Novel & Cerita My Memoir

I imagined her replying. "I mean it." "I know." --- The waves crashed. The stars shone. And somewhere in the garden, under the fig tree, Celeste rested. Not because she was gone. Because she'd taught me that the memoir is not about what you did — it's about who you became. And I had become someone worth remembering. End of Chapter 198

***Suho’s POV*** November 4, 2005 I started writing because I was happy. Today, I only write to feel amidst the depression. Exactly a year has passed. Ever since that day, November 4, 2004, my love vanished in thin air. But every detail was still vivid in my mind like it merely happened yesterday. The truth was it’s a memoir that should have perished like the seafoam. Yet, for some reason, the waves kept pushing back these foam to the shore.

I noticed the corner of the white page peeking out from beneath the door and reached over to grab onto it. It was the page she had written on. A wave of relief washed over me. I walked over to the desk in my room, sat down and started sorting out all the pages into their original order. None of them were numbered, so I had to read over the research and figure out which page came next. My photogenic memory served as an advantage in the situation.

I don't know what I would do if she didn't remember me or remember what we stood for. I still don't even understand why all of this happened. Why she was taken away from me in the first place and given back to me. It felt like torture. An unending torture that would never end. I didn't have many enemies, and the ones I did have should have died by now. What I didn't know was that our enemies were lurking closer then I would have ever thought they would be. Our answers would come sooner then I ever thought. I just prayed to the gods above that I wouldn't lose her again.

I ate, slept, and lived alone, not thinking of her once. That convinced me that I was over it until insomnia hit me, relentless and unforgiving. Sleep evaded me night after night. I turned to pills, hoarding them until one desperate evening, I downed the entire bottle with a chaser of whiskey. There was no sharp pain, just a numb emptiness, like life had lost all meaning. As my consciousness faded, I dreamed of her for the first time since she'd left. It was snowing, the cold biting deep. Nora appeared as her 17-year-old self, draping a red jacket over my shoulders. "How are you still such a mess at your age? Take care of yourself."

He was quiet. “I used to take memories apart when they were too heavy to hold whole,” I said. “I would go through them piece by piece. The safe house was one of those.” “Why piece by piece,” he said. “Because held together it was too much,” I said. “Six minutes. The window. No jacket. Three kilometres of forest in November.” My voice was not quite steady anymore. “That one I could not hold whole. I had to break it into pieces to get through it.”

"Not bad, Chrissy. You've got a way with words - vivid, economical, yet brimming with life between the lines." My assessment hung in the pregnant pause as I permitted the faintest of smirks to grace my lips. Chris seemed to wilt a bit under the weight of my pointed stare before squaring his narrow shoulders in a visible effort to bolster his confidence. "I've never attempted a memoir or biographical account before," he admitted honestly. "But I recognized immediately that your story requires an unflinching honesty - an absence of artifice or punches pulled." There was an earnest intensity simmering in his warm brown eyes that drew me in despite myself. He meant what he said, I could taste it

Not just for herself, but for countless others who had endured shadows like hers. Her memoir, Shards into Stars, had taken two years to write and just two weeks to rocket to the top of bestseller lists. People read it not for the scandal, it barely lingered on Ethan’s cruelty, but for its marrow-deep honesty about survival, about the way broken things could be remade without pretending the cracks didn’t exist.

Chapter two: I wasn't always this fabulous. Once upon a time, I was just a scared little girl, drowning in a sea of cruelty and indifference. I know it might be hard to believe. Growing up, I was the target of relentless bullying and ridicule. Day in and day out, I endured the torment of my peers, their mocking laughter etched into my soul like a scar that would never fade.

As the pain overwhelmed me an image broke into my mind. A memory of a diary.