Novel & Cerita I Am Not Okay Book

Now I want to take that life away. “I’m sorry, but it’s time.” I say in my to the book. “You’ve done your job valiantly. I’m sorry you had to endure so much evil. The Menae are safe now. You get to rest.” “What’s on your mind, Kas?” Bronx comes from behind and puts his arm around me. “Part of me feels bad for the book.” I frown, still looking at the grain of the cover. “It’s been through so much torment.”

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Well, I shouldn’t have taken her book that way, but Zayn Usman never asks for permission. It was in my nature to take, and not ask for permission. She will also have to learn to be more receptive towards me. I took a healthy drag of smoke. This shit tastes so good on my tongue, and it calmed my nerves so well. It was just exactly what I needed. I looked back at the book in my hand. Damn it! It was useless, I will have to return it tomorrow morning. I got my feet as I smoked once more, then dropped the book on the table.

My brow furrowed tightly as I tried to catch my breath. Rhea snapped at me, "Glen already apologized. What more do you want?" My silence must have irritated her even more. Her voice rose again, sharper this time. "You just fell in the lake for a minute! It's not like you almost drowned or something. It wasn't that bad. How long are you gonna keep this up?" Someone must've opened the windows, because a cold draft swept through the room. My body tensed, and the chill bit deep, making me hunch over in pain like a shrimp curling in on itself.

Under the streetlight, I caught a glimpse of his eyes—red and tired. I smiled. "No stress. I eat well, sleep well. Of course I've filled out a bit." I used to be barely hanging on—5'7", barely 99 pounds. Back then, I was stuck taking care of him, stewing over how obvious his thing for someone else was. Lost my appetite day after day. Slipped into a mild eating disorder without even realizing. It wasn't until I came to Inglane that I started healing. Started looking—and feeling—like myself again.

I wish I hadn’t let him leave, and he can’t even come to get me because this place does not have a specific door to come in and go out as you like. So many mistakes just in the fucking name of a book. Now, I understand what it means to take one wrong step and get everything ruined. I’m currently in that situation, and I don’t know what to do. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here, and only God knows what waits for me ahead. Maybe Noah will hate me forever. I sink my teeth into my bottom lips to hold the cry that is about to escape all the way from my throat. A fucking ugly cry that would fill a bucket and even more.

Charlotte insisted on doing it herself. “I thought you might like this one,” she said as she handed me the book. “It’s about a man who loses everything. Then…he tries to get it back together little by little.” I glanced at the cover. The title was dramatic. So I said, flatly, “Sounds dramatic.” She let out a short laugh. I never heard someone laugheed like this before. She looked so innocent and pure. Well, she was a budding she-wolf and perhaps still figuring out how the world works.

Inside the Archive, the shelves moved with my breath. I passed by a book bound in velvet dusk. Its title: The First Time You Chose Softness Over Safety. Another: How You Loved When No One Was Looking. I reached for a third. It burned with light before revealing its name: What You Became When You Stopped Trying to Be Understood. I wept then—not from pain, but from reunion. The guide touched my shoulder. “There’s one more,” they said. They led me to a door I hadn’t noticed.

Vincenzo's harsh words still echoed in my ears. I lowered the phone. As the screen went dark, the last flicker of light in my eyes died out completely. I quickly confirmed the appointment at the abortion clinic, one I had found long ago, far from the new dock. This time, I would make a clean break with him and with the twelve years of obsession I had clung to. I turned and walked away from the dock. The evening wind, carrying the smell of salt and fish, swept across my cheeks. Yet, its warmth couldn't reach the chill deep in my heart.

Clare, from the publisher, near the door the professional excitement of an editor at a first launch, the satisfaction of someone who had worked on something and could see it completed. I stood at the podium and looked at all of them. At the room. At the two hundred people who had gathered because a man named Emmanuel Okoye had been wrongfully destroyed and his daughter had refused to let it be the last word. I had notes. I did not use them. “My father’s name was Emmanuel Okoye,” I said. “It’s also the title of this book, which is the truest thing I could have put on the cover.” The room was very still.