Broken But Beautiful Novels & Stories

" Alora sang beautifully, each word rolling off her tongue with so much emotion. I stared at Alora, her face was calm and there was a sad smile on her lips. I looked down at her fingers against the piano. Her fingers had tiny cuts on them and her wrist was visible to me, scarred and bruised. But despite the damage that had been done to her fingers, each time she pressed the keys, a beautiful melody rang after it. How could such tiny fingers with so many scars and cuts produce such beautiful music? How could a broken slave sing so beautifully? How could someone as beautiful as Alora be this broken? She was so sweet and innocent and naive to everything around her. How could anyone take such a

Her breath caught. “But breaking doesn’t always mean ending,” I continued, my voice gentler now, steadier as I managed to sniff in my snort. “Sometimes it just means we come back… differently.” She stared at me like she was trying to hold onto every word, like they might slip away if she didn’t. “There’s a saying,” I added, reaching up to wipe a tear from her cheek, my thumb lingering there for just a second, “pieces broken beyond repair that come back together can’t be broken again.”

Fiona’s POV There is this quote from Robert Tea which I read up somewhere which says that, “Broken people are beautiful. They have to put themselves back every day.” The simplicity of this quote resonated with something within me. Something hollow and broken, something tired of fighting to stay alive.

"I don’t want to be the version of me that hurts her." "Then you have to kill that version. Not manage him. Kill him." --- Amara later pulled out her sketchbook. Pages flipped past images of her brother, the baby, faceless silhouettes of Liam. She began a new one. A window. Cracked but not broken. Still letting in light. And with every stroke of her pencil, she asked the question silently: Can broken things still be beautiful? The answer would take time. But she wasn’t afraid of waiting anymore.

Worship made me blind. Now I see. Now I take. Now I become the kind of man who doesn’t break. Because broken things don’t bleed. They cut.

Too bad there is nothing good in me. I frown at the paperweight in my hand. It is a pyramid of clear crystal. I hold it up against the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window behind me. The light breaks and changes in the pyramid creating a beautiful rainbow along the wall. Colorful, innocent, beautiful. I clench my fist around it, its sharp edges dig into my hand as if it wants to cut me. Dangerous. I throw it hard against the wall. It leaves a deep dent in the wall before falling to the floor, shattering in a million pieces. Breakable.

"It's been a month but I didn't know you were still so angry with me? Maybe you still love me until now." "Where did you get the thickness of your face, Kevyn? You should be ashamed of yourself, you are too airy to be out of place. Maybe I loved you back then because I still made you feel good back then, but now? Not anymore. I I'm really stupid because I loved someone like you and that's what I regretted. And since we broke up I realized that you're not a loss because you're worthless." I promised before going inside.

Hopelessness surged, then cracked and gave way to rage. My fist drove into the mirror. A sharp crack split the air. Pain exploded through my hand, and for one breathless second, I felt it. A flash of satisfaction. Glass rained down, tiny blades that glittered like stars. Blood smeared across the porcelain, hot and steady. But the pain didn’t land. Not really. Nothing could hurt more than going back. I stared at the broken reflection. Fractured eyes. Fragmented truths. But the girl looking back?

“I had three children looking at me. Waiting for me to be strong.” He set his cup down on the table carefully. “I know I hurt you.” I turned back to face him. “Do you?” I asked. He swallowed. “Yes.” I walked closer again, stopping just a few steps away from him. “My heart was broken,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Not cracked. Not slightly damaged. Broken.” His jaw tightened. “Can you tell me something?” I continued. He nodded slowly. “If a glass breaks… if it shatters into pieces… can you put it back together and make it look the same again?”

I say glumly. “Why do you think that?” She asks, her tone sounding sad. “I’m broken and damaged. This should go to someone… who isn’t,” I say dejectedly. “You have been broken – physically and mentally – that’s true, but why does that make you undeserving of such a gift? The way I see it, it means you’re someone who can understand its significance and who will use it wisely,” she says as she locks her eyes with mine. “Did you know, when a broken bone is healing, during that time, that broken place in the bone becomes its strongest part? Being broken isn’t a personality flaw. It shows us just how strong we truly are.”