The Story I Tell Novels & Stories

[She told him I was their what? “What?” Mercer finally said, clearly thrown. A weak laugh slipped out of me, more of a guilty exhale than anything funny. “I told him that to get closer. You know, like sharing personal stuff. Clearly I overshared. I basically told him our non-existent family story and somehow turned you into a single dad with a tragic backstory. Not my best work. Sorry.” Mercer groaned loud enough I could almost see it. “I’m not even going to ask how you ended up in that conversation.” [Smart decision.]

That’s what the old Sloane would do. I typed one sentence: *I want to tell stories that matter.* Then I deleted it. Because the only story that mattered was the one I couldn’t tell anyone.

Our truth. And I would not let them rewrite my story. Not again.

'Finally, you realize your mistake,' I thought bitterly. "I am a system designed to help you overcome every challenge in this narrative. You've read the entire story, and because you volunteered to change the protagonist's fate—" "I never volunteered for this!" I snapped furiously. Memories flashed before me of my past self, cursing at the story's plot in frustration. True, I had been emotionally overwhelmed, but I never agreed to be pulled into this nightmare. The worst part? I remembered the electroshock collar around my neck, a cruel reminder that speaking against the system's rules would cause unbearable pain.

she pressed. I took a deep breath, a blush creeping up my cheeks. This wasn't just any story; it felt like the beginning of something special, and I wanted to savour every detail. "Well," I began, pausing for dramatic effect, "it all started with a wrong turn..." A collective gasp from my friends sent chills of excitement down my spine. Leaning in closer, I launched into the story, weaving a tale of a chance encounter, an unexpected connection, and a spark that ignited something beautiful in my life.

I laid down too, keeping my face to the level where he was. “Do you have something in particular you want to tell me?” I raised a brow. “No,” he shook his head. “But you might have something to tell me. A story perhaps.” I was quiet for a moment as I dug through my memories, the ones that I had made for the past nine months of my life that I could remember, “I think I have just the right one to tell you.”

“There's nothing to tell,” I replied. “Oh, I'm sure there is. Everyone has a story. I'm very curious to hear yours. If we're going to act as lovers, then we need to know things about each other.” There was no way I was just going to open up my life to him so I decided to give him a quick summary, knowing he wouldn't stop asking if I didn't. “There really isn't much to tell. I'm the youngest of three children and both my parents are dead.”

She pouted. "Mami, I don't care. All I know is I want you to pack our bags before I return." He snapped. "Someone is on his period" She whispered waving hand at the friendly receptionist. After packing the bags up, she opened the curtains. Looking at the busy street, she will miss taking tea while hussain is hugging her behind. She sighed softly, this is not how she wanted her vacation to end. She wanted to leave a memory behind and now all the memory she will leave behind, is that of her husband fighting his brother.

"Thank you very much, talking to you eases the pain I was feeling. I thought I would be alone tonight, but it seems like you also have something to share. Hope to hear you explaining yourself too." "Maybe next time." I simply said. I don't like telling people my story. It was making me cringe and will make my enemies know who I am. "I will look forward to that."

And then I looked at him fully. “The only way I can control this…” I continued slowly, my voice gaining strength with every word, “is to tell my own story.” Understanding flickered across his face. “My version,” I added, my jaw setting slightly, “the truth.” Because if they wanted a story, then I was going to give them one. The real one.