Ambivalence Book Novels & Stories

He was truly exasperating me and causing a whirlwind of confusion in my heart and mind. What was I supposed to do with this book on how to masturbate? I wasn't sure if it was out of curiosity or if I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't affected by him. I cautiously opened the book. The illustrations depicted a man holding his genitals and a woman with her fingers covering her intimate area. It wasn't explicit or pornographic, per se, but rather educational, with black ink graphics. However, it evoked a different sensation within me—a warmth that intensified as I continued to observe the pages.

Walked past Alex’s door without looking at it, let myself into my apartment, and finally, finally, let myself feel it. The terrifying seed of doubt she’d planted. I poured myself a glass of wine. Then another. And another. By the time the bottle was half empty, I was sitting on my couch in the dark, crying angry tears and trying not to think about Maya’s words. “Maybe you’re so rigid because you’re scared.” Was I? Had I spent years defining myself in absolutes because ambiguity terrified me? Had I clung to the lesbian label so tightly because entertaining any other possibility felt like losing myself?

Bending my mouth down to her pussy and pushing her fingers aside, I say, "here, let me help you with that." "Help me with what?" asks Amber, a recently hired, red-haired, high school girl with teen sized tits and a dynamite little ass. Her question breaks me out of my reverie and I realize I've spoken out loud. "Uh...with those books," I say, pointing to the books in her arms and trying to recover quickly. "Here let me take some." I glance over at the enthralling woman still browsing the sexuality section. "Sure. Whatever," she says, handing me half her books but looking at me quizzically. "Are you okay?" she asks.

Amber was curled up on the couch in the living room, a soft blanket draped over her legs. The mid-afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. In her hands, she held a thick book with dog-eared pages and a few notes scribbled in the margins. “Child Development: From Theory to Practice” was printed on the cover in sleek, bold letters. She was engrossed, her eyes moving carefully over the words, her brow slightly furrowed in focus. Amber wasn’t expecting anyone, so when the sound of the door opening broke the quiet, she nearly dropped the book.

The thought was both terrifying and completely captivating: was Ivy this stubbornly curious infuriatingly defiant woman the one who would either break or reshape everything? A veil of purposeful ambiguity hung over the words creating a huge unnerving tension for anyone who dared to wonder what they really meant. The raw unsaid truth however continued to pound in the fortress of my heart. “Maybe” I muttered in a flat indecisive voice that revealed nothing. “Or maybe not.”

What it could define as something. But undefined moments— Ambiguous existence— Unresolved presence— Fell outside its reach. Gale exhaled slowly. “So we just… stop making sense?” Amaya shook her head. “No.” Her voice was calm, grounded. “We keep being real.” The difference mattered. Because randomness could still be categorized. But authenticity— Messy, layered, incomplete— Resisted simplification. The presence adjusted again, slower this time. It began reducing its own optimization, allowing more friction, more imperfection, more unpredictability to surface.

he said one evening. “Observing”, she corrected. “What do you see?” She paused. “They’re shifting from argument to biography.” He leaned against the table. “That’s escalation.” “Yes.” “And does it matter?” She met his eyes. “Only if I react.” The next move was more deliberate. A podcast invitation. Title: “Idealism Versus Accountability”. She declined. Hours later, a segment aired anyway, her name referenced, her refusal interpreted. The host suggested that “some thinkers prefer the safety of ambiguity.”

While I was still standing there in a stupor, Bianca stepped past me and opened the door herself. A fair, thin boy walked in, dragging a suitcase in his left hand and carrying a huge stack of books in his right, swaying under the weight. Bianca quickly took the books from him. "Let me." The face in front of me overlapped with the face in the photo. It was Mason. Bianca dragged Mason's suitcase toward the guest room. As she passed me, she started explaining awkwardly.