Emotional Closet Novels & Stories

“It’s like… if I push them down, I can’t open that box again. If I did, I would get overwhelmed and I don’t think I could handle that.” “How about tonight. We will lock ourselves in the panic room and you need to let all those emotions out. Together, we will work through them. You can yell, hit, cry or whatever you want until you work through them. I’ll be beside you the whole time.” I hated everything about that plan. Nothing sounded like something I wanted to experience. “I think they are okay in the box.”

After it was shattered that day, I never saw the pieces again. They were just… gone. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the familiar sting behind them. I refused to let a single tear fall. In my mind, I could still hear its ghostly melody. A song I thought I'd never hear again. A knock at the door shattered the quiet grief. "Come in." It wasn't a guard. It was Julian. He wore a black suit and held a small velvet box. His gaze drifted to the empty cabinet, lingering for a moment before meeting mine.

"It means you're giving away your weakness just to feel her." I chortled, bringing my hand over my head. "You know, you're being so melodramatic. Are you sick or something?" "No, I'm not," Khloe said, crossing her arms. "You're the one who is supposed to be an emotional freak here. Not me." "I don't know anymore," I said, shaking my head and then pushed my back against the bed, feeling so helpless in my own emotion for the first time. It was like there was something important inside me that I was refusing to trickle out.

She noted that down in her notepad. "That's what I said, yeah." Dr. Emily's gaze pierced through my flippant facade. "Why? Can you tell me more about that?" The dam I'd built around my emotions started to crack, threatening to spill out. But I clamped down, clenching my fists at my sides. It was too easy to get lost in the quicksand of the past, too tempting to let bitterness swallow me whole. "It's more than just the mushy stuff, isn't it?" she spoke. "It's the vulnerability, the letting someone in close enough to see all the messy bits."

I felt the need to hold and play my cards very close to my chest. Which meant that, not even Abby who had been my best friend since forever could be let into those. I didn't know about the future, or it would change. But I was surprised to find myself feeling okay with keeping things that way even then, if my mind didn't change. In fact, I suddenly felt super protective of my thoughts and emotions. As if they were something to be neatly packed, and kept away from everybody else. Something sacred even. Except it wasn't even that. But probably the taboo ness that I couldn't help but feel, towards the entire situation. That I was slowly finding myself getting more and more emotionally involved

I said as the team took an exit from my office. Jeremy strode in my office looking all confident,but I could see fear behind his eyes failing to hide miserably.Like I said before,masking off emotions from the face is easy but hiding emotions from the eye takes years of practice.Being in pain taught me a lot especially showing emotions makes you vulnerable when it comes battles.Also unexpressed emotions will never die.They are buried alive,and will come forth later in uglier ways.All I can say is Sigmund Freud was right. "Jeremy,"I called out smiling like a cheshire cat.

I gulped a lump in my throat, closing my eyes, clenching my hands into a fist, feeling my now dirty nails dig into my palms – I exhaled loudly and shakily. I missed her. Tears slowly swelled up in the corner of my eyes. There was no denying that this feeling was what I was ignoring for the past few years. Hiding it deep beneath my mind and locking it – keeping myself busy and occupying my mind with anything. I read and read, hoping to get rid of it, but I knew that it was futile to get rid of genuine emotions that was felt deeply in the first place. I hoped everyday that it would disappear in the back of my mind, but everyday I encounter people, it reminds me of the pain and the stinging pul

Here we went again. It was the same old story. I would be met with criticism every time I stood my ground. The moment I showed even a hint of vulnerability, they would use family to guilt-trip me. I was fed up. “A family?” I lingered on those words, feeling nothing but a stinging irony. “Did you think of me as family when you turned my room into a closet? Was I family when you changed the door code to Alexander’s birthday? Has it crossed your mind that we’re family when you sent me to stay at a hotel?

My heart is lonely, and my brain is wrecked, but I can't show that to anyone—crying is a weakness, and I have to be strong right now. Therefore, the only time I feel emotions is in the shower, pretending Dior and my mother can hear me. If anyone found out I talked to myself inside the bathroom, they would probably call me insane. And while I realize I should stop with that habit, it's the only way I cope with stress and grief.

I clutch her like I’m drowning. Because right now? It feels like I never left that closet — stuck in the dark, holding hope alone while he walks away untouched. And I don’t know how to shut it off. Not yet. But God, I want to try.