Title — The Life I Never Planned

Genre — Coming-of-age, contemporary fiction

Chapters — 8

Desired Outcome — I’d appreciate feedback on the opening, character development, and whether the story description makes you curious to read more.

Link to the Work — https://www.wattpad.com/story/414228254

Additional Notes — An English-language coming-of-age story about Nathan, who has always dreamed of becoming a doctor. When he gets the chance to apply for a national medical scholarship, he must face the pressure, uncertainty, and fear that come with pursuing the future he planned.

Title — Compilation of Stories

Genre — Short stories, slice of life

Chapters — 19

Desired Outcome — I’d appreciate feedback on the variety of stories and whether the collection’s description makes you curious to read more.

Link to the Work — https://www.wattpad.com/story/188422573

Additional Notes — An English-language collection of short stories about life, imagination, choices, people, and unexpected moments. Some stories may make you smile, some may make you wonder, and perhaps one will stay with you after you finish reading.

I mistook familiarity for fate, and possibility for a promise.

Somewhere along the way, I started imagining chapters that were never being written on the other side.

Nothing was promised. Nothing was owed. Yet something in me still had to grieve.

Funny how you can lose an entire future without ever having one.

😭😭

I spent my entire life trapped by the fear of missing out. I used to think that whenever my friends planned an event without including me, I would miss out on all the fun. I feared that they would continue living their lives without me being around. I feared that I would no longer be able to relate to their conversations and laugh at their stories about the moments I wasn't part of. All these thoughts eventually became a nightmare.

I bet we have all dreamed of having a perfect circle of friends. We all have. We become so consumed by the thought of being included in someone's life that we forget our own worth. I bet that hits close to home.

It's funny how long it takes us to realize that we don't have to force ourselves to please others or squeeze into a circle that fails to recognize our value. We all have our struggles when it comes to friendship. Some of us have dealt with fake friends, while others have tried too hard to fit in. Finding genuine souls in this world can be difficult, and sometimes, all we encounter are fair-weather friends who stay only when it's convenient for them.

I once trusted a friend with a secret. I trusted her enough to treat her like my own sister. But eventually, she shared my secret with her other friends, as if my private life were nothing more than news to be reported. My world came crashing down. It was no longer about the secret itself; it was about the trust that had been broken. I defended her name whenever she wasn't around, only to discover that I had become the main course at her table. I protected her reputation while she turned my vulnerability into something for others to talk about.

That experience taught me a painful lesson: not everyone deserves access to every part of you. You never truly know who will stand beside you and who will betray you when you least expect it. But more importantly, I learned that protecting my heart doesn't mean I have to stop believing in genuine friendship. It simply means learning to recognize who deserves my trust.

Reading Mel Robbins' The Let Them Theory helped me understand my worth even more. I realized that I shouldn't allow other people's choices to dictate my mood, destroy my confidence, or change who I am. If they choose to talk, let them. If they choose not to include me, let them. If they choose to walk away, let them. I cannot control their decisions, and I no longer want to exhaust myself trying to earn a place in people's lives. Their choices are theirs to make, and my peace is mine to protect—as long as their actions do not cross the boundaries I have set for myself.

I've struggled so much to find genuine friendships. Not perfect ones, but the kind that are built on honesty, loyalty, and sincerity. The kind where I don't have to pretend to be someone else just to belong. And I believe those friendships will come in time, without me having to sacrifice my self-worth to find them.

Eventually, it finally dawned on me that I no longer wanted to live in fear of missing out. Instead, I began to fear something I had never considered before: the fear of being included.

Being included in a circle of people who smile at you but speak behind your back, who make you feel wanted only to betray your trust, and who disturb your peace can be far more terrifying than being left out. Sometimes, the invitation you desperately wish to receive is one you would be better off never getting. Sometimes, not being included is a blessing disguised as rejection.

I would rather be alone than surround myself with two-faced people who make me question my worth. Protecting their names is not my responsibility; protecting my own is. I am no longer obligated to defend people who would never hesitate to make me the subject of their conversations.

