family
The Girl Who Could Hear Your Regrets
The Girl Who Could Hear Your Regrets Listening to Unspoken Regrets and Finding Hope in Forgiveness In a small, quiet town nestled between rolling hills and dense forests, there lived a girl named Mira, who possessed a gift unlike any other. From a young age, she could hear the unspoken regrets of those around her — the quiet whispers of what might have been, the silent wishes to turn back time and make different choices. This ability was not something she had asked for, nor something she fully understood. It was a burden and a blessing, a constant murmur in her mind that painted the world in hues of sorrow, hope, and longing.
By Muhammad Asimabout a year ago in Fiction
Kevin’s Kite and the Big Sky Promise
Kevin stood at the edge of the hill, gripping the handle of his bright red kite. The wind tugged playfully at the string, eager to pull it into the sky. The hill was the highest place in town, and the sky above it seemed endless—like it could carry anything, even the heaviest thoughts.
By YOUNG MINDSETabout a year ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Traded His Smile
In the small town of Tumbledown, everyone was always rushing. Cars honked, bicycles zipped by, and people hurried through their days with serious faces. But in the middle of all this busy noise lived a boy named Nico who had a smile so bright it was like a little ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.
By YOUNG MINDSETabout a year ago in Fiction
The Magician
“Jesus, Verone, you’re bleeding again!” Her brother sighed in annoyance. Sitting in front of her brother in the grass area, far from the procession, the little girl’s chubby hands pressed flat on her nose, attempting to stop the red river, flowing rapidly down her nostrils. Her eyes looked sadly as her brother stomped away to get tissues, his coffin shoes getting dirty from the mud.
By Khedesia Knight about a year ago in Fiction
Thirty-Nine Six O’Clocks and Counting. Runner-Up in You Were Never Really Here Challenge.
October 14th This is stupid. Why am I doing this? Yeah-yeah, I know, Dr. Parks said so. Well, she actually said that I should write down everything I’d tell you if you were still here.
By Cristal S.about a year ago in Fiction
Della Brought This Upon Herself
Della stared into the mirror, looking for any mishaps, like a lock of hair sticking out unattractively or a part of her dress bunched up against her stomach. But after seemingly minutes of meticulously searching, Della could only see that her French ponytail was perfect. Her dress wasn’t bunched up at all and fit her body perfectly. She only had mascara on, and it accentuated her eyes wonderfully. She looked great and fit for a ball.
By Rebecca Pattonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Sound of His Silence
My father never said “I love you” out loud. Not once. He wasn’t the type to wrap his arms around you or spill emotions at the dinner table. His love was quiet, sturdy, and often hidden in plain sight — like a warm coat hung near the door on a rainy day, silently waiting for you to notice it was there all along. Growing up, I didn’t quite understand him. Other kids had fathers who cheered from the sidelines or taught them to ride a bike with joyful yells and high-fives. Mine stood back, hands in his pockets, a faint nod replacing a smile, watching in silence. At times, it felt like he was distant — like love lived in the cracks between his words instead of inside them. But love, I’ve learned, wears many forms. And my father’s version wasn’t loud, but it was unshakable. I remember the mornings most clearly. I’d wake up at 5:30 AM for school — not because I was eager, but because he was always up by then. Sitting at the kitchen table, sipping his black coffee, reading the same newspaper like it held the secrets of the universe. He’d already packed my lunch — same sandwich every day, crusts cut off just how I liked. I never asked him to. I never had to. He would hand me the brown paper bag without a word, nod once, then go back to his coffee. That was our morning ritual. No kisses, no “Have a great day,” but I swear his eyes held every word he never said. The closest I ever got to hearing his love was when I failed my math test in tenth grade. I sat at the table, ashamed, avoiding his gaze as I pushed the paper toward him. His eyes scanned the red marks. Then he reached over and flipped the paper upside down. “We try again,” he said simply. That was it. But in those three words, I heard everything: “I believe in you. I’m not disappointed. I love you.” I didn’t say thank you. I couldn’t. There was a lump in my throat too big for words. But he knew. Years passed. I grew older, moved out, and we grew more distant in every sense of the word. Phone calls were rare and brief — updates on the weather, how the car was doing, and if I’d remembered to change my oil. He never asked if I was happy, and I never told him. That wasn’t our language. Then came the day the doctor called. “Stage four. It’s aggressive,” the voice said. Everything inside me stilled. I flew home that night. At the hospital, I sat beside the man who never said “I love you” and held his hand. It felt foreign, wrong even — like I was crossing some invisible line we had kept all our lives. But his fingers wrapped around mine like they were waiting for me. I talked for hours — about my job, my girlfriend, how I still cut the crusts off my sandwiches. He never said much. Just nodded. The occasional “Hmm.” But he never let go of my hand. One night, I brought him his favorite blanket from home. As I tucked it around him, he finally looked at me — really looked — and said, “I never missed a game, you know. I was always there.” I felt the tears sting before they fell. I hadn’t seen him in the bleachers. Not once. But maybe love doesn’t always wave flags or shout your name. Maybe sometimes it sits quietly in the back row, just in case you glance that way. A week later, he was gone. After the funeral, I went back to the house to pack up his things. In the garage, behind a stack of old tools, I found a shoebox. Inside were every report card I ever had, faded photos from every game, and a small cassette player with a single tape labeled: “For when you need me.” My hands trembled as I pressed play. There was a pause. Then his voice, scratchy and unsure: “I’m not good at saying things. But I love you. Always did. Always will.” That’s when I broke. I realized then: love doesn’t always come in the shape we expect. My father’s love wasn’t wrapped in hugs or shouted from rooftops — it was folded into sandwiches, hidden in silence, tucked in the back row of bleachers. And sometimes, when love finally speaks, it echoes forever.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
Your future is trying to save you. Are you listening?
