Pieces Of Me Novels & Stories

Dropped them like he was doing me a favour. I wanted to scream. To break something. To punch the walls until my fists bled. But all I could do was sit there, trapped and shaking, scared out of my goddamn mind. The cuffs bit into my ankles. My wrists stung where they’d been rubbed raw. My throat burned like I’d swallowed broken glass. Pieces. That’s what he said. I kept hearing it. Over and over. Pieces of me. Sent home like a package nobody asked for. I didn’t know how long I sat there, curled into myself like that would make it all go away. The room was still dark. Still cold. Still quiet—except for the sound of my heartbeat, frantic and hollow in my ears.

Every code change was a message. You are replaceable. A trembling laugh bubbled in my chest. Replaceable. Just like my mother said I would always be. I pressed the heel of my palm to my eyes, willing the tears back. Tears were useless now. Weakness was unacceptable. My phone buzzed with a new notification. I lowered my hand and read the alert: @EloiseSinclair: Thank you all for believing in me. For letting my broken pieces find a place to shine. This is just the beginning.

My mind replayed every moment of the day—the roses scattering on the ground, the vows I didn’t mean, the kiss that wasn’t a kiss, the look in Kenneth’s eyes when he said he didn’t choose this either. I thought of the girl I had been before all this. The girl who once dreamed of freedom, of healing, of maybe even love. And I realized that girl was gone. In her place was a woman bound by broken pieces, tied to a man who carried his own shattered past. And I didn’t know if we would destroy each other—or if, somehow, those broken pieces might fit together. But tonight, all I knew was that I wasn’t ready to find out. So I closed my eyes, clutching the pillow like it could keep me whole. And I let

_*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> She will come back to you. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> I had been turning it over since I woke up, holding each piece up to the light the way you held things you were trying to see clearly, and every time I thought I had the shape of it the shape shifted and I was left with the feeling of it instead, enormous and unresolved and sitting in my chest like something that needed more room than I currently had to give it. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3">

I know the exact moment it happened, can replay the microsecond with perfect clarity. But the centerpiece, the physical record, is the shattered tumbler under my chair, the glass that Lucas sacrificed with surgical precision. The largest piece is half a curve, glittering with the residue of my fingerprints. The rest is a small constellation of clear edges and an archipelago of ice chips melting into the carpet.

"I know a lot of people who sell a lot of things." "That's not reassuring." "It's not supposed to be reassuring, it's just true." He shifted the box to one arm. "You know, you never answered my text." "Which one?" "Any of them. Especially the take it back one." "I didn't think it needed an answer." "Everything needs an answer. Even the jokes. Especially the jokes." He faced her sideways. "Why'd you come alone today?" "Because my friends are hungover and busy, and I don't need a chaperone at a parts swap."

"The pieces want to be home, but they get lost. You just have to give them the right sequence. If you miss one turn, the whole cube stays broken. But if you follow the sequence... it’s impossible for it not to work.” For weeks, I’d been viewing my life as a glass vase that has shattered on the floor; I am constantly trying to glue the shards back together into a shape that no longer exists. I thought I needed a miracle, or a drink. But looking at Chris, I realize I was wrong.

Not death. Not destruction. Loss of identity. I closed my eyes briefly. And in that darkness, I could feel it again— All those fragments. All those pieces of me that didn’t quite fit together. All those memories that felt real but incomplete. Was this version of me truly the “real” one? Or just the one that was easiest to live with? When I opened my eyes again, everything felt sharper. Clearer. “I don’t think I was ever just one person,” I said quietly.

MEEKA'S POV:: My voice comes out raw, loud, and pointless, like I'm shouting at the universe for allowing something so small and precious to be destroyed while bigger, uglier things continue to thrive. My eyes sting, but I blink hard until the room comes into focus. I carefully gather the pieces in my palms one by one. The lid, the cylinder, the shattered mirror panel, the carved base—everything. I hold them tightly against my chest. I know it sounds ridiculous for me to be so dramatic. It’s just a box, an object after all.

I growled, my voice laced with Alpha command that made him visibly shudder. "We searched the perimeter at the base of the building again, Alpha. Just as you ordered," Beta Marcus said, his voice hesitant. He kept fidgeting with his hands, trying so hard to avoid eye contact with me. "We brought the expert trackers from the northern borders of Greece too. They— they found something else." I snapped my head toward him, stepping out from behind the desk. "Speak,” I ordered. Beta Marcus pulled a small, clear plastic bag from his coat pocket and held it out with trembling hands. Inside was a jagged piece of fabric torn from the edge of a white dress, soaked heavily in dried, blackening blood.