Love
The Train I Almost Missed. AI-Generated.
The 7:45 train was late again — just like it always was on Mondays. The platform was crowded with tired faces and the smell of burnt coffee. Everyone looked impatient, as if being late was the greatest tragedy of their day.
By shakir hamid11 months ago in Fiction
Project SoulLink
The chamber was called the "Chrysalis." Dr. Aris Thorne called it a cathedral. Lying on the bio-plinth next to her was Kael, her research partner and, for the last five years, her husband. Today, they would become the first human subjects of Project SoulLink.
By Habibullah11 months ago in Fiction
The Last Message
The Last Message It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. Ethan was halfway through his morning coffee when his phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a name that stopped his breath — Lily. For a moment, he just stared. It couldn’t be. His sister had been gone for nearly two years. --- He told himself it was a mistake — maybe an old backup, maybe someone reusing her number. Still, his heart trembled as he opened the message. > Lily: “Hey, you awake?” The world fell quiet. The hum of the refrigerator, the tapping rain outside — all faded. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. > Ethan: “Who is this?” A few seconds passed. Then came another message. > Lily: “You promised you’d fix my record player. Did you ever?” Ethan’s coffee slipped from his hand, spilling across the table. His breath came sharp, uneven. He hadn’t told anyone about the record player. It was still in the corner of his apartment, covered with a thin layer of dust — her old vinyl still inside. --- That night, he couldn’t sleep. He kept checking his phone, half hoping it had been a dream. But the messages were still there. Real. Solid. He clicked on her contact. The photo remained the same — Lily in her yellow sweater, grinning in the autumn sunlight. They had been close. Too close, maybe. She was the kind of sister who made every dull moment electric. She’d sing along to the wrong lyrics, leave notes on the fridge like “Don’t forget to smile today, you grump.” Then one night, a car didn’t stop at the red light. And she was gone before he could say goodbye. --- The next morning, another message appeared. > Lily: “You’re still not sleeping, are you?” Ethan froze. He typed, deleted, typed again. > Ethan: “If this is someone’s joke, stop. Please.” No reply. Hours passed. He tried to convince himself that grief could play tricks. Maybe some weird cloud sync glitch had resurrected old texts. Maybe he’d imagined it. But that night, as he sat on his couch staring at the rain, his phone buzzed again. > Lily: “I miss our late-night talks.” He dropped the phone, heart pounding. How could data — or fate — know the exact words she’d said to him the night before she died? > Ethan: “Who are you?” he typed again, his hands trembling. “Please stop pretending to be her.” There was no answer. --- Days went by. The texts stopped. He tried to move on. Work, sleep, repeat. But every time he passed that old record player, the guilt returned. He’d promised to fix it for her birthday. He never did. One Friday evening, when the city outside was wrapped in fog, Ethan finally pulled the record player onto the table. He found the same vinyl — her favorite: The Beatles — Let It Be. He replaced the belt, cleaned the needle, and turned it on. The crackle of static filled the room. Then the music began. He closed his eyes — and then, his phone buzzed again. > Lily: “There it is. You fixed it.” Ethan stared at the message, the song playing softly behind him. “Okay,” he whispered into the quiet. “If this is real… what do you want?” His hands shook as he typed: > Ethan: “Lily?” > Lily: “You still blame yourself.” Tears blurred his vision. > Ethan: “I should’ve been there that night. You called. I didn’t pick up.” > Lily: “You were tired. I understand.” > Ethan: “No. If I had answered, maybe—” > Lily: “Ethan. You can’t fix what wasn’t yours to fix.” He pressed his palms to his eyes. His chest ached, but not from fear. It was the ache of recognition — the words sounded like her. The tone, the warmth, the forgiveness he’d never found. > Ethan: “Why now?” > Lily: “Because you’re finally listening.” --- For the first time since her funeral, Ethan cried — not quietly, but deeply, the kind of grief that cleanses instead of crushes. He spent hours sitting there, the phone glowing