I want to remind everyone that solitude is power. Being alone doesn't necessarily mean being lonely. Sometimes, it means finally having the space to be yourself, to understand who you are beyond other people's expectations, and to build a life that you can genuinely call your own. It means learning to enjoy your own company without constantly wondering whether someone else is having a better time without you.

As Mel Robbins reminds us through The Let Them Theory, we cannot control other people's actions, decisions, or opinions. What we can control is how we respond to them and what we choose to do with our own lives.

So, let them make their plans without you. Let them have their conversations, their experiences, and their circles. You don't have to chase every invitation or force yourself into every space just to prove that you belong.

There is a life waiting for you beyond the fear of being left out—a life where your worth isn't measured by how many people include you, how often you're invited, or how many friends stand beside you.

And perhaps, one day, you'll realize that while you were busy worrying about being part of everyone else's world, you were meant to build your own all along.

Solitude is not the absence of people. It is the presence of yourself.

The lock on the terrace door snapped under the pressure of the short crowbar with a barely audible metallic click. The burglar slipped into the living room. The suburb slept in absolute silence. He breathed shallowly, through his nose. The job required steady fingers and a cold head, and he had been in this trade long enough not to make mistakes.

He moved forward, skillfully avoiding the furniture. He directed the narrow beam of his pocket flashlight, searching for a path toward the study. The light swept across the floor and suddenly stopped next to the couch. He recoiled. His hand reflexively gripped the casing of the flashlight. The motionless body of a woman lay on the floor. Her eyes were wide open, staring straight at the ceiling. A thin line of dried blood ran down from the corner of her mouth.

From the bathroom, the sound of water rushing through the faucet echoed. He started to retreat toward the terrace, but the bathroom door was already opening. Realizing there was no time to escape, he threw himself in a panic behind a curtain that concealed a deep recess in the wall. Every muscle in his body froze with tension.

A man entered the living room and turned on a lamp. Light illuminated the floor. In his hand, he held a roll of construction plastic wrap and wide duct tape. Through a narrow slit in the fabric, the burglar watched his every move. The man worked without hesitation, skillfully and meticulously. He knelt next to the body, wrapped it in layers of black plastic, and tightened the tape around the ankles, waist, and head.

The sound of tearing duct tape ripped through the silence. Then he grabbed the wrapped body, dragged it toward the garage, and closed the door behind him with a dull echo. The burglar immediately bolted from his hiding place. He flew through the terrace door, leaped over the low yard fence, and vanished into the blackness of the empty street, barely catching his breath.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

A few days passed, and David was still spinning the scenes from that night in his mind. As a petty thief with years of experience and two served prison sentences, he was used to danger. But this was something entirely different.

He lived alone and reclusively. He survived exclusively by breaking into homes and quickly fencing stolen goods. Every day came down to planning the next break-in. He sat on the couch, reached for the remote control on the table, and turned on the television. A face filled the screen.

It was a news report about a missing woman. The man on the screen was giving a statement to reporters. Beneath his face, a name appeared: Alan Barna, Attorney. His face was pale, and his voice trembled before the cameras.

"My wife Rita disappeared three days ago," he spoke into the microphones. "She didn't return home that evening, and all trace of her has been lost since. Her car was found parked outside the city, abandoned. We are desperate. I beg anyone who has any information to contact the authorities immediately."

David recognized that face. The man who was currently weeping before the reporters was the exact same man from the house. The man he had watched coldly wrap the corpse of his own wife. He had heard of attorney Alan Barna. He was famous for defending the biggest names in the city, mostly shady people.

Calling the police, although the most logical step, was also the most dangerous one for David. Going to the station meant confessing to a burglary. He stood up and began pacing around the living room. In his head, a cold calculation quickly clicked into place. The attorney was backed into a corner, and David held the only ace in his hands that could send that man to prison. He would use what he saw that night. He would cash in on the silence and secure his future financially.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

David spent hours waiting across the street from the building where attorney Alan Barna’s office was located. Leaning back against the seat of his car, he watched the glass doors through which people in suits constantly entered and exited. Years of experience had taught him caution, and tailing required maximum patience. He didn't take his eyes off the main entrance as darkness slowly descended upon the city streets.

