How Bro Felt After Writing That Novels & Stories

I felt a little shaky in my hand as I put the pen tip on the page. I took my time writing the first sentence. I'm scared. It's easy. Bare. Weak. The letters curved under my hand, not straight, but real. I stopped and listened to my own breathing and the quiet rhythm of the house, which had its own secrets. Every word felt like a step toward understanding, like a light shining into a dark corner I had been avoiding for a long time.

I wrote about Jealousy and fear, I wrote about every without-him feeling that gnawed at my bones. Halfway through, my hand shook, but I kept going. When I hit 1,500 words, I collapse back onto the couch, tears threatening. I read it back. It was messy, and not polished, but it was true, and it was how I felt, so I saved it, and put my laptop aside. Just then my phone buzzed, with one text from Noah. The only thing it said was; “I’m sorry.” Just that one text. That was all.

Even when I messed up his hair, he would sulk for half the day. How could someone like him choose to leave this world in such a painful, humiliating way? The moment I got out of the car, I rushed toward the operating room. All the darkness I had buried deep inside me broke through the surface and began to grow wildly. The surgery was already over. Inside the cold operating room, a white sheet covered what was left of my brother. “Maya, don’t be too sad. Nathan loved you so much. If he saw you like this, he wouldn’t be able to rest in peace.”

Not having your opinion on my writing was something that made me feel lonely even in that regard, I never had anyone to support me or say if it was good or bad, so when I started writing about the story that brought me inspiration, regarding the only thing that in the last few days had made me feel something, imagine a story beyond, I didn't think I would have to fear because I knew he wouldn't read it. But I was completely wrong and now I realized that I had dug a much deeper insecurity into Call's chest, I didn't know what to do, I was paralyzed feeling the weight of my emotions and guilt, after what had happened, I held back at the touch of Call, and as he cooked, my mind was consumed wit

I was astounded at first but I felt the urge in me to write whatever my heart wants to shout. I intensely wrote the first sentence and I felt empowered, free, and at peace that's why I continued. Have you ever felt butterflies when someone's staring at you, mesmerized by your mere presence, reflecting through their eyes that you're a dream they are willing to pursue? Have you ever thought of running your fingers through their hair? Have you ever felt care-free and at peace when you're with them? Do you ever just smell an old perfume or hear an old song or pass an old hangout spot and it kinda break your insides for a couple of minutes?

I pulled it from my bag, sat on the edge of my bed, and opened to the first page. Write ten things you like about your spouse. I almost laughed. An hour later... My pen finally stopped moving. I looked down at the page. My fingers had cramped around the pen hours ago, but I never stopped writing Ten things. No. More than ten. I stared at the words I'd written. Then something inside me quietly broke. Because somewhere between the first sentence... ...and the last... I'd realized something terrifying. I didn't hate August…

But now that the cage was gone, the bird found its wings heavy and stiff. He typed a few words: The mountain breathes when the sun hides. He stared at them for ten minutes, then hit backspace until the screen was a blinding, pristine white again. He felt a knot of frustration tightening in his chest. His fingers, once so fluid when he was weaving intricate plots of corporate betrayal or forced romances, now felt like blocks of wood. He was a writer who had lost his ink because the ink had always been drawn from his own blood, and here, in the safety of the mountains, he wasn't bleeding anymore. Or so he tried to convince himself.

I wrote about the night he told me I had miscarried, his voice cold and distant as if the life we’d lost was nothing more than an inconvenience. Tears blurred my vision, splattering across the parchment, but I didn’t stop. The more I wrote, the lighter I felt, as though each word stripped away another layer of the chains he had wrapped around me. My hand ached, my shoulders burned, yet still, I pressed on. Hours passed unnoticed, the moon climbing high in the sky, until finally, I set the quill down and stared at the pages before me. It wasn’t just a confession. It was evidence.

He is nothing but trouble. I thought for a moment through my boredom and decided to open my laptop and start working on my next Chapter, atleast my hobby won't let me down like every body else was doing. Logging into my writer account, I was totally super shocked, the update I had written after Eros had sent those toys to use for masturbation, the update was super trending. Dozens of really nice comments came pouring in like a waterfall like "More please!" ,This is getting good!", "I can't get enough of your writing A.M. Wild, it's super."

I suddenly got the feeling to glance down at my dress, and as I did, I caught my breath. Fatso in red smudged all over my new dress (when? how? My brain could not register how that was humanly possible since the kiss felt like a mere second... not even). I probably overreacted just a bit when I swirled around, stalked towards him, punched him, and turned once more, and without a glance back, I walked home. The end for now and hopefully forever, I don’t like talking about feelings and hate writing about it even more. That is probably the only positive thing of this dawn breaking. It forces me to stop writing and get my buttocks out of bed! Signing off…or whatever.