Book Selfish Novels & Stories

And I couldn’t believe it; it was my book. It was the first book I ever published, “My Hero in the Dark.” A smile crept on my lips; he was reading my book, “Coffee?” “Burgundy,” he called, pulling me out of my daydream. I cleared my throat. “What?” “Do you want coffee?” “No…just my money.” Liam nodded, picked up the book, and continued reading like I wasn’t here asking for my money. Was he seriously going to pretend like he doesn’t owe me?

Except for Eli. He was sitting at register three, legs kicked up on the counter, sipping coffee from a thermos shaped like a rocket ship. “Did we swap personalities?” she asked, setting her bag down. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “So I figured I’d alphabetize the self-help books by level of delusion.” Callie arched a brow. “What’s top of the list?” “‘Manifesting for Millionaires.’ Right above ‘Confidence in Six Minutes or Less.’”

"And He wouldn't hurt you in such a public place." When I was done picking the books, I left the store and decided to get something to eat. Back at the bookstore, I had bought two romance books, one on self-care and another on financial management. They were the most interesting for me and the financial management book made me miss my university days. It wasn't a textbook but it brought back many memories. My grip on the paper bag tightened as I thought of something bad. I went to school to be able to properly control my family's business and now, I couldn't even work in any cooperate businesses. I sighed and gave my head a light shake.

I would look at the problem name Rahul hanging on us later on, lets enjoy the some moments of peace life bestowed me with. 'BEING A GOOD WIFE.' Book in my hand caught my eyeballs. How could I expect anything more better from him? " Mr Selfish. I will see you." I said banging the book on the mattress. Who does wants to know the secrets of being a good wife? What does he think of himself? Does he mean that I am not a good wife and that the reason he wants me to read all this bullshit stuff. I will also gift you a bundle of books titled 'The Million Ways of Using Your Brain' , 'Being a Sensible Husband.', 'The Art of Being Alive', 'Taming the Beast Within You.' ...and some more...Huhh.

I say with a hint of reluctance in my voice. “Uh if you say so” his brows furrow as he looks around my place. Dissecting every piece of evidence of my life on display. The self proclaimed art work, my colorful aesthetic. The clean order of my compulsion. Even the titles of my books nearly make me feel exposed. I continue searching the place. Huffing around in annoyance as I can’t seem to locate my keys. “Em, what’s wrong? Are you ready to go”? “I can’t find my keys Reed” I say annoyed

But due to it not specially designed for certain things, deterioration happens faster to most items. "You learned a lot." Ren glanced at the book. Then turned to the rolled-up paper pieces. "But these interest me more. I enjoy artwork and paintings, but I have forgotten them a bit. I am glad you chose this for your personal occupation." "I will do my best to work hard." Two said quickly.

Serena approached her bookshelf, her fingers trailing across the spines. She stopped at a worn journal she'd hidden there as a child-her mother's. Pages were filled with vague warnings, hidden meanings, and broken phrases. Pieces she'd never understood until now. She opened it and began flipping through pages. There. A sentence underlined three times: The boy in the shadows will become the fire. She looked up at Damien. "She knew. My mother... she warned me." Damien appeared as if he might break. "Serena, I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to protect you from what I was becoming."

He flipped over the front of the book to see the title. It was Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot. “Well, that’s fitting,” B laughed and closed the book. He fell deeper into the recesses of the chair. He brought the glasses up to his face and thought, If this is what an estate man does, then let me be an estate man for just a couple of minutes while the whiskey does its work. B let Dostoyevksy’s words run through his mind like a new mantra — it’s life that matters… the process of discovering… the everlasting and perpetual process… — and slid the glasses onto his face.

The next morning, I spoke to myself in the mirror. “You’re not running,” I said aloud. I waited. “You’re not abandoning anyone.” I nodded at my reflection. “You’re choosing yourself.” That one took a second longer to believe. At a bookstore, the cashier asked, “Looking for anything specific?” “No,” I said. “Just browsing.” She smiled. “That’s how you find what you didn’t know you needed.” I bought a blank journal. That evening, Damian crossed my mind. Not painfully. Not angrily. Just… neutrally.

But somehow, even the titles mocked me. “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.” “Call Me by Your Name.” “Normal People.” “Cruel,” I muttered at the shelf. “Talking to books now?” a voice said behind me. I spun around, heart skipping — not because it was Ethan (thank God), but because I was that on edge. It was just the cashier, a bored-looking guy with green hair and glasses. “Sorry,” I said. “Just… arguing with the universe.” He nodded like that made perfect sense. “Fair. It usually wins, though.”