I Pick Up This Broken Pieces Novels & Stories

It still wasn’t enough. I wasn’t done. I wasn’t nearly done. I started grabbing everything I could reach—my perfume tray, the vase from Santorini, my designer candle holders, the antique books I kept by the window seat. One by one, I sent them flying. The sharp cracks of broken things were the only thing holding me together. If I didn’t break them, I would break myself. I was already breaking. I was already broken. And then I saw it—half-buried beneath the scattered pillows, tipped over on its side. The old frame. I didn’t remember keeping it. I didn’t even remember placing it there. But it found me anyway.

And mixed up with all of this was a murder case, a drive-by shooting (with a rubber bullet, but a shooting nonetheless), a baby on the way, and a few broken hearts. She hadn't even noticed that her head had begun to hurt again, and she wanted to go lay down, but she didn't want to leave the broken glass lying all over the floor. So she grabbed a broom and began to sweep it up. The broken fragments scraped the wooden floor, and Charlotte couldn't help but think that she was metaphorically also picking up the pieces of her fragmented life.

It had taken me a whole month to finish it. Every detail was filled with my hopes for our future. Now, it was covered in a layer of dust. No one cared. Just like our relationship. I walked over and picked up the sculpture. I lifted it high, then smashed it onto the floor. CRACK! Crystalline fragments scattered everywhere, glittering in the dark. Just like my shattered heart. My phone buzzed. A new notification from the pack's internal channel. Isabella had posted a video. I didn't want to watch it, but curiosity won.

I stopped in the last five steps of the stairs when I saw Wright playing his guitar while sitting on the one sitter sofa. "Let me hold you for the last time, it's the last chance to feel again. But you broke me, now I can't feel anything. When I love you it's so untrue, I can't even convince myself. When I'm speaking it's the voice of someone else. Oh, it tears me up, I tried to hold on but it hurts too much. I tried to forgive but it's not enough, to make it all okay. " "Can't sleep?" I winced when he spoke.

On our eighth anniversary, my boyfriend, Liam Daniels, dragged me along to plan his marriage proposal. That exact morning, my pregnancy test came back positive. Outwardly, I teased him for ruining the surprise. Privately, I called everyone I knew to brag. My parents wept over the phone, saying time flew by too fast. My best friend, Mia Kyle, promised to beat him up if he ever stepped out of line. Even my older sister, Sarah Davis, choked up, swearing she would be there no matter how busy work got. On the big night, I wore the white dress Liam bought me. When I stepped into the venue, I realized the proposal had been transformed into a full wedding reception. I watched Liam Daniels

But Calvin’s presence was reminding her of something she had nearly forgotten: Love did not have to be naïve. Trust did not have to be blind. And hope — fragile as it felt — was not weakness. It was strength choosing to risk again. She walked to the mirror, studying her reflection. No longer the woman shattered by headlines. No longer the woman building walls out of fear. But a woman who had survived — and was daring to feel again. Her phone vibrated softly. Calvin: “Goodnight, Mia. Thank you for today.” She smiled before replying. Mia: “Goodnight, Calvin.”

In his time as a True Crime writer, Byron had interviewed many people, many of them disturbed or troubled in some way. In these interviews, he would often run up against what he called The Breakdown, to the point where, due to the pressures of telling him their story a person would hit an unknown well of feelings and just… shut down, usually in a maelstrom of tears. They always recovered but it was at a point that Byron always hated, even dreaded.

Adrian's POV The photographs slipped from my trembling fingers, scattering across the polished wooden floor like broken pieces of a life I no longer recognized. The room fell silent. No. Not silent. The sound of my breathing echoed through the mansion. Ragged. Uneven. Painfully loud. The half-empty glass of Scotch remained forgotten in my hand before it slowly slid from my grip, crashing against the marble floor. Amber liquid spread across the white surface with glittering shards of glass, but I didn't even flinch.

I want to know if it was the same thing from a time before. “It’s called Piece.” “It’s a piece.” I knew it. That figure that looks like a puzzle piece is Piece. I know it doesn’t make any sense at all calling that piece a Piece. It’s weird, but that girl I knew before is weird enough to call her dog Doug.

I had no interest in picking the stupid call. I grabbed some tissue, wrapped the phone carefully, and set it on the floor. The cold tiles felt hard under my heel. I raised my foot slowly, then brought it down hard. The screen cracked loudly with a sharp sound. I stepped again. Harder. The glass shattered more. I twisted my heel slowly, making sure it looked like a real accident. The phone looked ruined. Perfect. I picked up the broken phone. The screen was full of cracks. I breathed hard a few times to look panicked. Then I walked back to the table, holding the damaged phone in my hand.