Story Draft Novels & Stories

I'll spend a lot of time plotting it so that it can be a better story than the rest. Please do support my other works here! It'll be amazing to see your feedback. Thanks again for the support! Love Tea tae

I will love to know which characters are your favorite. This story is the first draft and will surely be revised and edited. Thank you once again.

Layla seemed to understand and tried to comfort her, “Honestly, they’re all the same. While I was abroad for a while, my husband found someone else, too. “But the funny thing is, he pretended to be poor the whole time. He was terrified that the woman would only want him for his money. “He’s actually a CEO, yet he ate cheap takeout with her every day. I actually felt sorry for him.” My mother forced a smile and asked, “Really? What ended up happening to that woman?” Layla shrugged. “I think she had a daughter. He had fake wedding papers made for her. She’s probably stuck in some rundown place now. “She’s quite pitiful, too, honestly. My husband even told her he was some kind of undercover age

Thank goodness. He pulled out a neatly bound folder, sliding it across the table. “Here. The draft of the play concept.” Instant relief washed over me. This was casual Work. Something normal that I could tackle. I opened it, expecting a monotone boring first draft as usual. But… oh. Justin launched into a pitch with surprising intensity, outlining a love story filled with modern twists and emotional beats. A young couple separated by ambition, passion, betrayal—things young people were drawn to. He talked with his hands, his eyes lighting up, voice rising and falling like he’d practiced this forever. Or even lived through his characters lives.

“Then maybe that’s your answer.” Later that night, Ryan stood by his window. The streetlights blurred in the distance. His inbox pinged again a reply from L. Tansey, offering a call. He didn’t answer yet. Instead, he opened a blank page. And he typed: “A Story That Doesn’t Belong To You” by Ryan Calloway He stared at the title for a long moment. Then under it, he wrote: “This isn’t a story about revenge. It’s about reclaiming.” Two weeks later.

“Make ‘em slow down. Make ‘em look. Make ‘em wonder.” Bob shook his head, but he was smiling. “You lot. Never do anything simple.” After he left, we sat in a comfortable silence, the kind that needs no filling. Arthur broke it. “You realize what we’ve done, don’t you? We’ve moved from writing the story, to building the story, to now… landscaping the story. We’re curators of our own legend.” “It’s a nice legend,” Chloe said. “Has a good ending. Everyone’s employed. No one’s getting sued.”

It was the faceless sketch Matteo had once drawn after regaining his sight. Back then, he had brushed it off as just a random doodle. She had thought it was beautiful but didn't think much of it. But now, looking at Rebecca, she finally understood who had been in that drawing. This wasn't a case of lost love finding its way back. It was love that had never faded. Evelyn lowered her gaze and turned away in silence. However, before she could leave, Rebecca called out to her. "Ms. Walsh, I heard it's your birthday today. I hope you don't mind me showing up uninvited?"

It was pulsing. "That's not fog," I whispered, a cold dread settling in my gut. "That’s 'The Draught.'" "The what?" Kieran asked, his hand going to the hilt of his blade. "It was a discarded concept," I said, my mind racing through the thousands of forum posts I’d read about Author 456’s deleted drafts. "In the early versions of the lore, if a world became 'unstable'—if the lead characters stopped following the plot—the Author would send in the Draught. It’s a narrative erasure. It doesn't kill people; it just... un-exists them. It turns them back into white space."

I'd written asking him out on a date this Saturday. I watched as my note fell to my cream carpet and then back at him. Angry, he spun around, walking away, and as he was about to leap through my window, I said, "I saw you at the carpenter watching me." He paused for a while and then leaped through the window, running through the woods faster than lightning.

“It’s just real now. You made it out. Not just from the cabin. From everything.” I closed my eyes, holding her words close. She was right. It wasn’t running anymore. It was moving forward. My sketchpad sat half-open in the seat pocket in front of me, a soft charcoal design half-finished—curved lines mimicking pine branches, jagged peaks rising behind, all woven into the structure of a hoodie silhouette. I’d called it Reclamation in the margins. Because that’s what this was. A reclaiming. Of my story. Of our future.