You Are The Author Of Your Own Story Novels & Stories

that I haven’t thought about myself. If this were really some W*****d kind of shit I’m in, then there must be something drastic to happen. However, when? What should I do? Yes, I’ve read fanfics about these kinds of stuff. But, I’m not them. I’m just an average human being. There’s nothing outstanding about me… If someone were to read this story, they’ll probably give up on the first few chapters. I mean, who wants to read a story about an introvert finally achieving her dream to escape reality and have something magical to her life?

And for the first time since the fall, I didn’t feel like a ghost walking through someone else’s story. I felt like the author of my own.

But not wanting to just give up, I type again. -’Will Hugh and Yvanna’s happy ending mark the end of my journey in Bonded II?’- I hit send, then wait anxiously. And then, the reply comes. -’Isn't that what you want - for them to have a happy ending together? But it's up to you if you change your mind. Remember, you're now the author. You can do whatever you like with its plot. Goodluck.’- A stiff breath draws out of me as my shoulders slump. With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I know that I’m anything but ready. In fact, I’m terrified.

I read through the final draft one more time before sending it to Rebecca's team for publication, my hands steady despite the magnitude of what I was about to release into the world. "Ready," Jake asked, watching me hover over the send button. "Ready," I confirmed, and pressed it before I could second-guess myself any further, understanding that whatever came next, I'd finally told my own story, in my own words, controlled entirely by me for the first time since a lawyer had first read a will aloud in a room full of strangers who'd already decided who I was before I'd said a single word in my own defense. Amara texted me the next morning, before I'd even had a chance to check how the essay w

I can’t possibly change everything about me overnight. I once read something in a required reading novel that I don’t fully remember but the important parts stuck with me: ‘You are who you are at your core, it got you this far. If you’re happy, fucking own it. Own that power. Use it to leave your mark on the world and leave something behind. If you’re not happy, own that ten times harder so you don’t repeat your regrets.’

It is one of the bravest things a person can do. If Aurora can choose to take one step back from the edge, maybe today you can choose one small step too. Drink some water. Take a shower. Open the curtains. Text someone. Stay. Please stay. There are people who haven’t met you yet, memories you haven’t made yet, and versions of yourself you haven’t had the chance to become. Your story is still being written. And I truly hope you’re here to see every chapter. With love, —The Author ❤️

"Why are you telling me this?" "Because I want you to understand." His father leaned forward. The blanket pooled around his waist. "You can't win. Every move you make, I'll be three steps ahead. Every time you think you're safe, I'll find a new way to hurt you. I will burn your entire life to the ground before I let you walk away from me."

“You really did it. This is all you.” Her words stayed with me, echoing in my mind as I sat at my desk, penning down my author’s note. I didn’t know what the future would bring. I didn’t know if Andreas would ever be a part of it again. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be—figuring things out, writing my own story. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

A slow smile pulled at my lips as I began walking down the street, my steps unhurried, my mind already moving past the rejection and into something far more productive. ‘She thinks this ends here.’ It didn’t. It never did. Because the moment she handed me that manuscript, the moment she trusted me with her story, it stopped being just hers. Stories didn’t belong to the people who lived them. They belonged to the people who knew how to tell them. And I was very good at that. I slipped my phone out of my pocket as I walked, my thumb unlocking the screen with ease, my gaze scanning through a series of messages, notifications, numbers, all of it noise until I landed on the one thing that actuall

“You were never meant to be small, Lila. That’s why your story is already pissing people off.” Her words stick to my bones. “You have two options,” she continues. “Let them control your narrative. Or write it yourself.” I glance down at the barely touched drink. “I don’t even know what to say. How to fix this.” She smirks. “You don’t fix a lie. You outlive it.”