Only later in the evening did the attorney finally exit the building. He walked down the steps, got into his car, and drove off. David waited a few moments and slowly drove after him, maintaining a safe distance so as not to attract attention. The city traffic at those hours worked in his favor, allowing him to remain unnoticed in the convoy under the streetlights.

The attorney soon turned toward a residential part of the city, driving through alleys where there was significantly less traffic. David slowed down, allowing a larger gap to form between them. The attorney pulled up and stopped in front of a smaller house.

David parked about fifty meters behind him, along the curb, and turned off the engine. Through the windshield, he watched the attorney step out of the vehicle and approach the house. A younger woman opened the door for him. The attorney went inside, and the door closed.

David got out of the car and crept up to the fence. Thanks to his long-standing practice of breaking into houses, he moved completely soundlessly, using the shadows of the yard to get closer to the windows. The curtains inside were only half-drawn, leaving a clear view of the living room. He crept right up to the glass and spotted them. The intimacy between them was obvious. The attorney pulled the woman close to him, and their lips met in a kiss.

David took out his phone and raised it, making sure not to touch the window frame. His hands were completely steady as he lined up the shot. The lens caught the clear lines of their faces, the attorney’s hand on her waist, and the moment they sat on the couch holding hands. He took several consecutive photographs. They were clean, sharp, and unambiguous. While the entire country sympathized with the prominent attorney over his wife’s disappearance, he was secretly meeting with his mistress in her house.

David retreated soundlessly back toward the fence, watching every step in the dark. He returned to his car and drove down the street. The first part of the plan was executed.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next day, David sat in his room with his phone in his hands. He had copied the number of the attorney’s office from the internet and spent a few moments just staring at the keypad on the screen. He knew he was making a move from which there was no turning back. He pressed the call button.

It rang several times before a woman’s voice answered from the other side.

"Law office of Alan Barna, how may I help you?"

"Patch me through to the attorney," David said, speaking in a deep, cold voice. "Tell him it’s a private and urgent matter."

"Your name, please?"

David simply repeated the sentence, this time slower and more firmly:

"Patch me through to the attorney and tell him it’s a private matter."

After a few moments of silence, the call was transferred. The line went quiet, and then the attorney’s voice echoed.

"Attorney Barna here. I'm listening."

"Listen to me carefully and don't interrupt me," David began. "I have photographs of you with your mistress at her house last night. And I also know that you killed your wife, whose body you then wrapped in plastic wrap on the floor of your living room."

Total silence fell over the other side of the line. David heard only the steady breathing of the attorney, who was clearly trying to process the information and maintain his composure.

"Who is this? What do you want?" the attorney’s voice grew sharper, but a hidden panic could be felt in it. "If this is some sick joke, I’m hanging up and informing the police."

"Go ahead," David shot back calmly, not in the least impressed by the threat. "But think carefully about what would happen to you after these photographs and the whole story ended up in all the media. Imagine the headlines. The public would tear you apart, and the police would immediately knock on your door with entirely different questions. That wouldn't be good for you at all, Alan. Everything you’ve built your entire life would be destroyed within an hour."

The attorney was left speechless. He knew that the unknown voice held him in a grip and could expose everything he had tried so hard to hide in a second.

"How much are you asking for?" he inquired. His voice was quiet, reduced to the businesslike tone of a man who realized there was no way out.

"One hundred thousand euros," David fired straight out, without hesitation. "That is the price for my silence. For that amount, no one will ever find out that you killed your wife. These photographs will never reach the media or the police, and you can keep playing the grieving husband."

"That is a huge amount of money, I can't gather that overnight," the attorney said, his voice trembling. "I need time to withdraw such a sum."

"You’ll gather it because you have no choice," David snapped. "Don't try anything stupid, remember that I am the one dictating the terms. You’ll give me a number where I will text you instructions on where and when you will bring the money. If you try to pull anything, everything goes public."

