We Are Not Ourselves Mga Nobela at Kwento

How can we have a safest journey that will comfort myself, when I don't have any contribution to it? I know I'm sounds selfish, but is there's wrong to have something to proud of? I don't want to feel stupid, not knowing a thing. Until Now, what I do know is that we are not the only one here in the Dream World. In addition to that, we are just an ordinary being and who knows who that group of grown up is, that try to have something by forcing something to their possession? They wouldn't even burned even they cross the rain-firey place, so what there to feel assured about?

Reality bent. Something deeper stirred. And then— They finished the sentence. “—we’re not just us anymore.” The ground beneath them shifted. The air warped. And somewhere beyond everything— Something began to enter back. Not watching. Not waiting. Returning.

Or are we simply looking for someone or something to blame for our predicament? Do you want someone to understand what you're going through? Do you want a partner who will act as a safe haven for you in this intrusive world? Do you want a pair of loving arms to embrace your flaws and accept you as you are? That's the problem: we have a tendency to be overly idealistic to the point where we lose sight of what is realistic. We simply want and expect far too much. We don't ask for anything that you are unable to provide in return. As a result, we must first take care of ourselves and meet our own needs. First and foremost, take care of yourself. First and foremost, have a relationship with your

With that she stood up and left us behind. Am not a beast! Am not a wolf! Those words really hurt me so much. They were like a silver knife as been stubbed into my heart. Why does everyone think that werewolves are beasts!? Why? I blurted out trying to prevent the tears coming down from my eyes.

She looks like a continuation of something long interrupted. Maybe we both are. Whatever is starting here—whatever is remembering itself—we’re part of it. This time, we won’t fail.

I didn’t have to be impressive, or perfect, or polished. Just loved. This is why we started. This is us. Nothing between us except skin. Our bodies don’t lie. Not like words do. Not like promises that don’t hold up under pressure. This is why we’re still going. Because when the world gets too sharp, too loud, too cruel—this is what we come back to. And this isn’t sexual. It’s physical and soul deep. It’s why it’s so hard to walk away. Because the world might not understand us. But here in the dark, in the silence between breaths, we do. Right now, I don’t care about legacy or labels or whether I fit into his world.

But in that moment, I saw the cracks in his armor—the fear, the pain, the love that he had kept buried for so long. "I’m scared too," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. "I’m scared that we’re going to lose ourselves in this... in the baby, in everything. That we’ll wake up one day and realize we don’t even know who we are anymore." Stefan took my hand in his, his fingers gently tightening around mine. "We won’t lose ourselves, Shania. We can’t. But we have to keep working at it, together. We have to keep communicating, keep being honest with each other."

This question became a portal for my emotions to arise, I sat down on the bus station, and tears streams on my cheeks, I know I’m used to having myself, I have been like this for nine years, I have been living—no, I have been surviving the day, I haven’t been able to live, there is an instinct inside me, that always reminded me to be alert, and restless. I’m still a normal person, right? I lift my hand and looked at it, I have been like this; pointless, I don’t trust easily, I prefer to be alone, I hate to draw any attention, I loathe selfish people—but I am one of them. Is this the reason why? Is it because I don’t know where I rooted? Is it because I don’t have anyone to ask to clear who t

The world around me is distorted, like a funhouse mirror reflecting a reality that's not my own. I try to grasp onto something, anything, but everything slips through my fingers like sand. My memories, my identity, my sense of self – all of it is crumbling, leaving me with nothing but a hollow echo that whispers: 'You're not yourself. You're not yourself. You're not yourself.' As I sat in the therapist's office, my mind began to unravel like a thread pulled from a fraying seam. It had been years since this happened, so why did it come back? The last time it happened was years ago! Why? Why? Why? What does this mean now?

It’s like hearing myself speak, even though I can’t recall ever saying these things out loud. “Hmm? You’ll regret it if you let him out.” I spin around to find the source of the voice—and stare at myself. Same face, same build, same eyes… but he’s not me. “Do you understand now?” He steps closer, his expression calm. “We are you, but you are not us. We’re part of who you are, Lev—but you’ve grown beyond what we were forced to be.” “We hold your trauma. All the pain you couldn’t carry on your own.”