Obsession With Beauty Mga Nobela at Kwento

“Yes.” “You knew I was going to research you and prepare to betray you.” “Yes.” “And you hired me anyway.” “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t need me to survive. You’d survive without me. You’d survive without anyone.” He reached up and touched her face like he was remembering what skin felt like. “And the moment I realized that, I understood I was going to lose my mind if you left.” She understood, in that moment, what obsession actually meant. It wasn’t passion. It wasn’t love in any traditional sense. It was the recognition that someone could exist without you and choosing to make them your reason to exist anyway.

He has my soul, I know and I myself gave it him. No matter how far I go away, my beast will find me and cage me in his arms always and forever. - Advika, The Beauty. Obsessed is a word the lazy use to describe the dedicated. — Siddharth, The Beast. ******

9Maya. I’d never been like this before. Not with anyone. Not with myself. Obsession felt like a sickness, something I couldn’t shake, something that turned my days into endless waiting, my nights into hours spent staring at the ceiling, aching and empty and full of wild, helpless want.

She looked into his eyes and when he have her attention, he slowly wiped away the makeup that was on her face. The tears that was in the corner of her eyes had stopped. She no longer felt the need to cry. When he said, “Because to me, you are already so beautiful…” Slowly and gently as he wipe her face clean, taking his time, being careful without rushing, and then he said. “With or without makeup.”

She saw herself as ordinary, without any special beauty, just acceptable. But whenever her face appeared from behind her silver strands of hair, eyes corrupted by filthy desire turned toward her, a predator’s gaze toward prey. So she had to lower her fringe over half her face and use makeup to make her appearance more ordinary. And finally, the harassing looks and attempts at flirting decreased. Today she was at her small sweets kiosk. She would turn nineteen tomorrow, so she decided to make a small cake for herself at the end of the day. While she was distracted, she felt a pull on her skirt.

“I should probably make at least one responsible decision tonight.” “That sounds boring.” I smiled faintly despite myself before tying the robe around my waist. My gaze drifted downstairs through the glass overlooking the club floor again. The dancers moved confidently beneath the dim lights while people watched them like art. “You like watching them,” Reed noticed. “I think I like what it represents.” “And what’s that?” I leaned lightly against the window. “Control. Freedom." I missed feeling wanted because I chose it. Not because someone claimed me. Working here suddenly didn’t sound crazy anymore.

The beautiful and the ugly parts. How did he do it so easily? He must be sipping a high dose of obsession.... with himself. He paused. Then, somehow reading my thoughts, he added with a smirk, “You think I’m a sick, narcissistic bastard.” But isn’t that what he was? “Isn’t that what this is? An excessive obsession with yourself.” There was a bit of anger in my tone and I couldn’t help it. Who the hell has mirrors in half the square meter of their room? Who builds a shrine to their own reflection?

I didn’t want to but I did as every frame was her, every angle, flawless, and every shot well calculated. “God,” she murmured, leaning forward slightly. “I look beautiful,” she committed. My hands curled into fists as my breath so heavy. “Yes,” she continued, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “Every angle, every shot. It’s almost like they couldn’t get enough of me.” I swallowed hard because all I could think about was ruining that beauty and erasing that smile from her face. Breaking that confidence piece by piece until she remembered exactly who she belonged to. “You are obsessed with yourself,” I muttered silently, trying to control myself.

Instead, my thoughts circled her, over and over, a tempest I couldn’t calm. It started small. A missed call. A delayed response. A signature I didn’t double-check. Normally, I was meticulous—flawless. Every decision precise, every movement calculated. But obsession doesn’t ask permission. Desire doesn’t respect schedules, priorities, or logic. By the time I noticed, the first cracks had already appeared.