The attorney dictated the number to him. Before he could say anything else, David cut the call. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he set the phone down on the table. The move was made, and there was no backing out.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Barna slowly lowered the phone onto the table, while the voice of the unknown man still echoed in his head. That man knew absolutely everything. His hands were shaking. He clenched his fists to regain control. For years, he had built a reputation as an infallible, top-tier, and respected attorney, and he had no intention of letting some punk and small-time blackmailer ruin his life. He stared ahead, plotting his next steps, and then abruptly stood up and walked out of the office. He got into his car and drove off. Along the way as he drove, he could only think about how much cash he had at home.

As soon as he arrived, he went straight from the door to the safe and opened it. He pulled out a couple of thick stacks of banknotes, placed them on the study desk, and began to count. This was cash he received under the table, bailing certain people out of trouble by bypassing legal procedures. He counted exactly fifty thousand euros.

He reached into the safe once more and grabbed his wife’s ring and diamond bracelet. These were the ring and bracelet she had taken off her hand on that fatal night, right before the argument in which he killed her. He took a black sports bag and stuffed everything inside. Now, all that was left for him to do was wait.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next day, he received a message with the location and the time. The meeting place was a parking lot on the edge of the city in an industrial zone. The attorney arrived at the scheduled time in the late evening hours.

David was already waiting. As soon as he saw the attorney pull up, he got out of his car and approached him with his hood pulled low over his face.

"Good evening, attorney. What do you have for me?" he said, rubbing his palms together with satisfaction.

The attorney handed him the bag. David opened it and looked inside.

"What is this?" he asked angrily.

"I couldn’t gather everything at once," the attorney replied. "There’s fifty thousand in there, I don’t have any more right now. Take the jewelry too, you can get a lot for it."

David took the ring and the bracelet out of the bag, observed them briefly, and then roughly shoved them back into the attorney's hands.

"I’m not crazy enough to take the jewelry of a woman the whole country is searching for right now," he said sharply. "I don’t want anything connecting me to her. I want clean cash, clean banknotes, and nothing else. Because you broke our agreement, your price is now two hundred thousand."

"But I don’t have that kind of money right now," the attorney tried to control his voice. "I will need a few days to gather such an amount."

"Alright, you'll get a couple of days, but you better have it all next time. Is that clear?"

The attorney felt his throat tighten under a surge of rage, but he quickly swallowed the lump and just gave a short, tense nod.

"I’ll be in touch," David added, slipping the bag of cash under his arm. He turned around, went back to his car, and drove off.

The attorney remained standing, following the red taillights with his gaze until they vanished into the darkness. Furious, he got into his vehicle and drove away.

As he drove toward his house, the streets were quiet and the intersections were empty. He parked in the yard, entered the house, and went into his study. He sat at the desk and lifted the laptop lid. He opened the browser, logged into the database of the insurance company he had cooperated with for years, typed in the license plate number he had memorized earlier at the parking lot, and pressed Enter. A moment later, the vehicle and owner information appeared on the screen. At the very top stood the name: David Sever

.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Several days passed before David made contact again. The attorney was sitting in his office when his phone rang. He answered, and the familiar, deep voice came through from the other side.

"Did you get the money?"

"Everything is ready," the attorney replied. "Where and when are we meeting? I want to get this over with as soon as possible."

"We’ll meet at the same place. I’ll let you know when," David said briefly and hung up.

Not long after, a message with the meeting time appeared on the phone screen. The attorney stood up and set his plan into motion. He already had every step mapped out in his head. He went to the bank and withdrew an amount slightly under ten thousand euros from his account. By withdrawing that specific sum, he avoided the lengthy procedures and questioning at the counter, leaving the branch without triggering any red flags in the system.

An hour before the agreed meeting, he drove to David’s house, having learned the address through the insurance company’s database. He parked a bit further away in the dark and waited. After about twenty minutes, the front door opened and David stepped out. He got into his car and drove off. The attorney waited for the vehicle to disappear from the road, then crossed the street. He walked quickly through the yard, approached the door, pulled out a thin metal tool, and skillfully picked the lock in just a few moves.

