Novel & Cerita Romance Novels That Will Make You Cry

Then I called Rose and asked her to bring me a glass of juice. She came in minutes later, smiling softly as she handed me the glass. I gave her a quiet thank you before turning back to my book. The pages pulled me in fast. It was a romance novel, and God—the tension in it was so high, I felt like I was living through every line. The characters were aching for each other, and I don’t know... maybe it was the way the words danced, or maybe it was just the loneliness creeping back in—but I found myself wishing I was the girl in the story.

he interrupted. “Stop following me Jax,” I commanded establishing my authority changing the conversation because at the end of the day he was just a massive fan of mine. “No, I want recommendations on books, preferably the slow burns with two people trying to fight their connection when they were soulmates from the moment they met but they were blind.” I know what he was doing. He was trying to describe our romance but ours was a tragedy, not a romance in my books anyway. I huffed annoyed and played his game, by saying “I would recommend Birthday Girl by Penelo-“

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The dark sky had been broken up into raindrops which scattered with the sound of gurgling and the distinctive smell of rain. This atmosphere is very fitting with her sad mood, in line with the story of the novel she was reading, Jane Eyre. Although in her heart she intended not to read the book, because the book was highly recommended by Diana, the woman who was a thorn in her love story. However, Kat couldn't help herself. She keep read it and couldn't stop. She arrived at the part where the main character in the story failed from an imminent wedding ceremony, which only needed to say the wedding vows and was crushed by an unexpected reality.

There wasn't a thing I could do, all the interviewers were frowning at me, waiting for me to leave. I knelt down and erupted into tears, I couldn't take it anymore. Everything had been going sideways since morning. Like every other Monday, today had turned out to be even more cursed. "Mondays, Mondays-I curse you, I curse you." I kept on screaming. They were looking at me like I was a comedian, but that didn't stop me. I kept on screaming as their attention and an interview was what I wanted. I removed my shoes and kept on screaming. There is no backing out for me, I was ready to cause a scene if that would be the only way I could get an interview.

It hurt just thinking of it. As tears gathered in my eyes, I dropped my hand from my forehead and went over to my bed. I dropped stomach first and curled my leg then let the tears roll out of my eyes, hitting the bed sheets. I started to cry out, the way I had wanted. My chest tightened, my breath was almost seizing, and my heart hammered fast. I cried for myself and for my delusions for putting me in this place. I cried until my shoulder started to shake and ribs felt lie it wanted to clench me to death. +++++

If you’d told me I could have —’ ‘Pain?’ she said as the lights came on. She blinked at him in the sudden glow of the lamp across the room and two more tears fell from her eyes. “There was no pain. I’m talking about the . . . the glory of it. It was so. . . magnificent.’ ‘Then why were you crying?’ ‘I wasn’t.’ ‘You were.’ He caught a drop of moisture that hung just under the edge of her chin, held it up on the tip of his finger for her to see.

Broken Open Aria I didn’t cry prettily. I want to be clear about that because I’ve read enough books to know that women in stories cry in ways that are somehow still attractive — single tears, trembling lips, quiet dignity. That is not what happened to me on Caden’s couch at eight thirty in the morning. What happened was ugly and loud and completely without warning, the kind of crying that starts somewhere in your chest before your brain has finished processing what triggered it and arrives on your face as a full collapse before you can decide whether to let it.

Camila stepped inside carefully— And froze. The entire room was filled with paintings. Hundreds of them. Every wall. Every corner. Every canvas. All of them painted the same woman. A beautiful blonde girl with large green eyes. Some paintings showed her smiling. Others laughing. Crying. Sleeping. Dancing. There were so many emotions trapped inside each piece that Camila’s chest immediately tightened. Love. Obsession. Heartbreak. Grief. Every single painting screamed pain. Mateo remained near the doorway silently while Camila slowly walked deeper into the room.

And for a minute, I just sit there, glaring at the ceiling like it owes me rent. Then, I glance to my right. And there it is. The only good thing about today. Devil’s Muse. A thick, absolutely sinful romance novel I pulled from the stack of books Janet got from the hospital library. The kind that has zero shame and maximum plot twists. The kind that doesn’t ask me to heal or forgive myself or do the inner work. No. This book asks me to shut up and watch the enemies-to-lovers pair absolutely ruin each other emotionally and then physically—with very vivid, very illegal levels of detail.