Excerpt
Not him ,not now
I met him on a Wednesday. It wasn’t anything special — a rainy day, a crowded café, and two people reaching for the same book at the little bookshelf by the counter. I laughed awkwardly. He smiled like it was the start of something. Maybe it was. His name was Zayan. Soft voice. Deep eyes. The kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention — it earns it. We started talking that day… and we didn’t stop for weeks. --- Right Person, Wrong Time It felt too good to be real. He listened in a way most people don’t anymore — like my words had weight. He asked questions that made me think. He never interrupted. He remembered little things — my favorite song, my coffee order, the way I hated loud places but loved thunderstorms. I should’ve fallen for him. And maybe I did. Quietly. But here’s the truth no one tells you about love: > Sometimes, the timing ruins everything. --- I Was Still Healing A few months before Zayan, I had been through a heartbreak that cracked me open. It wasn’t loud or dramatic — it was the kind of break that leaves you questioning your worth in the silence. I had built walls after that. Quiet, invisible ones. Walls made of independence and sarcasm and “I’m fine.” When Zayan walked into my life, I was still trying to remember who I was without the pain. He deserved someone whole. I was still gathering my pieces. --- He Waited… For a While Zayan never pressured me. He was patient. Gentle. Always there, but never demanding. He’d say, > “You don’t have to rush anything. I’ll walk at your pace.” But even patience has limits. Even the kindest hearts get tired of waiting in the hallway of someone else’s healing. One night, we sat on the rooftop of my apartment building — a quiet place where the stars felt close enough to touch. He looked at me and asked softly: > “Do you see a future with me? Honestly?” I looked away. Not because I didn’t feel something — but because I did. And feeling it made it worse. --- The Answer I Couldn’t Say In my head, I was screaming: > Yes. I want to. But I don’t trust myself to love anyone right now. I don’t want to bleed on you from wounds someone else left. I’m scared that I’ll ruin you just by letting you get too close. But out loud, I only said: > “Not now.” His eyes didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. But I saw it — the quiet shift. He nodded. Gave a soft smile. Said, > “I understand.” And I knew I had just let something good slip away. --- Not Him. Not Now. After that night, we drifted. Not suddenly — like pages of a book gently closing. He stopped texting first. I stopped overthinking the silence. We didn’t fight. We didn’t say goodbye. We just… faded. And in some strange way, that hurt more. Because we were almost something. And “almost” leaves a different kind of scar. --- Now, Months Later… I still think of him when I hear that song he liked. When I order that same coffee. When I look at the stars. I wonder if he ever knew how much I cared — even if I couldn’t say it. I wonder if he found someone who didn’t hesitate. Someone who didn’t say, “Not him. Not now.” --- What I Learned Love isn’t always about whether you feel something. Sometimes it’s about whether you’re ready to act on it. I wasn’t ready. And in trying to protect him from my brokenness, I broke both of us a little. I thought saying “not now” was a kind way to protect him. But silence hurts too. Gentle endings still bruise. --- Final Thought If I could go back to that night, under that rooftop sky, I think I’d say: > “I don’t know how to love you yet. But I want to learn — if you’ll be patient a little longer.” But I didn’t. And he didn’t wait. Some stories aren’t about happy endings. They’re about moments — beautiful, temporary, real. He was the right person. Just not now. And maybe, not ever.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
Late Summer, Early Fall
Claire found Lessibelle on the porch of the big, two-story home white home. She sat on a bench swing with colorful pillows and a lap blanket thrown across the back. The house overlooked a large plot of land with beautiful trees, always full of leaves, even during the winter. Lesibelle had always found this quite strange, but she had supposed they could be fake. Claire sat in a white rocking chair across from the bench and looked over the land. She doesn't say anything, just sits there, waiting and watching.