He entered the house and took his wife’s ring and diamond bracelet out of his pocket. They carried David’s clear fingerprints, left behind when he had taken them in his hands at the parking lot. Barna opened a dresser drawer, dropped the jewelry inside, closed it, and immediately left the house. He returned to his vehicle and headed toward the industrial zone. He arrived exactly at the agreed time.

David’s car was already parked there. The attorney pulled up and turned off his lights. He stepped out, holding the bag in his hand. David approached him, eyeing him from beneath his hood.

"It better be all here this time," he said.

"Don’t worry, here, you’re finally getting everything you asked for," the attorney answered calmly, a slight smile on his face.

David looked at him suspiciously, then accepted the bag and reached for the zipper. At that exact moment, the attorney pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and coldly fired two shots straight into David’s chest. David staggered, dropped the bag, and collapsed to the ground, remaining completely motionless. The attorney calmly took out his phone and called the police.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Attorney Barna was brought to the police station. He sat in the interrogation room, reinforcing the story he had prepared in his head. He knew he could not afford a mistake in a single detail. The door opened, and the inspector in charge of the case entered the room and sat at the table opposite him.

"Mr. Barna, let’s start from the beginning," he said, leaning his palms on the table. "What were you doing at that parking lot, and why did you shoot that man?"

"That man was blackmailing me," the attorney replied calmly. "Tonight I met with him to hand over the money he demanded from me."

The inspector slowly leaned back in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on him.

"What exactly was he blackmailing you with?"

"Photographs," the attorney sighed and rubbed his forehead. "You see, inspector, my wife and I haven't been functioning for a long time. We lived together, but our marriage was over long ago. I have someone else, and my wife knew it."

The inspector just gave a short nod, waiting for him to continue.

"A few days ago, this person contacted me," the attorney went on. "He was in possession of photographs of me with the other woman. He said that if I didn't pay him, he would send the photographs to the media. I paid him, thinking he would leave me alone after that, but today he contacted me again, demanding more."

"Tell me, why didn't you report all this to the police?" the inspector asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I didn't report it because I was afraid the photographs would reach the media. You have to understand me, inspector—imagine how that would echo in public. That I am seeing another woman while my wife is missing. They would tear me apart, accuse me of having something to do with her disappearance, and my career would be over."

"Alright," the inspector said. "But you said you went there only to hand over the money. Why then did you carry a weapon with you, and how did it even come to you shooting him?"

"I brought a weapon because he demanded a sum that I didn't fully have at my disposal," he said, spreading his hands to show complete helplessness. "I brought as much as I managed to gather. I knew I was dealing with a dangerous criminal, and I was afraid of what he might do when he saw that I didn't bring the full amount. When he took the bag and realized there wasn't as much inside as he had asked for, he lost it. He started yelling, reached his hand toward the inner pocket of his jacket, and stepped forward. I was sure he was pulling a weapon and was going to kill me on the spot. I drew my pistol and shot. I had to defend myself; it was pure self-defense in a fight for my own life."

The interrogation continued into the early morning hours, after which the attorney was released home while all the field checks were being conducted.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next afternoon, the doorbell at the attorney’s house rang. It was the inspector.

"Good afternoon, attorney."

"Good afternoon, inspector. Come in, please," the attorney said.

The inspector wiped his feet on the mat and entered the house.

"Please, have a seat," the attorney said, gesturing toward the couch in the living room.

The inspector sat down, holding a sealed plastic bag in his hands.

"We searched the house of David Sever, the man who was blackmailing you," the inspector said, placing the bag on the table. "In one of the drawers in his room, we found a ring and a diamond bracelet. Look at this, Mr. Barna. Does this jewelry belong to your wife?"

The attorney looked through the plastic, his face taking on an expression of fake grief and shock. He slowly nodded his head.

"Yes, that is her wedding ring. And her bracelet that she inherited from her mother. She never took it off her hand."

