Obsession With Yourself Novels & Stories

"What are you pretending for? Haven't you been used to this for years?" On one's own lips, those words tasted like bitter humor. On someone else’s, they stripped you of all dignity. After he left, I sat staring at the food in the trash, staring at the emptiness of this house filled with nothing but loneliness. I thought, 'Do I really not understand why my thirty-year-old self wanted a divorce? Or do I just refuse to understand?' That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the journal and the unsigned divorce agreement. My best friend, Hannah Price, had once asked me on the phone, "What exactly is so special about Adrian Halloway? What's made you love him for fifteen years straight?"

These past few days have got me reflecting quite a bit. I’m so desparate to find the good Samaritan to thank her, but Jake and his team have turned up very little information. I suppose it was to be expected with no leads to go on. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. I think about the good Samaritan several times a day. The more I try to remember, and the more I try to recapture that feeling of safety and comfort, the further the memory seems to slip away. It’s starting to become an obsession.

He does scare me but I refuse to show my fear. “And what if that obsession of yours will fade?” I contended, rage illuminating my entire being like a bright white light. I know how obsession works very well, but once that phase will be over. Then, I’m good as nothing but a toy he’s done playing with. And what next? He’ll discard me like I didn’t even exist in the first place. Obsession is a dangerous thing. It can make a person do anything, and by “anything,” I mean the most unbelievable of behaviors.

You see, one thing about the word 'obsession' is that it's not really about the feelings or about the way you can't breathe without them by your side.... that would've been good if that was just about the word... but it's the dark side that comes along with it. It's the insecurities of them leaving you... of them getting tired of you, and when you see them with someone else, it just makes you... it makes you want to kill, want to cage them until all they see is you.

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.

The forbidden sound of it on my lips pushed me over the edge. I came hard, thighs trembling, a sharp cry escaping me as waves of pleasure crashed through my body. My pussy clenched around my fingers, juices coating my hand. I kept stroking through it, drawing it out, imagining him filling me instead, coming deep inside me while he growled my name. When it finally subsided, I lay there panting, staring at the ceiling. This couldn’t keep going like this. The attraction was becoming an obsession. Every day at work was a sweet torture, and every night ended like this-- me, alone, fucking myself while thinking about the one man I could never have.

he'd say. "I don't care," I'd reply. "I could lose everything." "Then lose it." I came hard, biting my lip to keep from making noise, my roommate in the next room completely oblivious to the fact that I was fucking myself to thoughts of my therapist. When I came down, I felt... nothing. No guilt. No shame. Just satisfaction. And the certainty that this was only the beginning. --- Later that night, I did what any self-respecting obsessive would do: I googled him.

“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.

“Now? I probably drink until I forget. Or until I hate him enough to stop caring.” “That doesn’t sound healthy.” I let the silence settle between us. The bar’s dim lights painted shadows on the floor, and my buzz was just strong enough to make everything blur at the edges. I leaned forward again, fingers toying with the condensation on my glass. “You ever get so obsessed with someone,” I murmured, “that it’s not even about them anymore? It’s about how they make you feel. How they pull out the ugliest parts of you, and you still keep crawling back like a sick little dog looking for scraps.”

I dоn’t need іѕ tо ѕреnd аnоthеr mоmеnt оf energy оn ѕоmеоnе whо won’t treat me wеll, but I саn’t hеlр mуѕеlf. Agаіn, I wоndеr аbоut оbѕеѕѕіоn and whу thе tеntасlеѕ rеасh іntо every аѕресt of my lіfе.