Now that Twisted Obsession has stepped into the world, I've found myself lingering in the silence it left behind.
It's strange—how something can consume so much of you for so long... then leave a hollow space when it's finally released. I thought I'd feel relief. Closure, maybe. But what I felt, instead, was anxiety. Who would read it? What would they think? Was it too dark, too fractured? Was I?
There was a time, while proofreading the first draft, when I nearly buried the entire story. It wandered so deep into the abyss, I wasn't sure anyone would follow it. It wasn't calling to me anymore. But the characters—they called. They clawed their way back. Guided me. Changed the ending. And, in doing so, saved the story.
Damien's spiral was the hardest thing I've ever written. Not because of how far he fell, but because I had to pull him back without wrapping it in fantasy. Rose had to respond not with blind devotion, but with something achingly human. That balance... it nearly broke me.
The scene that hit the hardest came later—when Damien realized he did love Rose, and that it might have been too late. (Or was it? I'll let you decide.)
Funny enough, the one who surprised me the most was Michael. He was supposed to work against Damien. A quiet antagonist. But instead... he became Damien's anchor. The still point in a storm only Michael understood.
There are pieces of me scattered throughout the book—Rose's longing to be seen and still please, her writing, her doubt. But the final chapter? The power shift there? That's me, too. The side most don't see.
And yet—despite the darkness, despite the broken edges—I hope this story whispers something to those who read it. That even the most twisted love stories can find healing... if both parties are willing to bleed for it. That messy people aren't unworthy. That the past doesn't get to write your ending—you do.
Twisted Obsession reminded me that no matter how lost I feel, there is always someone still standing beside me, even if I forget to look. For me, it's my husband. For you... maybe someone you don't expect.
To the version of me who began this journey, I'd say: Don't give up. The characters know what they're doing.
And to you, dear reader, I'd say this:
Hold space for the flawed. Listen deeper. Keep an open heart. And if you find a happy ending—fight for it.
Always.
—Áille Róis
Dear Future Me,
You've always known how to feel deeply. Even when you didn't have the words for it yet. Back then, it was poems scrawled into notebooks—little places to hold the things no one else could see. Sometimes it was sadness. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes it was the kind of love no one else understood: for a song, for a moment, for the shape of trees against a fading sky. It wasn't perfect. But it was honest. And it was yours.
You never wrote for applause. You write to breathe. But somewhere along the way, someone asked you to read it. And then someone else. And for the first time, you wondered if maybe what poured from your pain could mean something to someone else, too. That maybe you weren't alone in how deeply you felt the world.
It took you years to get here. Decades. And still, you're healing. You always will be. That's not weakness. That's the truth of surviving things no one should have had to endure. The weight of depression. The echo of anxiety. The shadowed fingerprints of trauma. But you've learned: healing doesn't mean forgetting. It means carrying the truth of it with strength, not shame.
You've also learned something else. Something darker. Something deeper. That inside every person lives a shadow. A hunger. A truth they don't always want to admit. Poe knew it. You do, too. That darkness isn't evil—it's human. It's part of you. And you've stopped running from it.
So if the world turns against you again—and it will, sometimes—remember this:
You don't have to become what others expect to survive.
You just have to keep being who you are.
Because that is strength.
You don't need their permission. You never did.
And even if your hands are shaking, you're still writing.
That means you're still here.
With ink-stained resilience,
—You