I was brushing my teeth when my phone buzzed. No number. Just one word on the screen: > "RUN." Then another. > "He's coming. Don't trust your reflection." I laughed. Thought it was spam. Tossed the phone on the bed. Then my reflection blinked. And I didn't. --- I froze. Stared at the mirror. My face looked normal… but wrong. Like I was being copied by someone who didn’t quite understand being human. I stepped back. My reflection didn’t. > That's when I knew it wasn't me. And then the phone buzzed again. > "DO NOT LOOK AWAY. HE MOVES WHEN YOU BLINK." My blood turned cold. --- This wasn’t a prank. My phone vibrated nonstop, a stream of alerts: "He’s feeding on memories." "He knows your past better than you." "If you forget your first kiss, he takes your voice." "If you forget your mother's name, he takes your face." My knees buckled. I grabbed the phone, screaming: "WHO ARE YOU???" The reply came instantly: > "I'm YOU. Ten minutes from now. You're already dead." --- I ran to the door. Locked. Every window? Nailed shut. My own house had turned into a prison. And then — the lights went out. In the black silence, I heard the reflection whispering: > "You've forgotten something already, haven't you?" --- I woke up gasping on the floor. My phone screen was cracked. The time was 10 minutes behind. I checked the mirror. My reflection smiled before I did. --- Now I wear no mirrors. No glass. I speak my mother's name every morning. I keep a journal so I don't forget my past. Because he's still waiting. In that reflection. In every reflection. Feeding on lost memories. And wearing my face. And every day… I get another message. One word. > "RUN." --- I moved into a cabin in the woods. Off-grid. No tech. No mirrors. Just paper and pencils. I keep my memories written, not digital — he corrupts digital signals. He uses them to mimic your voice, your face. I burned my laptop. Smashed my phone with a rock. But it didn’t help. He came back in puddles. In spoons. In window reflections. Each time more confident. Smiling longer. Speaking louder. He doesn't need tech. He just needs you to forget. --- Loop 1: I remembered everything. I survived three days. Loop 2: I forgot my first dog’s name. I woke up with a mouth that wasn’t mine. Loop 3: I forgot my father’s laugh. I screamed all night. But the voice wasn’t mine. Loop 4: I didn’t forget. He waited. He learns patience. He feeds off gaps. The smaller the memory, the deeper he gets. And the worst part? He's in everyone now. --- I saw a woman in the store scream at her own reflection in a freezer door. A boy in the park kicked his shadow for “talking back.” We’re all infected. But no one remembers why. And those of us who do remember... don’t last long. Because eventually, you forget something. And that’s all he needs. --- I think he was human once. Some version of me from a ruined future, trying to anchor himself in the past. But time broke him. And now he just wants to replace the rest of us. One forgotten thought at a time. --- He’s clever now. Not loud. Not violent. Just… waiting. Last week, I caught my reflection blinking three seconds after I did. Yesterday, I heard a laugh from behind the closet mirror — and it sounded exactly like my mother. But she's been gone for years. I sometimes find sticky notes in my own handwriting saying things I never wrote: “Don’t blink too long.” “He likes 3:33 a.m.” “Stop thinking about him — he hears it.” But the scariest one? It was stuck to the inside of my mirror. It read: > “Thanks for the memories.” --- Last night, I looked in the mirror for the first time in weeks. He didn’t move. He just mouthed a word: > "Soon." --- I don't sleep anymore. I don't dream. Because if I do... I'll forget something. And then he'll win. --- 💀 Welcome to James World Where your mind is the battlefield and memory is your only weapon. If this story made you glance at your reflection, hesitate by your screen, or question your own face... 👉 Subscribe for more twisted realities, glitchy timelines, and nightmares you can't delete.
By James World about a year ago in Fiction
Kid vs Monkey
Tommy was no ordinary kid. At ten years old, he was full of curiosity and always up for an adventure. Today, he was visiting his grandmother’s countryside house, right next to a sprawling jungle. Everyone in the village whispered stories about the jungle—mysterious creatures, hidden treasures, and especially one clever monkey named Kiki, who was known as the trickiest animal around.
By YOUNG MINDSETabout a year ago in Fiction