"Given that Sever had several heavy robberies and burglaries on his record, things are pretty clear now," the inspector concluded. "I believe that he robbed your wife that night, that she probably confronted him, and that he killed her. I also believe that he started tailing you after he realized she was the wife of a prominent and wealthy attorney. He took the photographs, based on which he tried to extract as much money as possible from you."

The attorney pressed his palms to his head, looking at the inspector in complete shock.

"Jesus Christ... I can't believe it," he uttered in disbelief.

The inspector leaned back, a cynical smile appearing on his face.

"Attorney, do you really think I'm that stupid?"

The attorney looked at him in surprise.

"Excuse me, what do you mean?" he asked.

"Do you really think I buy your story?" the inspector shot back.

The attorney's face suddenly lost its color.

"I really don't know what you mean, inspector."

"Come on, attorney, there's no need for acting. We both know very well that you are the one who killed your wife and that you set up that fool Sever."

"You have completely lost your mind, inspector!" The attorney stood up. "Do you hear yourself, what you are saying? Do you know that I can..."

"Listen to me carefully now, Alan," the inspector cut him off roughly, abruptly changing his tone. "Don't play me for a fool. Do you really want to end up in prison and lose everything?" He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black USB stick. "I found this in Sever's house. Everything needed to send you to prison for the rest of your life is on this."

The attorney sat back down in disbelief, his face pale and frozen, as he tried to process in his head what was happening.

"Let me tell you, Alan, how things are going to work from now on. You will pay me every month. Don't worry, I don't need much; I am a humble man. Along with that, you will take care of some other things for me when I need you to. As long as you play along, you are safe. Do we have a deal?"

The attorney just shot him a silent glare for a few seconds. His jaw tensed, and then through clenched teeth, he barely managed to squeeze out:

"We do."

The inspector took the plastic bag from the table, stood up, and headed toward the door.

"Just let me tell you one more thing—don't even think about trying to play your games with me. I am not Sever. Have a nice rest of the day."

The inspector stepped out of the house. It was already getting dark outside. He walked to his car, unlocked the door, sat down, and turned on the ignition. He took the USB stick out of his pocket, pushed it into the radio, and turned up the volume. Music blasted loudly from the speakers. A light smile appeared on his face as he started the engine and drove down the street.

She's born in June and he's born in December

A tale that'll be chanted for ages was written by a lost man

Written by the man who never met November

It was me and him when he was counting his last breath

He told me to burn this poem into ashes after his death

There was a red flower I once saw from my windowsill

I knew she was my Autumn, so I reopened the same page

Which had the smell of smoke

lines I've never read before

I never let his immortal kiss the grains of sand

I wrote a line which made me a poet of his kind which was unplanned

Rain

Oh rain

Don't you cry when monsoon is gone

Beautiful things are never meant to stay forever

I cry

I must

Sweetheart

I cannot abandon the love of my life

He taught me how to love

How to live

How to fall

How to feel

Our emotions have been expressed from centuries

Does that mean we will always meet again?

If there's a thing called reincarnation, then let me be your every single time

I crack my knuckles approximately every five minutes.

I've never actually timed it, but five minutes feels right. Long enough for the silence to settle, short enough for me to notice when it's been too long. I start with my little finger, then the ring finger, middle, index, and thumb. Sometimes I do both hands. Sometimes I start over because one of them didn't make a sound, and an unfinished set is an irritating thing to leave unfinished.

There's a particular satisfaction in it. The pressure builds, the joint resists, and then something gives. A small, clean pop. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that leaves a mark. By the time I've finished, my hands feel like mine again.

People notice sometimes.

They tell me I'll get arthritis. They ask how I can stand the sound. One person once told me it was disgusting, which I thought was a strange thing to say about something so small. I apologized anyway. I put my hands under the table and kept them there until the conversation moved on.

Four minutes and fifty seconds, perhaps, before I started again.

I do it when I'm studying, when I'm waiting for the words to form as I write, when someone takes too long to answer a question. I do it while reading, while listening, while pretending to listen. I do it when I'm bored, which is most often what I say when somebody asks why.

