the corner of a cabinet, and blood spilled across the floor. Through my fading consciousness, I saw Mom nodding in satisfaction and pulling my sister, who was wailing her heart out, to her feet. “There, there. Stop crying. You’ve had your punishment. Let’s go eat something nice and calm yourself.” Watching their retreating figures, my eyelids grew heavier by the second. It seemed to hurt a little this time. I’d better get well soon… After all, they’d need me again the next time my sister made another mistake.

It's Family Day at my daughter, Hannah Neel's, preschool, but my wife, Samantha Miller, says she has to work and tells both Hannah and me not to go. Seeing the disappointment on Hannah's face breaks my heart, so I bring her to school anyway. As soon as we step through the gates, I see Samantha. She's holding her childhood friend—Oscar Barnett's—hand, with a little boy clutching her other. The three of them look like a perfect family, laughing and chatting, as if they belong together. When Samantha sees us, her smile fades, and she lets go of Oscar's hand. "Zach, it's not what you think. Oscar's raising his son alone. Today's his fifth birthday, and he just wanted to give him a little taste of a mother's love," she says quickly. I study her for a moment, then kneel and gently take Hannah's hand in mine. "Sweetheart, say hello to the lady."

At the dinner table, my wife's best friend suddenly speaks to her in Lytian. "Three years ago, you married Julian in a grand wedding just to help Jace get Julian's letter of forgiveness. Over the years, I've seen Julian fall more and more deeply in love with you. Yet, you're still lying to him. "You gave him sterilization pills but passed them off as his depression medication. Aren't you afraid that he'll fall apart if he finds out the truth?" My wife, Erica Inman, briefly shows a conflicted expression on her face. She then gives a bitter smile and says, "A child unwanted by their mother has no reason to be born. As long as Julian doesn't stand in the way of Jace's happiness, I will keep my promise and stay by his side for the rest of his life." No one knows that I've learned Lytian to keep up with Erica. I stand in the living room and look at the fresh kiss mark on my neck. As I glance at the medication I take regularly for my depression, my whole body turns cold. It turns out that all of Erica's affection toward me was fake. What I thought was my salvation turns out to be nothing but a carefully planned deception. Since that's the case, I'll do my part to make sure they all get what they want.

I waited half an hour for a cab in the pouring rain. When one finally arrived, Claire held the door open and spoke to the driver. "My friend has been through something traumatic. Could you take him home first?" Her so-called friend was Adrian Cole, her ex. The driver glanced past her at me, uneasy. "But this gentleman booked the ride." Only then did Claire seem to remember that I was standing there — her actual boyfriend. "He won't mind. I'll pay extra." Once Adrian was inside, she took a picture of the license plate, the way she always had, and reminded the driver—twice—to get him home safely. She didn't ask what I would do. She got into her own car and left. She never drove me to or from work. People might get the wrong idea. I stood alone in the storm for another two hours. Not a single driver accepted my request. Then I saw Adrian's post: a whole gallery of license-plate photos. "All these years, and she still hasn't broken the habit." I zoomed in on the screenshots. From the time they'd been together until now, Claire had taken more than thirteen hundred of those pictures. She was so careful about appearances with me. Yet as Adrian's "friend," she could make sure he got home safely every day. She said she'd forgotten him. But the habit was in her bones, and that hadn't gone anywhere. And suddenly, I knew. I didn't want a relationship where even my safety came second.

At the height of my career, I became the youngest law professor in the field and married my childhood sweetheart, Daisy Reid. We were known as the "golden couple of the legal world," and in the eyes of many, we were the perfect loving couple. In the tenth year of our marriage, my mother took my son, Caleb Davis, out, and they were involved in a car accident. The driver had been speeding while intoxicated. My mother only had enough time to shield Caleb in her arms before she died on the spot. To my surprise, my wife, Daisy, appeared and sat next to the murderer, James Benton, as his defense attorney in the courtroom. "Our client was just driving normally when the deceased suddenly rushed out in an attempt to stage an accident, which ultimately led to the accident. The deceased party should bear the main responsibility for the accident." Upon hearing that, I stared at her in disbelief. Soon after, anger surged within me. My eyes bloodshot, I growled, "My mom would never stage an accident! I have a witness!" However, the ten-year-old Caleb, who was to testify as a witness, grabbed James' arm and said, "I testify that Grandma was trying to fake an accident by purposely crashing into Mr. Benton's car. Dad even tried to make me lie. I would never hurt Mr. Benton." The moment those words left his mouth, my heart sank completely.

As I head out again to put up missing-child flyers around town, my wife, Felicia McCoy, stops me. Instead of pulling me into her arms to comfort me like she used to, she looks at the miserable state I'm in and finally tells me the truth. "Elsa wasn't abducted. I gave her away." My voice is hoarse. "What did you say?" Felicia looks a little guilty, but only a little. "Gordon fell into a deep depression after losing his own child, so I gave Elsa to him. "I never thought you'd have such a hard time moving on. You kept searching for her, and it was throwing our lives into chaos. That's why I have to tell you the truth." The words hit me like a fist to the chest. At that moment, only one thought runs through my mind—I have to bring Elsa back. Felicia seems to realize what I'm thinking. She steps in front of me, blocking my way. "Don't bother looking for Elsa. She went with Gordon willingly. She doesn't need your fatherly love. You're only going to get in the way of her life."

