Exceed Notebooks Novels & Stories

These snippets of introspection and self-discovery were like tiny seeds, planted in the fertile ground of shared human experience. Yam hadn’t intended the notebook to become a project. It was meant to be a personal outlet, a place to pour out thoughts and feelings that had been bottled up for too long. But as the pages began to fill, people started to notice. They would approach Yam with curiosity and a gentle request: “Can we reply?” “Can we leave something for someone specific?” The notebook had become a beacon, drawing in those who were seeking connection, understanding, or simply a place to leave their own mark.

I saw my team’s face turned pale. I heaved a sigh. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I'm not with myself this week." I admitted. I immediately browse the summary plan of the presentation. "I get their point in this plan. It's good. But maybe instead of me, why not we get Ms. Sheena and instead of 'So in love' we change the copy to 'Made for love' since Ms. Sheena is the designer of Inarez Bag and Mr. Gavin is the owner of Inarez."

Carmilla’s POV It’s well past midnight. My cubicle looked like a battlefield—coffee cups, open files, and half-eaten takeout scattered between color-coded spreadsheets. I rubbed my eyes, forcing myself to focus on the quarterly report Nathan had wanted yesterday. Typical. The man operated on his own timeline—everyone else was just scrambling to keep up. While cross-checking supplier data, a new folder caught my attention. ProcureEx Trading Ltd. I frowned. That name wasn’t on any of the reports I’d compiled earlier. Curious, I clicked it open.

She pulled the weathered black notebook into the exact center of the morning light. The cardboard cover was scuffed at the corners, the edges frayed from the damp weeks she had spent hiding it inside the lining of her coat while relegated to the secondary quarters. This wasn't a sleek piece of aluminum hardware synced to a corporate cloud. It carried no network cards. It had no biometric bypasses that a machine-learning script could mimic or manipulate. It was a completely analog fortress of raw truth.

The seventeenth notebook opened in January. She has been noting this in the annual reviews since the third: how many notebooks have been filled, at what pace, and what the pace says about the year. The seventeenth notebook opened in January and will close, she estimates, in February of next year — a shorter year than most, which means the writing was denser rather than less frequent. The third book required a different kind of attention than the briefs and the annual reviews; the notebook this year has more thinking and less reporting.

We'd love to talk about how we might work together to bring your works to a larger audience. I look forward to hearing from you. Best Regards, Daniel Jones, CEO, Infinity Tech Solutions. My breath caught. "Daniel?" I mumbled while glancing at the television. The man who had unexpectedly shown at my networking event like a rom-com character. That's Daniel. Was he the CEO of a technology company? Why hadn't I realized this sooner? A fluttering sensation appeared in my gut. Butterflies. What's this? * I re-read the email, my words blurring slightly as excitement surged through me. This was not just a compliment; it was an opportunity.

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Then at the cupboard. Then back at the packet. Luna voluntarily ate this. Not once. Not twice. She had an entire fucking shelf dedicated to it. I opened the cupboard. Ramen. Ramen. More ramen. Different flavours. Chicken. Beef. Spicy chicken. Extra spicy chicken. Something called nuclear fire chicken. I picked that one up. Nuclear. Fire. Chicken. Who the fuck approved that name? I turned the packet around. The instructions had a warning symbol. I stared at it.

Not a girl from Brooklyn who used to eat two-dollar pizza slices on a rusty fire escape while he fixed greasy motorcycle engines. I slowly raised my eyes, locking my gaze straight onto Roman. "A match made in heaven," I said aloud, my voice completely steady, directed right at him. "They look like they deserve each other." Roman’s eyes narrowed into dark, dangerous slits. He reached down, grabbed his glass of neat bourbon, and downed the entire thing in one long, sharp swallow. Before the thick tension could snap, Damien stood up at the center of the table. He picked up a silver spoon and tapped it sharply against his crystal champagne flute.

Her left hand slapping her knee. "There's two of us, that's more than enough to sort out the bags." I laughed, calmly grabbing her shoulders, to relax. Cassandra was major OCD when it came to her property, a drink without a coaster, is no drink at all. "Yeah, but you never do it right, you put the Nikes with the JDs, who does that?" She asked incredulously, looking at me with a small smile. I glared at her. "Well then." I muttered, slouching in my seat.