I Like Myself Book Novels & Stories

I would have to sell myself without sounding like I was in love with myself, like Marco just did. "You do love yourself," Molly said. "Like I should. Do I need to be insecure to make people like me? No, I am a great person. But I can love myself and still show interest in other people. I might be a bit arrogant and bratty, but I am not selfish, and I don’t think the world revolves around me. I know who I am." Molly seemed to agree, because she didn’t reply. Or she didn’t agree and was in no mood to argue?

And she did all, with the help of the man who had fallen in love with her. I couldn't wait to get home and start reading it, so I opened it up and began. The book somehow... seemed to resonate with me, well, for the most part. My dad was awesome, and I love him, but I get Isabella. She struggles to find the good in things and doubts her every move because she is yet to learn to trust and love herself. The more I read the first pages, the more I forgot everything around me, zoning out and delving into the book.

Chapter 1 Death Does Become Us My name is Arabella Smith, and I sorta died today. Don’t surprise me with my luck. It’s just a shame it’s a day before my thirtieth birthday. They say only the good die young but I think thats a load of crap. why don’t we start back when my bad luck started, bout three weeks ago, when i caught my boyfriend of six years cheating. *three weeks ago*

I told mumbled to myself. Opening the lid their were couple of journals not just one and each book had its own name, the first book I held was named ' new me ' I couldn't help but chuckle at the things my twelve year old self has written inside and the weird designs made it look contrasting. ' My love life ' was written in an Italian font with heart stickers and love quotes in either sides, I didn't realised I stopped breathing exhaling all the air I've had it in me I opened it. Tears gathered in my eyes but I didn't bother wiping them away. The seventeen year old me was madly in love.

And I wish I can do something to make their lives better. There is absolutely nothing interesting in my life as of the moment. Seriously, I am not pathetic to go after Samuel. I don't think that I need a fucking love life. My life has been great without him. I just have to focus my energy in something more productive with my life. I decided to work on a new book and I think it's going to be great. And I think I am out for fucking blood. I want to write a story about a stalker who kills people he thinks is going to ruin his perfect love story. This would book will not be a walk in the park so I need help from my editor.

A few elders chuckle, nodding approvingly as if they've seen this kind of potion mishap before. For the first time in my life, I stand out liberated and not terrified. I'm beginning to believe there's a reason Mum gave Grandma's recipe book to me, and I can't help but wonder what my future looks like with this magic book. I can already feel its magic working in me. “I love myself,” I whisper on my way back home. Tomorrow, I'm going to try out another recipe.

Everyone talked freely, and the mood was lively. As I looked around at the smiling faces, I felt a sense of relief and freedom I'd never known before. For the first time since I was ten, I laughed without any defenses. Even in those years I was in love with Morgan, I'd never been this joyful. Back then, I was always anxious. I was convinced his love was too surreal to be true. Now, I'd finally found myself. I'd finally understood that love had to be self-sustaining. I couldn't keep begging for it from others.

"No. It's fine. Take it. And when you're done, come back and pick another one. Or stay here and read if you prefer." "Thank you." "Why do you like these kinds of books?" He handed it back to me. I thought about lying but something about the way he was looking at me made me want to tell the truth. Or at least part of it. "I like stories where people choose their own path. Where they're not trapped by circumstances or fate. Where they get to decide who they want to be." He studied me for a long moment. "What other kinds of books do you like?" "History. Adventure. Mysteries. Anything really."

Perhaps it was for the best. Actually, it was good that they weren't here, as it saved me a lot of trouble. In the last few days I had left, I could quietly erase every trace of myself from this house. 12 days before leaving the country, I burned the little notebook where I had recorded my family's preferences and tastes to ashes. From now on, I would never have to study them so carefully again. Seven days before leaving, I permanently deleted the dozens of gigabytes of rare music resources I had collected for William from my computer.

Boring, predictable, exactly what I'd expect from a man who treated feelings like a liability. A leather-bound book sat tucked behind a row of finance texts on the lowest shelf. I pulled it out without thinking much about it. The cover had no title. Just worn leather, soft from years of handling, a small dent across the spine like it had been dropped a hundred times and picked back up just as many. I opened it. My own face stared back at me. Page after page. My jaw, my hands, the curve of my neck, details I didn't even know anyone had noticed about me, let alone bothered to capture in pencil with this much care.