How Bro Felt After Writing That Novels & Stories

For the first time in a long while, I could breathe without feeling like someone would be coming after me anytime soon. Later that night, after the house was quiet and the kids were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with a pen and the journal. I started to write, the words pouring out into the pages from my heart, and when I got to the end, I wrote, “I don’t know if we won.” My hand paused. I thought about the embassy burning, and the bodies left behind. I thought about the people who’d gone through just a fraction of what I’d gone through and had never made it this far. I picked up my pen again.

My thoughts spilled faster than my fingers could keep up, so I paused and then started typing, letting my heart guide my words. Although I didn’t know how to put in words properly, I wrote every single thing I felt after meeting him, pouring my heart out. It felt great to finally tell him that he had made me feel seen, alive, and like I existed in this world too. All thanks to him, I wasn’t Beatrice’s shadow and blood pumping machine for her anymore. My throat tightened as tears burned my eyes, threatening to fall any second. But surprisingly, I felt as light as a feather after sending that long message. Within a minute, the screen lit up again with Cassian’s response.

The tension was too much not to document I told myself it felt wrong not to acknowledge this feelings since I couldn’t tell anyone about it Of course I had friends, but not friends friends that you could really tell things to, so it was more that I was alone with this feeling too good to be true, so of course I wrote. About his voice. About the way he spoke like everything had already happened before and he was just waiting for the world to catch up. About the way he didn’t look at me like I was fragile. About the way my chest felt lighter every time he spoke in class How… oh lord I can’t breathe I wrote about stupid things. Dangerous things. And now they were all staring back at me from the

And I started writing. Everything I remembered. Every second of that night. The yelling. The smell of gas. Jessie’s laughter. Ronnie’s shouting. Nick’s face. Especially that. I wrote until my hand cramped. Until the letters blurred and the paper curled at the edges. When I finally stopped, something inside me felt… not healed, but looser. Less knotted. Writing didn’t fix anything. But maybe it was a start. ⸻ Monday showed up like it always does—too early and too loud.

Emma sat in her Brooklyn apartment three days after the editorial massacre, staring at her laptop screen with the same intensity she might reserve for defusing a bomb. Jake's words echoed in her mind with every attempt to write: "emotionally vacant," "formulaic," "passion by numbers." Each phrase felt like a surgical incision into her professional confidence.

It felt so disgusting to know that I was crushing on my step brother and I got off the hook by writing smut and fantasy the way I wanted him to touch me. Silly stupid things. He laughed then turned to look at me and I was looking everywhere except for his face. I could feel his burning gaze at me and my heart couldn't stop beating so fast. Was it because I was caught? “You like your step brother” I couldn't say a yes, which is admitting to it neither could I say a no pretty obvious my description was pointing to Celeb. Oh gosh! I should have believed my intuition to keep the paperwork behind but I was so stubborn I thought after the game I would go somewhere quiet to complete the story, arr

My notebook lies open on the bed, pages scattered with scrawls that don’t look like journalism anymore. I stare at them, ink smudged by my own fingertips, and realize with a slow rush of shame—and something darker—that I’ve stopped writing articles. I’ve started writing confessions. Entry 1 “Pain is not pain when it’s chosen. It becomes something else. A doorway. A release.” That was Jennifer’s voice echoing in my head tonight. I had scribbled it down after watching her work with Leo, but the words feel like mine now.

Go figure. I paused again. I had been drafting the post in my head for weeks now. I knew it would suck to actually write, but it was going better than I had anticipated. Writing had always been like a type of therapy for me. It allowed me the chance to unwind and exhale and create something beautiful out of something awful. It was no wonder I made a living off of documenting my bad dates, it had always felt natural. Some people have their diary, I had my blog. But it was tricky nonetheless. I still had too much emotion to accurately convey in writing. I was looking for the best way to detail the aftermath of our breakup without sounding like I was throwing myself my own personal pity-party.

I missed feeling seen without being watched. I paused, surprised by the ache that followed. I wrote again. I’m tired of being careful. The pen moved faster now, my hand loosening as if it had been waiting for permission. I wrote about the sound of the water outside. About the way the quiet didn’t feel threatening here. About how strange it was to sit alone and not feel lonely. And then without meaning to, I wrote his name. I froze. The letters stared back at me, unmistakable. Aiden.

I know this is just a letter you’ll never see, but I need your approval. As I sat in front of the typewriter, I took a moment to reflect on the letter I had been writing. I stopped typing and read it through from beginning to end. It was a recount of my life story, and as I read, I felt a sense of sadness wash over me. Most of the content was quite gloomy and unfortunate, narrating the loss of my family and the struggles I faced in the years that followed.