By Mak Wintersabout a year ago in Fiction
''In My Mind, A New World''
In my mind, a new world blooms—not with noise and chaos, but with a quiet kind of magic. The kind that lives between thoughts, beneath dreams, and behind every closed eye. This world doesn’t follow the rules of the one we wake to each morning. Gravity isn’t a law, time isn’t a tyrant, and no one has to hide the strange parts of themselves. In my world, strangeness is celebrated. It's the currency of connection. There are cities carved from crystal and rainclouds that float like zeppelins. The skies change color with emotion. If you're sad, the sun softens its light and bathes the world in lavender. If you're angry, the clouds hum with storm-energy—not destructive, but cleansing, like a thunderstorm for the soul. The people here? They're not people, not exactly. Some have wings like ravens, some wear vines instead of clothes. Others are made of flame but never burn. They speak in poems, in pulses of color, or in music only your heart understands. No one lies here. They don’t need to. Vulnerability is strength, not weakness. You don’t armor yourself with sarcasm or politeness. You say what you feel, and the world listens gently. Pain is met with presence. Joy is shared like bread. There’s no money in this world—not in the way we know it. You trade memories, laughter, stories. If someone paints a mural in the town center, you thank them with a song or a secret. Everyone gives. Everyone receives. Balance is natural here, not something we legislate. Animals speak—not with words, but with knowing. A fox might guide you through your fears. A whale might sing you to sleep. Even the trees have voices, whispering ancient lullabies to anyone who dares to sit still long enough to listen. Technology exists here, but not to dominate. It harmonizes. There are floating lanterns that follow you through dark woods. There are mirrors that show you your best self when you’ve forgotten who you are. There are staircases that only appear when you’re truly ready to rise. You don’t age the same way here. Your body reflects your spirit, not your years. If your heart is young, you dance like someone just gave you legs. If you’ve lived deeply, your eyes glow with galaxies. In my mind, the concept of “other” doesn’t exist. Love flows freely—not labeled or boxed. You can love many, or one, or none at all, and still be whole. Identity is fluid. You can change your name with the seasons. You can be moonlit today and wildfire tomorrow. No one asks for explanations. They just witness you. And when grief arrives, as it always must, it is not shamed or hidden. There are temples where you can sit with it. Waters that carry it gently away when you're ready. You’re never told to "move on." You’re asked only to move with it—until it becomes part of your song. This world is not perfect. There is still struggle. But here, struggle doesn’t mean suffering alone. Community is not something you build—it’s something you remember. In my mind, a new world grows like moss on ancient stone. Quiet. Persistent. Alive. And maybe, just maybe, this world doesn’t have to stay only in my mind. Maybe it can leak into the spaces between this world—the real one. Maybe we start with a conversation that feels more like a connection. A look that lingers a little longer. A moment where someone says, “I see you,” and means it. Maybe we build it not with bulldozers and budgets, but with bravery. With imagination. With the audacity to believe that kindness can be more than a gesture—it can be a revolution. Maybe your world looks different than mine. That’s okay. There’s room for all of them. That’s the beauty of a mind that dreams new realities. Every vision is a seed. And every seed is a possible beginning. So tell me: In your mind… What does your new world look like?
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Lost in Prague
Lost in Prague Written by shah Zai “It was supposed to be just a weekend trip.” That’s what Arman kept telling himself as he stood under the faded green dome of Prague’s main train station, holding a dead phone and a crumpled city map. He had wandered too far from his hostel, and now—somewhere between the Old Town Square and the Vltava River—he was completely, utterly lost.
By Moonlit Lettersabout a year ago in Fiction
Eridani Prime Chronicles: Mercy's Shadow Syndicate. Content Warning.
PART : 1 "Shattered Sky" The sun was a blistering, pale orb, obscured by the vast and flickering Solar Shield--Hexodome or Hex, as it came to be called. High above, the illusion of clear blue skies and fluffy white clouds glitched sporadically, revealing the metal panels of the Hex. Below, Ironmarsh surrounded the Eridani Prime Intergalactic Space Station. The city was a mess of rusted buildings and neon lights shrouded in a polluted smog.
