Romans & histoires Myself Stories

I then began to read Amber's blog, words to words. My name Is Amber. I cannot tell you my last name or middle name, unfortunately. My identity, I prefer to keep in discreet. However, my story is what I would like to share with everyone. If you are reading this, I am sure you know of him. But how well you do know him is a better question, I presume. What I am about to tell you is in fact, a true story. As unbelievable it may sound, I want you to keep in mind that with this man, anything is possible.

that I haven’t thought about myself. If this were really some W*****d kind of shit I’m in, then there must be something drastic to happen. However, when? What should I do? Yes, I’ve read fanfics about these kinds of stuff. But, I’m not them. I’m just an average human being. There’s nothing outstanding about me… If someone were to read this story, they’ll probably give up on the first few chapters. I mean, who wants to read a story about an introvert finally achieving her dream to escape reality and have something magical to her life?

I’m not going to have to dodge that storm, and I can skip all my recuperating rituals. Tomorrow, I’m quitting my job. Next week, I’m flying back home. Biswa was distraught, when I told him about my decision when he called last night. He couldn’t believe it for a while. “What the hell will you do there?” he asked. I remembered Nisim’s insight: For the greatest story-tellers, telling their story is their deepest yearning. It’s their way of life. “I’ll write the second story.” I said. “Second story? When did you write the first one?”

,sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} Calily I never knew my surname. Orphaned at the age of 3, I never got to know my real parents. If there was anything I learnt the hard way, it would be that, ‘life is what you made of it’. I lived as a vulnerable kid while growing up. Moving from foster homes to foster homes, I was never settled. But, I have my story. They say, dead men tell no tales. But I, alive must speak cause this is a privilege since I’m still alive.

My desire here is to share my story. My name is Geena. No, not Gina, that would be normal- my parent's weren't normal, so it had to be Geena. These stories, if you have read them up through now, are the story of my strange journey. The earlier stories and the many that follow will make very clear just how un-normal my life is.

It ran so deep and it was quite unfortunate that mom and I didn't see it sooner. I closed the book, the wall clock ticking a little bit past midnight. I couldn't concentrate anymore. I didn't want to start feeling sorry for myself. Self-pity was like poison. It was one of the most terrible feelings in the world, plus, I would be up early to make and deliver more dresses. The crafting and delivering of dresses was like a calm to my raging nerves. The routine would soothe my mind, and serve as a temporary escape. As I laid on my bed again, Frynn's words echoed in my mind, “Your story is a part of who you are, Mia. It shapes your strengths.”

Caspian’s confession didn't just break the ice in my heart—it shattered the very foundations of my reality. He hadn't just found me in this life. He had hunted through the corridors of time to find the version of me that survived. "You came back for me," I whispered, my voice trembling against his lips.

I believe all love stories are transactions. I give you what you want, and then you give me what I want. “Myself,” I responded. I neither called my family nor my pretty little sister, but sometimes family is pain, and they make you even question your values. “I love myself the most” she nods not satisfied with my answer but never asked another question. She began to have fun, dipping herself in water and coming out from it; she even sank her hair in, looked up to the sky, and allowed the water wave to work its magic.