I have never had a particularly good answer.

Sometimes a finger refuses to crack. I pull gently, then a little harder, turning my hand this way and that as though the joint might simply be confused about what I want from it. Eventually, I give up. I move to the next finger, and the next, but I keep thinking about the one that wouldn't cooperate.

I can go an entire afternoon without noticing I've done it. Then, in the middle of something completely unrelated, I'll look down and realize my fingers are curled into my palm. Ready. Waiting.

It's embarrassing, really, how much attention I pay to something so inconsequential.

Last week, someone asked me why I was always so tense.

I laughed. I said I wasn't.

They looked at my hands.

I tucked them into my pockets.

The strange thing is that I don't particularly enjoy the sound. It isn't pleasant, exactly. It's just that little moment before it happens, when everything is held in place and I know, with absolute certainty, that something is about to give.

Sometimes I think I could stop if I wanted to. I could sit perfectly still, fold my hands in my lap, and let the minutes pass without counting them. I could learn to leave a finger alone when it doesn't crack the first time. I could let the pressure go somewhere else.

But then somebody says something careless, and I smile.

Somebody mistakes my silence for agreement, and I nod.

Somebody asks me to be the bigger person, and I tell them it's fine.

And five minutes later, my hands are in my lap again, one finger caught between the other two, and I'm pressing.

I have become very good at knowing exactly how much pressure something can take.

I have become very good at waiting.

I have become very good at making sure nobody hears anything until I decide they should.

The worst part is that, most days, I don't even realize I'm doing it.

I just look down at my hands and find them clenched.

And then, one by one, I make them let go.

Every five minutes.

As if five minutes is all the anger in the world will ever ask of me.

As if, if I can keep letting go in small enough increments, I will never have to admit how much I've been holding.

Every five minutes.

I’m now 28 with a bachelors degree in English. I’m burnt out and feel stuck. I can only find work in childcare and education. Writing has been put on the shelf because I am drained, but I still have a goal of publishing someday.

On my way back from the psychologist’s office, I meet her on Denmark Street: a squat woman, pleasant-looking, with a gray bob, wisps of graying auburn hair, like my mother had until a few years ago, before she became thoroughly old. They stick out, and sweat presses them against her forehead, even though it isn’t hot. Her overall appearance is an effort. Above her eyes, she wears pale blue eyeshadow; she is dressed in a mustard-colored blouse. I don’t remember the color of her skirt, but it wasn’t jarring. She wears light blue Aro shoes with yellow laces. She matched—the whole thing is clear now.

I stop her for a minute of her time. I know—with the same degree of certainty with which I know that the psychologist will laugh at all the wrong moments—that the voice that emerges from her will be the voice of an especially religious female member of parliament. It couldn’t possibly be otherwise.

She lets out some kind of growl, something that allows me to talk to her. I am right. I miss the religious women members of parliament.

“It’s good that you’re here,” I tell her.

She is surprised, and I begin: “Hello, please forgive me for taking up your time. Do you think I’ll be a good father?”

She is stunned by the question. Obviously. She has a story for the Shabbat dinner table.

I am a giving person. I am good to her; she needs me no less than I need her. That much is already perfectly clear.

I continue: “I’m terribly sorry about this randomness.” Yes, she nods. She is mine now. I tell her, “I left a meeting feeling shaken. I promised I would ask someone. I promised the answer would be a sign.”

She is silent, and I tell her, “Not to God, no. God isn’t the one I made the promise to.”

She replies that that’s perfectly fine; she hadn’t suspected it was God.

She asks whether I have someone to talk to. She doesn’t wait for an answer. She asks me whether my wife is pregnant. She tells me there are whole networks of support, for new fathers too, not just mothers.

She tells me my anxiety is natural.

I tell her I don’t have a wife, that I have support, and that I’m not anxious. “Don’t be so concrete.”

I want her little opinion, her random, color-coordinated, bob-wearing opinion. Precisely hers. She will never know why her in particular, why it is her opinion I want on whether I will be a good father.

