All The Things I Never Said Book Novels & Stories

They were all adjusted alphabetically. He then randomly picked a book. ‘If I had your Face – By Frances Cha’ He read the title. He opened the book. On the first page, there was her name and a date written. The date when she either got the book or started reading it. He flipped through the pages. She had underlined some context. Marked notes somewhere. Scribbled replies to some lines. He laughed to himself. There was this line she had highlighted, “In New York, you can talk to anyone about anything at any time and have a conversation so long you'll fall a little in love with that person, and then never see them again.”

All I'd done was follow my heart, I'd hardly had a conversation with any of them about my situation. Even though I know they weren't fans of my actions, they'd never made effort to talk to me about it. They just gave me looks. So yes, this is beyond shocking to me. "Alex, sometimes people who care about you don't say stuff to you in fear of hurting your feelings." She says to me in solace clearly seeing my racing mind. "Sometimes it's that they don't know exactly what or how to say things to you, not that they don't want to. That's when people like me come in." She continues to say as everyone remains quiet.

It's been five years since I fell ill with depression, and I'm finally myself again. I can talk, laugh freely, and I actually have an appetite. The icing on the cake is that my husband, Ian Beaumont, and I are expecting our second child. At our New Year's Eve family gathering, Ian's godsister, Gemma Waverly, gets tipsy and starts making a scene. "I think it was about five years ago. I was dumped, and I took the car out for a little joyride while the surveillance cameras were under maintenance. "Guess what? The moment I stepped on the gas, a cat abruptly flew out of nowhere and slammed right into my hood. It yowled and bolted off." A faint, disdainful smile plays on her lips. "That damn

The peaceful woman. All of them were me. All of them mattered. None of them were mistakes. Before going inside, I opened the leather-bound book one last time. The final page was blank. At the top, someone had written: What would you tell the next woman? I smiled. Then picked up a pen. After a moment, I wrote: You are not starting over. You are starting from experience. You are not broken. You are becoming. And one day, you'll look back and realize the thing that ended your old life was actually the beginning of your real one.

His cane tapped softly against the marble. He stopped only a few feet away, his eyes searched my face, then my hands, then my feet, "What is this called?" My lips felt dry, "The Four Lives I Never Chose." He waited. I looked across the gardens, "The first girl grows up afraid of her own home. The second mistakes a cage for love," I swallowed, "The third finally finds someone worth loving... and never gets to keep him. And the last girl loses the only person who ever made her feel safe."

I am trying to make different ones. A young woman wrote: I am twenty six and I am not married and I have never been betrayed by a partner in the ways you describe. But I read your book because my mother gave it to me and I understand now why she gave it to me. She was telling me something about what she has been inside for thirty years that she could not say to me directly. The book was what she could offer. I called her after I finished it. We talked for three hours. It was the first honest conversation we have had in my adult life. Thank you. Adaeze read this one sitting at the kitchen table on a Wednesday morning and felt something move through her so completely that she had to put the ph

Her friends were scattered throughout the room. She took a deep breath. "Thank you all for coming," she said. "This book started as a journal. A way for me to make sense of everything that had happened. The auction. The collar. The fear. The love. I never thought anyone would read it. I never thought it would matter to anyone but me." She paused. Her voice cracked. "But it does matter. Because your stories matter. Your fears matter. Your hopes matter. You matter." The crowd applauded.

Before I could ask why, he claimed he needed the bathroom and disappeared. When someone liked another person, it showed in the small details. When they did not, that showed too. Thinking about all of that, I shook my head and reluctantly refused. “Maybe not…” The doorbell rang at that moment. I took the chance to escape and hurried to answer the door. A girl I had never seen before stood outside. Her hands were hidden behind her back, and she smiled brightly at me. “Hi. I am looking for Elias.” I froze. [Ahhh, it's our female lead baby!]

Instead, my hand moved to the inner pocket. My fingers brushed against something hard and plastic. I pulled it out, expecting a gym pass or a protein bar wrapper or worse, a condom wrapper. I shivered at the last thought, ew! But it was a small, leather-bound notebook. I knew I shouldn't open it. I knew I should put it back, return it with the jacket, and maintain my shred of dignity but curiosity has always been my greatest sin so I flipped the cover open. The first page was a date from three years ago. The day I left. Underneath it, in Noah’s jagged, aggressive handwriting, were three words that made the air freeze in my lungs:

He stepped back first, breaking us apart. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly. "I'm sorry." “You didn’t do anything, Derek,” I managed, though my pulse said otherwise. "You didn't do anything... yet." He ran a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath. “Well, I almost did. You always told me we were just friends. I keep forgetting that part.” I felt something sharp twist in my chest. “Yeah… I did say that,” I whispered. “I was young... maybe even stupid.”