How Bro Felt After Writing That Novels & Stories

Your best friend will be there to listen when you are, I am sure. Was that okay? I rewrote it three times, finally just giving up and saying what came to mind. There wasn’t really a reason to be embarrassed or hide my true feelings, because I didn’t know who I was writing with. I just had to make sure nobody would realize I was the one writing the notes. Thankfully, nobody here knew anything about my personal life, so they wouldn’t be able to connect the dots. I hoped.

As for Conrad, in his excitement, he probably felt like the heavens were helping him. [So, what do you think?] [Not bad.] [That's it?] I smiled slightly and had a premium dessert sent out. I would always return favors tenfold. It wasn't a debt to repay, but a lifelong goodwill. And I sent one more text over. [Mr. Reese, perhaps you should strike while the iron is hot.] [Ms. Harmon, have you thought this through?] [Of course.] Since we were already cooperating, I couldn't afford to hesitate on the first move after my rebirth.

To make things fair, he would dedicate the work to God. He took the fountain pen and tried to imitate Alcott's style. He wrote on the piece of paper and looked at the words penned in a slanted manner – God won't be God without any powers. He laughed and cancelled the sentence. He stretched his arms out in front of him and, interlacing his fingers, pushed them out further to loosen his muscles. He felt relieved. It seemed as if the more he followed the way God was leading him, the more he desired to experience his presence. Was he experiencing a special change?

Strange, just a few simple words, yet my chest trembled violently. I heard Xavier’s footsteps approaching. He stood beside me, leaning slightly to read. Then, without a long comment, he said, “Beautiful.” I was surprise. “Beautiful? That’s just a broken sentence.” “Beautiful because it’s honest,” he insisted. I exhaled, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “I forgot what it felt like to write. It turns out it feels frightening and relieving at the same time.” Xavier’s smile was warm. “That’s the sign you’re writing from your heart.”

Cold and functional and completely professional. Day three: The same. Day four: I slowed down. The handwriting changed halfway down the page. Slightly looser. The sentences stopped sounding like a report. I had written about the bridge game and the way he positioned himself two panels back to give me space, and I had written it not as a tactical observation but as something else. Something I had not been managing when I wrote it. I kept reading.

I felt like I was making a difference, like I was helping others to see that they were not alone. As the hours passed, I typed away, the words flowing out of me like a river. I wrote about my healing journey, about the struggles and the triumphs, about the darkness and the light. And as I wrote, I felt a sense of joy and fulfillment that I had never felt before.

All the hurt and pain began to consume me, and it took everything I had to not cry again. I bit my lower lip, trying desperately to keep me together. “You used to tell me that writing fantasy took you out of your reality and placed you somewhere you truly wanted to be. Writing was always separate from the outside world. That includes boy problems,” she continued. I knew she was right; tears pooled in my eyes as I lowered my head shamefully. How did I stray so far from where I was only days ago? I hadn’t even been able to write for Fable magazine; my editor was still waiting on my newest story that I had yet to submit.

But the immediate threat was gone. Thomas was done. And somehow, that felt both like a win and like the emptiest victory I'd ever experienced. That night, I wrote. I wrote about betrayal and trust and what it means to have people who actually fight for you. I wrote about the video and the fallout and Thomas's arrest. I wrote it all raw and real and messy. When I finished, I had 8,000 words of pure catharsis. Mila read it first. "That's good," she said. "That's really good."

“Sometimes writing becomes the room that listens when no one else does.” Her understanding was so gentle it almost hurt. My eyes stung and I looked away from the screen, pretending to shift my mic. She continued, “What were you feeling when you wrote that first scene? The one everyone keeps quoting?”

The lies. My hands moved faster. The words came out sharp. Clear. Direct. I did not stop. I did not think. I just wrote. And when I finally paused, my chest was tight. My eyes were burning. My hands were still shaking. But for the first time since morning, I felt something else too. Not fear. Not shame. Something steadier. Something that did not want to run. I looked at the screen. The cursor blinked at the end of the last sentence. There was more to write. More to say. But I had started. I had put it down. I had made it real.