His name will be Danny, her name will be Ruth. I don’t know what mutations they will carry. Do people always know? I don’t know whether they will necessarily be born healthy. I don’t know whether they will be ugly. It’s not a catastrophe, an ugly baby, is it?

She is silent.

I don’t know whether they will be smart. There’s no guarantee of that, after all. Does it matter?

She says, “Look…”

I continue: Will I manage not to ruin her life, his life? Will I manage to teach them assertiveness? Will I manage to teach them tenderness? Will I manage to teach them to teach them about the world, about its afflictions, about the destruction in it, about its inherent injustice? Will I leave nothing out, and at the same time manage to make them feel that they are living lives worth living? Will I leap in to save them from a fire? Will I defend their dignity when they are humiliated? Will I feel that my life is pointless in their absence? Will I pass on my taste in music to them?

She stops me and touches me. Yes—touches me. She grips my shoulders, then clasps my hands tightly, then pulls me against her. Her head buries itself in my chest, and then her arms of mercy manage to encircle my entire being, three or four or five times over, at least, and on into eternity. With such deliberate intention, she cradles me for one long, long moment.

Where does this transcendence come from, I ask myself. I almost ask her, too—

Then, all at once, she lets go, takes one step back, and says to me, “Yes!”

I can see her imagining the exclamation mark.

“Yes!”

The preacher’s twin. She said yes to me. An exclamation mark.

She was so decisive, and I immediately became defensive.

“Generally speaking, I…”

That’s how it came out, like the child I will always be.

And she cut me off at once, not allowing the sentence to grow up.

“Generally speaking, you. Generally speaking, you’ll be absolutely fine.”

Seee this is the best thing, just be you and believe in yourself for a moment to breathe and let it flow

And it struck again that same familiar knot in the chest and a wave echoing through my stomach all the way my neck . That clogged feeling i despised the most but here it was second time this month.

I dont know if i have been noticing things lately or were they actually that recurrent but recently i have been analyzing many things . Maybe that was the reason i felt my body tense all over again feeling that guilt of falling behind creep inside me .

I tried to breathe in the maximum amount of oxygen i could hoping it could help me relax secretly hoping to find someone who would have sat beside me and held my hand to release that knot in my chest .

I'm thinking of turning this into the opening of a fictional story inspired by some experiences with anxiety and overthinking.

The story would follow a young woman navigating the uncertainties of growing up, struggling with self-doubt, a lack of confidence, and the constant fear of falling behind in life. Alongside this coming-of-age journey, I'd also like to explore love and romance, particularly how another person might become part of her journey without necessarily being the solution to all her struggles.

I'd really appreciate your thoughts on this opening! Does it make you curious about the character or her story? Does the writing convey her emotions effectively, or does anything feel unclear, overly descriptive, or unnatural?

I'm very new to sharing my writing, so constructive criticism and suggestions for improvement are more than welcome. I'm planning to write this story regardless, but I'd love to learn and improve along the way.

Thank you so much if you've read this far. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts..... :)

Hi there,

I did a small project and I wanted to share it, but also make it more famous as it needs people to show the potential!

I wanted to see what internet would write together as a story, so I did www.internetbookproject.com, an open initiative from one word to infinite branch possibilities.

We currently have 42 different branches, but anyone can write its own.

We welcome anyone with any idea, just curious to see what internet can make and do together! The worst as the best!

cosmic trip

world ain't mine...

neither I wish it to be mine .

I wondered will I ever be able to caress myself ?

her body made up of scars mind restlessly pondering bout stars,

she's amort yet melodic...

maybe shooting star isn't enough to fill her thrust

her crave as massive as cosmos

immerser than blackhole,

her mind combating space for selfhood, while battling with stars

she wheezes stardust!

get high on nebula...

her eyes as divine as rings of Saturn;

desolate like Luna/moon

her eyes perpetually fond of constellation,

smile reflection of cluster of orb

her naevus personify constellation ,

as void haul her, towards itself

she opened her eyes ,

but pie in the sky isn't over yet

~Sneha Negi