Novel & Cerita Story On Myself

Harper managed to lift her hands and hook them around his neck, her voice barely a whisper. "I want… to go with you…" The profound despair and brokenness in her eyes washed over me, a chilling wave crawling up my entire body. I stood frozen, utterly speechless. Adrian tightened his arm around her with a smirk of triumph and turned to leave. "The money has been transferred to your account. I'll address Harper's injury later." I tried to pursue them, but my feet felt cemented to the ground. Regret and heartbreak surged within me, soaking into the fresh wounds of my soul, making me too unsteady to stand.

He will come again. I didn't know what to do, should I be happy because my other personality came out and now I can get a proper treatment or should I be sad because my other personality has found himself a mate. And I don't know anything about her. I need to go to the bank to get the money my dad sent me. I am working as a freelancer but I am also getting money from my dad because of my expenses and treatment.

Every time, she'd frown deeply and grumble with utter disdain, "You young people, throwing your money around like it's nothing!" However, I didn't miss the way her eyes reddened when she turned away to try them on. By the time the second spring rolled around, my followers across all platforms had officially crossed the ten-million mark. I'd become a highly influential blogger, known for my deeply personal essays on family and emotional wellness. A well-respected local talk show extended me an invitation, which I accepted. On the show, I spoke from an objective point of view about the emotional abuse people suffer from their own families.

“Then why does it feel like the first right thing we’ve done since we ran?” I met his gaze. In the fading light, his face was all stark lines and shadows, the face of the man who had chosen the minefield with me. “Because we’re not just hiding anymore. We’re fighting back with the only thing she can’t buy: our story. Our messy, imperfect, true story.”

Caspian’s confession didn't just break the ice in my heart—it shattered the very foundations of my reality. He hadn't just found me in this life. He had hunted through the corridors of time to find the version of me that survived. "You came back for me," I whispered, my voice trembling against his lips.

Like I was part of something bigger than myself. "You sure?" Axel asked. "I'm sure." "The compound isn't exactly I*******m-worthy." I looked around the simple office. Concrete walls, basic furniture, the smell of leather and motor oil drifting in from the garage. "Maybe that's what I need." --- That evening, I posted my first story. A video of me sitting in what looked like a coffee shop, talking about childhood fears and small-town legends. I mentioned growing up where people believed in monsters. How that shaped your worldview.

“But people are listening.” That hurt more than I wanted to admit. I ended the call and stared at my screen. Messages stacked up. Some are curious. Some are cruel. Some pretend to care. And then there was his name. Ryan. I opened it. You think you can rewrite who you are? People remember, Izzy. I always make sure they do. My hands shook. Not from fear. From anger. I typed back. You don’t own my story anymore. The reply came fast. I own the truth.

She only waited. “Tell me you didn’t barter bits of your soul for money,” she said quietly the moment I sat. Wonky giggle trembled through me. “I may have negotiated with devil, but I refused to sign anonymity.” Without words, she passed me my spice bowl and sat beside me. “So did you hold onto you?” I swallowed. “I kept the last chapter.” She nodded, mouth drawn tight. She knew. That night, I unlocked my laptop and stared at the new document titled: My Story. The cursor blinked patiently, waiting for me to type something. I began to type but each key stroke felt like retrieving pieces of me.

Mom and Dad told me to reflect on why I had spoken to them in such a harsh tone. Previously, I used to be terrified of being locked in here and making a mistake that would disappoint them. But I now understood that I was never the one at fault. It was just that they were used to holding power over me. Lying on the cold floor, I scrolled through funny videos my classmates had shared in the group chat, then fell asleep without a care. I didn't know how much time passed before the ringing of my phone woke me up.

If everything I thought I knew about how we met, how we connected, how we fell, was just another story someone else had written. Tonight I will have dinner with Jonathan, but tomorrow I will decide what to do about Adrian. But right now, in this will, I made myself a promise...No one would write my story for me again. From now on, I will be the one holding the pen. And if that meant burning down every narrative they had constructed around me, every plan they had made, every assumption they had operated under... Then I would strike the match myself.