Never Knew What I Needed Novels & Stories

Needing her. Even if I didn’t know why.

"NEED" "YOU"

Something moving through them that I was learning to read. “I don’t know how to say what I want to say,” he murmured. Careful. Deliberate. The words chosen one by one. “Try,” I said. He looked at me for another moment. Then: “I was built to need,” he said. “That’s what I am. A thing that needs. I’ve always understood that.” He paused. “I didn’t understand that needing could feel like this. Like the needing and the wanting are the same thing. Like I’m not —” he searched, “consuming you. Just close to you.”

Something was wrong. I just didn’t know what yet.

I need to not know a thing. And now I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.

Just as the accurate thing, stated plainly, the way he’d been stating plain things since he’d learned to. “Nobody does,” I said. “That’s rather the point of them.” He looked at me. The open face. “How are you so steady about this.” I thought about it honestly. “I’m not steady,” I said. “I’m familiar with not knowing what comes next. I’ve been not knowing what comes next for six months.” I held his gaze. “I just stopped needing it to be resolved before I could stand in it.” He was quiet for a long moment.

I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. I just knew I was tired of hurting.

I know I never knew my mother since she died giving birth to me, but I knew I needed to sift through her belongings to uncover the remnants of her life and perhaps reignite a piece of myself that felt like something was missing. The question lingered—had my father preserved her things after all this time? I resolved to wait for my father to leave the house, biding my time before I dove into the depths of our home, eager to explore the memories of hidden boxes and pictures. Every second felt like an eternity, not knowing anything about my mother. Still, I knew that finding her belongings could be the first step toward claiming my identity and discovering where I truly belonged.

Too empty inside, too achingly bare. I needed more! I needed--- HIM!

Then back at her. I went back to the cabin. I am not someone who needs to witness every conversation. I had learned this about myself at Cliff's End — that the version of me who had spent five years managing other people's perceptions had been allergic to not knowing things, because not knowing things felt like losing control of a narrative. The version of me now was learning to distinguish between things I needed to know and things I wanted to know because the wanting was anxiety rather than necessity. I went inside. I made dinner. I ate it.