Who Really Am I Novels & Stories

Run before they tell everuone about you. That was all. I looked up. "What the hell does this mean?" Nobody answered. "What am I?" I looked at Sasha, who looked as blank and confused as I felt. Then I looked at Rowan. "Is this a joke? Some kind of threat? Who are these people and what do they think they know about me?" My voice was climbing and I didn't particularly want to stop it. "Rowan. What do they mean, what I am? I am a person. I am Larry Harding. I am nobody special. What could they possibly—"

I spend the journey with my head on Adrian's shoulder, watching Italy blur into impressionist beauty. "I could get used to this," I admit. "Traveling? Or not working constantly?" "Both. Either. I don't know." I sit up to look at him. "Adrian, what if I don't know who I am when I'm not defined by my work? What if I've built my entire identity around consciousness healing and without it I'm just... empty?" "Then you'd discover you're Hope Whitmore—consciousness mage, Council Elder, absolutely terrible painter, wife who I love desperately, person who deserves to exist for reasons beyond her professional accomplishments."

"Then, then how do I do it?" There was a long pause before the voice spoke again. “Do you really want me to help you?" I clutched my pillow tighter. "Yes." "But you don't even know who I am," he teased. I frowned. "You're right. Which is why you should introduce yourself already! We've been talking like... what, countless times now?" "It's not the right time yet." I pouted. "Why not?" "Because first, you need to master what you are. When you find out who you really are, then I'll tell you who I am."

There was no denying that I was weak. “Shape shifter?” The other me asked in my voice, and that sent a chill through me. It was unnerving, really. He was me! That had never happened to me in all my life. My exact replica. “Who am I? Dear Darius, you know me more than anyone else does. I am you.” “What the hell are you spitting out, shape shifter?”

“Until you stop being who you think you are.” The words hit harder than I expected. “So you’re saying I’m just going to… unravel?” “Not unravel,” she corrected. “Transform.” I shook my head. “No. That’s not—I’m not becoming something else. I’m still me.” “Are you?” she asked softly. “How would you know?” That question lodged itself deep in my mind like a thorn. How would I know? If I had been shaped by forces outside my understanding, then how could I be sure which parts of me were real and which were constructs designed to keep me from becoming something else?

It was the sound of the mask cracking, not dramatically but completely, falling away in pieces that dissolved before they hit the floor of ribs. And beneath the mask, there was not a face. There was a question. The same question that had been asked by every human being who ever looked in a mirror and did not recognize the eyes that looked back. *Who am I when I am not pretending? Who am I when no one is watching? Who am I when the story I tell about myself stops, and the real story starts?

The thing I had been reaching for all along without knowing how to name it. “You don’t see me as a role,” I said softly. “No,” he replied. “I see you as a person who deserves to decide her own shape.” The words undid me. I stood abruptly, needing movement, crossing the room to the window. The night outside was dark and quiet, the estate grounds lit by distant lanterns. Jacob followed but stopped a step behind me. “I feel like I’m disappearing,” I admitted. “Like everyone keeps telling me who I’m supposed to be until I can’t hear myself anymore.”

"‌What do‍ you⁠ want m​e to say? That I​ l⁠iked it?⁠ That I hate myself for‌ liking it? That I don't know‌ who I am​ anymore?" "I wan‌t you to⁠ tell me the truth."⁠ "T⁠he‍ truth is I do⁠n‍'t know w‍hat the tru‍th is‍." I looked at him finally. "‍I do​n't know if I'm lo⁠sing myself‌ or finding myself. I don't know‌ if I'm bre​aking⁠ or be⁠comin​g. I just—" My voic‍e cracked. "I d​on't know."

I stared at the half-empty glass in front of me, the candlelight flickering between us. “I think I’ve spent most of my life building things that made sense to everyone else. A career that looked good on paper. A relationship that looked good in pictures.” I exhaled. “But none of it ever really felt like me.” His jaw tightened, just slightly. “And now?” “Now I’m asking myself who I am without the lies. Without the noise. Without needing to be chosen to feel worthy.” His gaze didn’t flinch. It never did. “Jacqueline,” he said slowly, “you’re not meant to be chosen. You’re meant to be remembered.”

he asked, “Mystery or Cruel or Advocate?” “I want to talk to the real you.” He transformed as he turned to look at me. It was The Old man scientist. “Young man, what is it you want to talk about?” “My life.” I said, “You know me, what do you think of me? Who am I?” “I know too much about you. I know that everything you do is out of pure intentions. That you do wrong for the good course.” he said, “But as someone who knows nothing about you. I think you are a heartless piece of a scam bag!”