beside him, as the song looped softly in the background. Eventually, another message appeared. > Lily: “Remember the box in Mom’s attic?” Ethan frowned. “What box?” > Lily: “Find it. You’ll know.” The next morning, he drove to their old house, still locked and quiet. His mother had moved away after Lily’s death; the attic had been untouched for years. He climbed the stairs, coughing through the dust. And then he saw it — a small wooden box under a pile of photo albums. Inside was a letter addressed to him, in Lily’s handwriting. > Hey big brother, If you’re reading this, I guess I didn’t get to say goodbye the right way. Don’t be mad, okay? You were always the careful one. I just didn’t want you to carry my mistakes. You saved me more times than you know. Please stop saving me now. Live something big, something happy. Fix that record player — and when you play our song, know that I’ll be there too. Always, Lily. Ethan sat there, shaking, as everything clicked into place. The texts weren’t random. They were reminders — echoes of love she’d left behind, finally finding their way to him. He took the letter home and placed it beside his phone. The messages had stopped. The silence felt complete — not empty, but peaceful. --- That evening, as the sun dipped low, he turned the record player on again. “Let it be, let it be…” The melody filled the apartment like a memory that no longer hurt. He looked out the window and whispered, “I got your message, sis.” And for the briefest moment, the phone lit up once more. > Lily: “Good.” 💛 Then the screen went dark. --- Ethan didn’t try to trace it. He didn’t need proof. Grief had no logic, no rules — only love finding its own strange ways to reach across the divide. He poured himself a cup of tea, leaned back, and let the record spin. Sometimes, the last message isn’t about goodbye. It’s about reminding you that love — real love — never loses signal.
By Abdul Muhammad 11 months ago in Fiction
FruFru and Pootzygirl
Frufru was born in Yonkers, New York. Pootzygirl was born in Thonotosassa, Florida. Frufru was raised by European immigrants who were naturalized Americans. Pootzygirl was orphaned at a young age and grew up with guidance counselors and guardians. Frufru went to Fashion and Design school and was the Personal Apprentice of Cruella Deville. Pootzygirl took classes at many different schools learning from many teachers and considered herself a philanthropist and an entrepreneur. Frufru wears the most expensive name-brand garments, drives the most expensive cars, always has her hair, make-up, fingernails, and outfit, worn to perfection. Pootzygirl forgets she has hair, loves a good cape, and is happy when she has a comfortable pair of shoes that make her feet happy. Frufru likes gourmet restaurants and shopping at elite specialized boutiques. Pootzygirl likes art and beauty, and feels satisfied when she can accomplish fulfilling a need without complications or heartache. Frufru is scared of animals that are not pets like cats or dogs. Pootzygirl loves all animals and prefers being outdoors if the weather allows. Frufru thinks everything said or written is just nonsense. Pootzygirl thinks everything said or written is absolute truth. (In the comic book depictions of these two characters, Frufru is depicted as the "Villain" and Pootzygirl is depicted as the "Hero".) The writer does not think of them that way. The creator of these two characters is a "Bipolar" woman, who struggles with her own "Frufru" self, and her own "Pootzygirl" self, every day.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman11 months ago in Fiction
The Bench at Platform 4
By [Asghar ali awan] Every morning, the same whistle pierced the crisp air of dawn. The 7:45 train slid into Platform 4, a routine so familiar that even the pigeons seemed to know the schedule. Amidst the hum of engines and the murmurs of sleepy commuters, there was always one old wooden bench, worn smooth by years of waiting and two strangers who sat on it.
By Asghar ali awan11 months ago in Fiction
The girl I was supposed to marry
Back ground: This story is about a boy who does not obey his father and goes hunting in the forest with his bad friends. The boy name is Mr. John and he has a very bad friend who's name is watson. Mr. Nawab is one of the richest man of his city. He has a house in the main city and one big house in the village as well.
By Muhammad Humayun11 months ago in Fiction
