Story On Myself Novels & Stories

I gulped nervously when she sat at the edge of the wide bed. "First of all, tell me everything about yourself." She urged in a commanding tone. I felt disappointed that she did not ask how I was feeling. Well...she has done enough, I guess. Telling my story to people close to me puts me in an uncomfortable position, not to mention people that I don't know from anywhere. My life is filled with sadness, and I am not ready to bore people. "I do not know anything about myself other than the fact that I am an orphan," I replied simply.

“I want you tell my story. The good. The sad. The bad. All of it.” “Danica, you don’t have to say anything. I wont tell a soul.” “I know you wouldn’t. Because under that tough guy act, there used to be a sweet guy that I’m hoping is still in there.” He smiled. “Someone made me realize last night that this is my story and my life. I can choose to share it with people or keep it in.” I looked around at the coffee shop. This one place that has given me a little hope and joy for a few days. “But I don’t want to be hidden away anymore. That not who I was and its not who I’m going to be.”

“Being true to yourself despite the pressure.” I stared at him, struck by the simplicity of his words. “That’s…surprisingly insightful for a bar conversation.” “I contain multitudes,” he joked, finishing his drink. “So what’s your story? Beyond escaping bad marriages and disappointing fathers?” “I’m rediscovering who I am,” I admitted. “Five years ago, I fled a horrible situation with nothing but the clothes on my back. What about you? Got any life-altering secrets to share with a stranger in a bar?”

His phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, then at me, frustrated, like the world keeps interrupting the one thing he’s trying not to ruin. He flips it face down without checking. The gesture is so small and so huge that it derails my confession. “I’m tired,” I say instead. “Of being the story everyone else tells.” “Then tell it yourself,” he says. “Start now. With me. Tell me the version that doesn’t make me a savior or a villain. Just a man you used to know.”

A father that she never got to reunite with. But now. Now things were going to change. All my life, I had lived for everyone but myself. This time; This time I was going to focus on myself. No more playing around, no more lies, no more secrets, and especially; No more getting betrayed and treated like a piece of crap. I wiped my tears and let out a breath I did not know I had been holding. Now, The story was going to start and this time; I would write it on my terms.

“Untouchable isn’t quite it. I survived. And today, I want to honor that. Not as proof, not for anyone else—just for myself, and for the people who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.” The boutique seemed to inhale with us, its walls carrying the echoes of every triumph and failure. Every mannequin, every table, every swatch of fabric had a story, and today those stories would be laid bare. I ran my fingers along a worn sketchbook, the pages curling from age, and remembered long nights hunched over these same drawings, tears drying on my cheeks as I wove dreams into thread.

"I don't think so. I just need you both to actually listen, all the way through, before either of you says anything." They exchanged a glance, that old twin language I'd grown so used to reading, and nodded in unison. "I spent five years," I began slowly, "building an entire identity around a single story. The girl who survived. The girl whose savior would someday come find her and make all of it make sense. I didn't realize how small that story actually was until I met both of you and watched it explode into something far bigger, far messier, and considerably more honest than anything I'd ever let myself imagine."

"I'm Thomas. I had an accident before–plastic surgery, memory loss. But I remember everything now. "Dheena, I'm sorry. I know I made you suffer. But none of it was what I wanted. It felt like I was being controlled by something…"

"No one wants to break off their engagement, but I can't stand to see my two star students make each other miserable for the rest of their lives. "Carol, you can't force a relationship to work." Back then, I was too stubborn to listen. "I don't care. I'll make things work out, no matter what I have to do!" The sourness in my heart woke me up. I looked up at Samuel and quickly changed the subject. "Mr. Jones, I've signed up for Doctors Without Borders. "I'm leaving in three days. I came to say goodbye." Samuel saw the tears in my eyes and looked like he wanted to say something comforting, but he stopped himself.

“So, you’re not mad at all?” His fingers still rest on the small of my back, except now they trace little circles that make my skin break out in goosebumps. “No, I’m not mad. You haven’t done anything wrong. I hate anything on the internet only because of the narrative they paint of me. I like how you’re choosing what you’re putting out there and telling your own story the way you want it to be told.” “You’re acting like anyone cares about my story.” His head cocks to the side. “Clearly, tons of people care not only about your story but about you, rebel.” He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes tracking my face before his next words are said in an almost whisper. “I feel the same as them.”