By Stephanie Wrightabout a year ago in Fiction
Haunted Rural Settings / Family Homes
We hadn’t spoken of the house in thirteen years. Not since the night it swallowed our mother’s voice. It stood at the edge of a forgotten road, nestled between skeletal trees that leaned in like gossiping neighbors. The air around it always seemed slightly colder, slightly older, like it remembered more than it should. A farmhouse, built by hand and held together by grief.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Hidden Fear
To everyone else, Ali was fearless. He cracked jokes in crowds. Led presentations at work like a pro. Took risks, smiled big, and said things like “Life’s too short to be scared.” But there was one thing no one knew — Ali was living with a fear that he had never spoken out loud. Not because it was silly. Not because it was rare. But because it was the kind of fear you carry in your chest quietly, every single day — the kind that people can’t see, but you never stop feeling. --- The Fear of Not Being Enough Ali’s hidden fear wasn’t about heights, spiders, or the dark. It wasn’t about losing a job or failing a test. It was this: > “What if I’m not enough for the people who love me?” What if, one day, they all realize he’s not as smart, not as funny, not as kind as they think? What if they only like the version of him that performs well — not the one who struggles at 2 a.m. with anxiety and self-doubt? --- The Perfect Son Who Felt Like a Fraud Growing up, Ali had always been “the responsible one.” He got good grades. Helped at home. Never got into trouble. His parents called him “their pride.” His younger siblings looked up to him. Teachers loved him. Friends trusted him. But as the praise piled up, so did the pressure. He felt like he had to keep performing, or he’d disappoint everyone. Even when he was exhausted, he smiled. Even when he was confused, he acted confident. Even when he was falling apart, he kept saying, “I’m good.” He wore his success like armor. But inside, he was terrified someone would see the cracks. --- Anxiety in Disguise You’d never know Ali had anxiety. He went to the gym. Went out with friends. Posted Instagram stories with filters and laughter. But late at night, lying in bed with the lights off, the fear came creeping in like smoke. What if I fail them? What if I can’t keep it together forever? What if they love a version of me that isn’t even real? These thoughts didn’t scream — they whispered. But they never stopped. --- The Moment Everything Broke One night, Ali forgot to mute his phone and a voice note from his boss played out loud in front of his family. “Great job on that project, Ali. You’ve outdone yourself again — honestly, I don’t know how you manage it all.” Everyone smiled. His mother said proudly, “That’s my son.” Ali smiled too — but his hands were shaking under the table. Because the truth was, that project had drained him. He’d worked three nights with barely any sleep. He wasn’t proud — he was exhausted. And he didn’t even like his job anymore. That night, after everyone went to bed, Ali sat on his balcony with tears in his eyes. For the first time, he admitted the truth to himself: > “I’m scared they only love the version of me who keeps winning.” And admitting that felt like taking off a mask he didn’t know he’d been wearing for years. --- The Beginning of Courage The next day, Ali did something he’d never done before. He called his closest friend and said: > “Can I tell you something without you trying to fix it?” The friend said yes. And for twenty minutes, Ali talked. Not like the confident guy everyone knew, but like a human being — tired, overwhelmed, and afraid. His friend didn’t interrupt. He just listened. At the end, he said, > “You know what? I don’t care how ‘perfect’ you are. I love you for being real.” Ali didn’t cry often. But he cried then. --- The Truth About Hidden Fears Everyone has a hidden fear. Some fear rejection. Some fear loneliness. Some fear failure. Some, like Ali, fear not being enough. And the scariest thing about hidden fears isn’t that they exist — it’s that we keep them hidden for so long, they begin to define us. But the moment you speak them out loud… they start to lose power. Because fear thrives in silence — But it shrinks in the light of truth and connection. --- So If You’re Hiding a Fear Right Now… Let this be your reminder: You don’t have to carry it alone. You don’t have to wear a mask just to be loved. You don’t have to pretend to be okay every single day. Speak. Share. Be honest — even just with one person. Because there is strength in admitting fear. And healing doesn’t begin with pretending. It begins with saying: > “This is what I’m afraid of. But I’m ready to face it.” And that — is where courage lives.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Red Masque
SYNOPSIS Ethan and Lyra Rivera were once a loving couple. Lyra is a celebrated soprano and Ethan a musician in her band. These young lovers who were only recently married have been hit by the worst tragedy they can imagine, the death of their beloved three-year-old son Mateo.
By Angela Goldsmith Author @Waterstonesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Red Casket
Synopsis Gabriel Enys is a junior solicitor from London. Still grieving from the death of his beloved mother he is sent by his employer to Bodmin Moor on a fateful assignment to recover the final will and testament of the newly deceased, eccentric and reclusive former occupant.
By Angela Goldsmith Author @Waterstonesabout a year ago in Fiction
