روايات وقصص ضمن Book Review Everything I Never Told You

Beside them lay a worn notebook bound in faded leather. Forty-eight hours earlier, in the middle of the night in Monaco, her grandmother had called. Rita had been half asleep when she answered. Selena’s voice had been clear and firm. Never trust a man who has already hurt you, the older woman had said. He will do it again.

But easier wasn’t always healing. She took it to the counter. When she got home, she set the book on her table, unopened. It stayed there for days staring back at her, daring her to read, daring her to remember. Across town, Liam didn’t realize he’d left that receipt behind. He’d gone to that same bookstore a week earlier, chasing distraction. He wasn’t supposed to be there either. But sometimes, you end up in familiar places without meaning to pulled by habits your heart still remembers.

Just sneakers and a light jacket. The city was unusually quiet. I ended up at a small antique bookstore tucked between a florist and a tailor. It had no flashy signage, just a brass bell on the door and a handwritten welcome note in cursive. Inside, the scent of old paper and cedar wrapped around me like a story waiting to be told. I let myself drift between the aisles until a book caught my eye—Letters Never Sent. It was a collection of real, unsent letters from women over the last century. To lost loves, estranged mothers, unborn children.

The woman I met at the library. I was surprised at first why that book went to uncle but when he explained the reason why, I understand him. He said that it was not yet the right time for me to know everything. Because he is afraid that I might get trauma from what I've read. Of those I will know. So he hid it. "The history of Chicago," I first read its title followed by the opening of the first page. I slowly read what was recorded here and at the same time I was shocked.

Read enough to understand the quality of what was happening. The first message she read that stopped her was from a woman she did not know, in a city she had never visited, who had apparently read the entire book between midnight and four in the morning and had written to say: I did not sleep. I could not sleep. Every time I thought I could put it down I found I could not put it down because it felt like putting down the only honest thing I had encountered in years. I have been in that kitchen. I have stood at that counter. I did not know anyone else had been there until this morning.

Then, I came up with a reply, even if there was no one to see it now. "No, you didn't. You taught her love. You gave her the knowledge that someone was willing to fight fate, a system, and even himself, all for her. "You completed your mission flawlessly, Quincy. She's going to live a long, long life, carrying the love you carried for her inside her heart." … Side Story Three years had gone by since then. During that time, I published my new book—Exchange. I only wrote one message on the acknowledgement page. "To Quincy Shaw, my beloved. Thank you. You made sure I came out triumphant in this exchange."

Pretending that one day he would wake up and realise that he loved me the way I loved him. But I was tired of pretending. I got up, wrapped the sheets around my naked body and walked outside the room, through the dark penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed Manhattan spread out like a galaxy below the forty-two-storey skyscraper apartment building. I found him on the balcony. He was smoking. My stomach dropped as my legs froze. In five years, I had never seen Steven Riorson smoke. Not once. He said he hated it. Said his father used to smoke, and the smell made him remember things he’d rather forget. Things he never went on to tell me.

Every step echoed with memories: childhood games on the lawn, teenage arguments in the study, the night of the paper vows when he’d watched Damien stand beside his mother and felt the world tilt. Elena waited in the study—not the living room, not the dining hall. The study. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes that smelled of dust and old money, a single desk lamp throwing long shadows across the Persian rug. No staff. Door closed behind him with a soft, final click that sounded like a verdict.

They loved as though the world wasn’t against them, as though Lagos itself couldn’t swallow them whole. Chi remembered hotel rooms with peeling wallpaper, their sweat-slick bodies tangled in sheets, whispers that felt like declarations. She remembered Nonye’s voice, low and dangerous in the dark: “It’s only us. Nobody else exists.” And Chi had believed it. She had surrendered her heart, body, breath. Until one morning, Nonye was gone, no note, no explanation, just silence. And now, after all these years, “I miss you”. ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

I'd called my dad to come and fetch me because I was starting to feel uncomfortable. Dad knew what was happening because it apparently was all over the news but he'd waited until we got home to tell me. "Hunny, you have to promise to remain calm." He'd started. Obviously I'd been the opposite of that. When someone tells you to be calm like that, you will literally be more un-calm than you were before. Dad should've known better. "He wrote a book and you were all over it." He didn't even have to tell me who. But that didn't stop me from asking,