Novel & Cerita How Bro Felt After Writing That

NORA’S POINT OF VIEW. I waited to hear the sound of the shower running before clicking on the document. My nerves spiked, the feel of a burning sensation crawled up my spine, flowing into my cheeks as I settled against the pillows, the bag of chips squelching beside me as I munched on its contents. The glow of my phone in the darkness of the room reminded me of an interrogation area. My eyes loomed over the boring stuff. The commencement, the terms, Master, and submissive, the entire thing about consent, and duty….until I landed on a part that made me feel both hot and cold at the same time.

I put my notebook next to me, I made a grin that I wished looked real. "Thank you." She gave a mug to me. Her eyes quickly looked at the blue book. "Writing again?" I nodded. "A little." "How does it feel?" Thinking for a moment, I answered honestly. "It feels relieving." "But it's exhausting too." A gentle smile spread across her face. "That's normal." "Your brain is figuring out how to open a door that has been shut for a long while." I nodded softly. Luckily, she never asked what I wrote.

“Feelings lie. I won’t.” I lean into his touch. We stay there until the shaking stops. When we leave, I don’t feel cured. But I feel lighter. At home, I collapse on the couch. “That took everything out of me,” I say. “You did good,” Ryder says. “I feel empty.” “That’s okay. Empty can fill again.” Later, I open my notebook. I haven’t written in weeks. My hand hovers over the page. Then I write one sentence. I went back.

He stops after a while. "Rem," I put my hand on the side of his face. "Do you think Bob will like it?" I sent the newest manuscript about Juliet Mathias. Writing about one's life story is harder than writing about someone else's. I got really emotional when I was writing about my parents and my little brother. C.S. Lewis once said that the death of a beloved is an amputation. I truly believe that but I also know that I can learn to live with it. I keep the memories of them close to my heart.

Jordi and I had to separate ways and I would admit, I felt a little bit sad to see him go on a different path than I was. As the day rolled, it’s pretty much difficult for me to write some notes because of what happened to my knuckles. I don’t regret letting all my anger out on that graffiti covered wall but now I have to adjust from the aftermath of my own rage. Writing became so hard and just a few movements on my fingers gives me a stinging sensation.

And I think about him, standing in that observatory, saying words I never thought I’d hear from him. I start typing. Not about the pain, not just about the fear, but about the moments in between. The garden in the late afternoon. The taste of burnt toast and the sound of his laugh. The way it feels to hold someone’s hand and realize you’re not pulling away anymore. It’s not a love letter. It’s just the truth, as I know it right now. When I finish, I sit back and read it once. Then I hit “publish.” For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I don’t feel like I’m writing into a void. I feel like I’m building something. Something that’s mine.

I thought of my baby, insistent and alive. And for the first time in months, the ending didn’t feel like something someone else could export. It felt like something I could write. —End Chapter 34

Skylar's POV I was not sure if seeing Ross and Myron's spirits was real or grief induced hallucination. Part of me wondered if my mind had finally broken under the weight of loss. But I did not care. Real or not it brought comfort. That was all that mattered. I continued writing with renewed energy. The memoir flowed more easily now like someone had unlocked a dam inside me. Words poured onto pages faster than I could process them. The spirits visited occasionally. Always brief. Always gentle. Always encouraging.

He needed to be able to feel them. I decided to think about how he had treated me in the past as I wrote it. It was the fuel I knew I needed to make sure I wrote the perfect message. He had mistreated me. Bullied me. Made fun of me. Used me. I poured out all those feelings onto the paper and when I was done I couldn't help but marvel at the message I had written. It was perfect.

I met Black Crimson in person, and it changed my life. Article or no article, I had to tell this story. It was brewing and bubbling inside me, and as I kept typing, the words kept coming, and it felt really good. It didn’t matter that no one was ever going to read it. This was what I loved to do. And it felt as if I couldn’t move on to find another dream to pursue until I did it. So I continued. I was about halfway through the piece by the time I got off work, and I felt so good about what I’d written that I immediately texted Brick as I walked to my car.