I was easy to fool. I believed almost everything that people said. During the worst year of my life, a girl in the grade above me tricked me out of my entire living allowance. Juno Halloran split hers with me and helped me get by. She was the only person who had never lied to me. "It's not that you're dumb. Other people are just rotten," she told me. "Stop trusting them. Trust me instead." Then, 1 hour before I was supposed to walk into my grad school entrance exam, she texted me. [I was in a car accident. I'm at the hospital. Get here now.] I rushed to the hospital and found her and her best friend, Brent Ostrow, sitting in the convenience store downstairs, eating nachos. Brent laughed so hard he slapped his thigh. "See? I told you he'd fall for it. One text and he ditches his exam to come running." Juno held a chip to his mouth. "Fine, a bet is a bet. I'll take you to Starfall Park today." I stared at them in disbelief. Juno pulled out a napkin and wiped the sweat from my face. "You're about to graduate, and the world is a nasty place. Consider this lesson number one." My voice shook. "Today's my grad school exam!" Brent rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay, Cooper's about to cry. We'd better get him back before he flunks and blames us for it." When she saw my eyes reddening, Juno panicked too. She sped the entire way there and got me to the exam hall with only 1 minute to spare. I had barely breathed a sigh of relief when the proctor stopped me. "Excuse me, your admission ticket is fake. I need you to leave." I looked down at the paper in my hand. At some point, someone had switched out my admission ticket. In its place was a huge drawing of a pig's head with a message scrawled beside it. [Dumbass Cooper, I'm holding on to your ticket! Surprise!] Beneath that was another line. [Don't trip in the same spot twice. That's lesson number two.] It was Brent's handwriting. It was Juno's idea. I still could not tell truth from lies, but I could tell the difference between genuine care and fake concern. From that day forward, I never trusted anyone so easily again.

Grandma lay bedridden, her dementia taking hold as she repeated Scarlett Hayes's name over and over. Tears streamed down my face as I dialed my wife's number. When she picked up, Scarlett sounded irritated. She said she was working late tonight and would call me back when she was free. I could clearly hear the sound of a man's laughter in the background. The moment I hung up, Grandma gasped sharply. She called out my wife's name. It was her last breath. While I sat drowning in grief, Scarlett's male best friend Chase Morrison posted a video update, geotagged at a couples' hotel. In the video, their fingers were laced together. The woman's arm bore a distinctive black mole I recognized instantly. The caption read: "When two hearts become one, why care what anyone else thinks?" In that moment, my heart turned to ash. I gritted my teeth and left a comment. "Let's file for divorce tomorrow. Then you two can be together openly and legally. You'll even save on the hotel fees. Win-win, right?"

After four years of supporting the prettiest girl on campus who was secretly penniless, Hayden Simpson had spoiled Sylvie Scott so rotten that even a single strand of her hair was precious. He used his connections to search for kidney donors across the country, saving her mother from the clutches of death. He pulled strings at an elite school in Jamesville to enroll her younger brother, Morgan Scott, grooming him into a proper gentleman. He spent a fortune investing in her entrepreneurial project, making her a successful businesswoman. On the eve of their wedding, Hayden unexpectedly saw her childhood sweetheart, Joshua Gillman, embracing her. His eyes were rimmed red as his heart broke inside his chest.

On the day my daughter, Dakota Bradshaw, gets into a car accident, I rush over to save her, only to get crippled instead. Both my wife, Delilah Rowland, and Dakota don't mind the fact that I'm being a burden to them. Instead, they put in a lot of effort to take good care of me. But one day, a fire breaks out at home. Yet, Delilah personally closes my room door. Since I'm crippled, I end up falling to the floor in my state of panic. That's when I notice Dakota's shoes through the gap under the door. "Dakota, save me!" I call for help at the top of my lungs. But only the sounds of the crackling flames respond to me. I have no idea how much time has passed when I catch wisps of a conversation hazily. "Mom, the firefighters are here. What should we do?" Dakota's voice is very low. Delilah replies calmly, "Tell the police that your father started the fire when he was cooking. We just reached the corridor at that time, so the doorknob was already warped from the fire." Dakota simply says one word. "Okay."

It's the third year of our secret marriage, and there are still only three pairs of indoor slippers in the shoe cabinet—a pair for my wife, Renee Hickman, a pair for her friend, Penny Falcon, and a pair for her student, Aspen Frost. However, mine's not there. I look at the disposable indoor slippers Renee hands me and ask flatly, "Where are the cotton slippers that I bought?" She doesn't even look at me as she replies, "I threw them away before they came here." I reply with a grunt. Suppressing the bitterness rising in my chest, I ask casually, "Did Aspen come along this time too?" "No." She's lying. I know that because Aspen just sent me a taunting text message earlier. "I actually feel pity for you. You always have to pretend like you're just the garbage disposal guy every time we're here. Have you ever wondered whether she can't make your marriage public, or simply doesn't want to?" I turn off my phone and enter the bathroom. The smudged intertwined handprints on the mirror stare back at me like some declaration of war. As I walk past Renee, I don't bother asking her why she's lying to me. I don't even question why her pinned contact is someone with an aspen tree as their profile photo instead of mine. After watching a movie with her while she applies a facial beauty mask, I pull out the slippers she hid inside the safe and slide them toward her, smiling. "If you cherish him so much, then you shouldn't keep him hidden in the shadows anymore."