Story My Life Meaning Novels & Stories

Killian is coming in from the garden with soil on his hands. And I am sitting at the kitchen table writing the last line of the story that began on a dark street thirteen years ago, the story that was supposed to be about finding a savior and turned out to be about finding something considerably more durable. Myself. And the people I chose. And the life we built together, one honest decision at a time, until the building was simply the shape of being alive. This. All of this. Entirely, unmistakably, without apology or caveat or remainder.

On purpose. I had grown up with a story. A simple ugly story about a fire and bad wiring and a building that was too old and too cheap to survive it. I had grieved that story. I had carried it for ten years and built a whole life on top of it the way you built on top of rubble when there was nothing else to build on. And now someone had just walked up and told me the rubble wasn't rubble. That it had been placed there deliberately. By someone who was Still Alive. Still reachable. Still somewhere in the same world I was standing in. I pressed my fingers flat against my knee and breathed.

It would be: “To live. To choose. To write your own story.” I closed my eyes, hand over Ronan’s, over our pup. “This time,” I whispered into the dark, more to myself than anyone else, “I’m not just surviving the story. I’m authoring it.” The little heartbeat under my palm kicked once more, like a period at the end of a sentence. Done.

I whispered, "or if we just ran from one problem into a much bigger one." He gave a faint, humorless smile. "Story of our lives."

I smile "Yeah, so to while away time. I have a story to tell you. A real life story." "Sweet..." I laugh, eager to hear the story she wants to tell. "Whose story is it? Yours?" I jokingly ask "Yes. It's my story." My eyebrows arch with surprise. I wasn't expecting her to share her life story with me. I thought it would be about someone she knew. "Really?" "Yes, really. Didn't I tell you I'm quite an interesting person to get to know?... The story is about myself and the only man that I've ever loved in all the years that I've spent on earth."

For years, Timothee thought that everyone was the main character of their own lives. That even when things seemed boring from time to time, every single person in the world would always have stories to tell about their lives. After all, writers tend to only write the parts in a story that were interesting. No one wanted to read about the mundane parts of the character’s life in detail. And that was when she realized that it was just like her case as well. A lot of things had happened. Good and bad things. Maybe she was in a story as well? That was a thought that would always make her smile.

I've learned that it's better to tell people as little as possible about my life before. I once told my entire story to a random stranger, a woman who shared a meal with me on the street, and she laughed at me the whole time. I would never forget her words, “They hef places fer people like yeh.” “People like me?” I asked. “Ya. People that live in fantasylands like yeh do. Yah shed go there. They will hep yah.” “Miss?” Glover said, pulling me from the past. “I asked if you’d be all right with a cold meal. It’s a warm day, and-”

"Moving on implies leaving something behind. Moving forward means you carry everything it cost you and walk forward anyway. I did not go back because I could not leave. I went back as a completely free woman with something powerful enough in her hands to make the trip worth taking." She looked at me for a long moment. "One last question," she said. "What do you want people to take from your story?" I thought about it genuinely, the way I thought about everything that mattered. That you can be wide awake at a birthday table set for two,” I said, “watching candles burn down to nothing around you, calling a number that never goes through, and then seeing photographs of him at a private dinner w

She uttered. I shrugged and asked, "What is it?" She flew right in front of my eyes and acted like a different person. Maybe she was trying to portray the lady she was talking about, "At least my life is meaningful. I have a lot of stories to tell my children, if I will be blessed to live for a much longer time and have my own child, or if it happens that I'm too unlucky to fulfill that, then you could do that for me." It's true that however hard life hits you, there will always be a certain person who finds living more difficult than you. Someone who struggles more than you do.