Love
Gold Price on the Move: A Mirror of Global Uncertainty
The world often forgot that prices were stories. On a glowing chart in some financial terminal, the price of gold looked like nothing more than a jagged line—up, down, sideways. But behind every tick lived human hopes, fears, and calculations, as tangled as the veins of gold hidden in the earth.
By Princess Ladlyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Love Thief. Top Story - August 2025.
As the sun lies down to sleep, figures dance across green fields dotted with daffodils. Twisting and turning, they meet in the evening’s cool breeze. Staring into each other’s eyes, they feel the weight of the universe bear down on their hearts. The shaking in their knees makes them shiver in the summer air. They enter each other without care as they stare into each other’s souls. In love with each other’s drawing gaze, as time scrolls by, it turns to a haze.
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Fiction
Understanding Islam
Understanding Islam: Answers to Common Questions Islam is one of the world’s major religions, with more than a billion followers. Many people are curious about what Islam teaches, how Muslims live, and why it continues to grow worldwide. Here are answers to some of the most common questions people ask about Islam today.
By king pokhtoonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Summer I Bought My First Laptop
The summer break had just begun at our med school. The campus was buzzing with students rushing to catch their buses and trains home. In the middle of all the goodbyes, I left without hugging my best friend, Umar. I don’t know why—it wasn’t intentional, but as soon as I reached home, my phone buzzed.
By noor ul aminabout a year ago in Fiction
The Love of Choni Wani
Choni Wani was the most enchanting girl of the village. Every morning, when she walked to the well with her clay pot, the world seemed to pause. There was an innocent sparkle in her eyes, and her graceful yet simple walk captured every heart. People said that when Choni Wani smiled, even the most tiring day became easier.
By New stAr writer about a year ago in Fiction
When the Storm Found Us
Noah had seen enough movies to know what this moment usually meant—the quiet before something dramatic happened, the pause when everything could either go right or crumble spectacularly. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest, palms slick with sweat as he leaned forward, hoping for a miracle. But before he could even process what might come next, Rebecca’s laughter split the air like broken glass. “Ha…ha…ha… You actually thought…?” she choked out, doubled over, eyes sparkling with mockery. The gymnasium seemed to explode with sound, a thousand whispers and giggles bouncing off the walls as everyone stared, pointed, and laughed at him. Noah’s throat tightened, tears threatening to spill, and with a shuddering breath, he fled. The hallways blurred past him, echoing with the cruel chorus of classmates’ laughter, until the door slammed behind him. He promised himself then and there he would never return. Weeks later, the memory of that humiliation still lingered like a shadow. And yet, as he stood outside, waiting under the soft glow of a streetlamp, there she was—Julie. She was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that seemed effortless, yet it struck him as terrifyingly real. His chest constricted, the bitter, familiar prickling in his throat returning as he gazed into her eyes. Julie tilted her face toward him, lips just a breath away. She didn’t know the storm raging inside him—the panic, the fear of failure, the memory of every past embarrassment—but she could sense it, and she waited. Noah exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to shrink back, certain for a fleeting second that everyone around them was watching, ready to laugh again. But no one was watching. Only Julie’s eyes met his, unwavering, and then, gently, her hands came up, framing his face. The touch was simple, grounding, and in that instant, something shifted. Noah felt his panic dissolve, replaced by a delicate flutter in his stomach, like butterflies released from a cage. Her palms were warm, reassuring, a quiet anchor in a world that had felt chaotic for far too long. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the moment. The distance between them—so fragile, so tense—melted away as he leaned forward. Their lips met in a kiss as soft as a sigh, light and tentative at first, yet charged with all the longing he had carried for weeks. The moment seemed eternal, suspended in the calm that followed so many storms. Then the sky betrayed them, erupting in a sudden, spectacular display. Lightning ripped across the night, illuminating their soaked faces in stark white and violet flashes. Rain followed almost instantly, cascading in sheets, drenching them within seconds. The sound of thunder was deafening, yet somehow, in the chaos, they laughed. It was the kind of laughter that bubbles up from the soul, freeing, unrestrained, and utterly alive. Noah wrapped his arms around Julie, pulling her close against him, feeling her heartbeat echoing his own. She rose on her tiptoes, hands sliding onto his shoulders and around the back of his neck, closing the distance even further. Their clothes clung to them, drenched and heavy, but it didn’t matter. The wind tugged at their hair, whipping strands across their faces, and still, they kissed—again, and again—with a tenderness that belied the storm around them. Time seemed to fold in on itself. The world beyond the raindrops, beyond the lightning, beyond the roar of thunder, ceased to exist. In that drenched street under the storm, they found a universe of their own creation—a place where laughter mingled with water, where touch could heal wounds, and where courage replaced fear. Noah felt a warmth spreading through him, the kind that comes from more than adrenaline; it was hope, it was connection, it was the realization that sometimes, the most beautiful moments come wrapped in chaos. Julie pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against his, and they both gasped, half from the rain, half from the thrill of it all. Her eyes sparkled in the stormlight, reflecting every flicker of lightning. Noah couldn’t stop smiling, the past humiliations reduced to nothing more than distant echoes. In this moment, he was present, alive, and utterly unafraid. The rain slowed, then stopped, leaving glistening streets and the faint scent of wet earth. The storm had passed, but the magic lingered between them. They stood close, hands still entwined, hair plastered to their faces, and for the first time, Noah realized that courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s moving forward even when your heart is screaming otherwise. Julie smiled, brushing a soaked strand of hair from his forehead, and he laughed softly, letting himself be carried away by the feeling that had seemed so impossible before. That night, under the aftermath of a storm, Noah and Julie discovered a truth that no movie could have prepared them for: sometimes, the most extraordinary moments are born from chaos, and the most tender connections are forged when you finally let yourself feel. They walked home together, still laughing, still dripping, still wrapped in the afterglow of a storm that had brought them together. And Noah knew, without doubt, that no gymnasium, no whispered laughter, no past humiliation could ever steal this moment from him. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he could truly breathe.
By LUNA EDITHabout a year ago in Fiction
The Threads of Eternity
On the edge of a quiet village, where the hills rolled like sleeping giants and the rivers sang softly through the fields, there lived a girl named Elara. She was a weaver, as her mother and grandmother had been before her. Each morning, she worked at her loom, threading strands of silk dyed in colors drawn from herbs, berries, and roots. The villagers admired her work, but Elara felt something missing in the rhythm of her craft. One night, restless and unable to sleep, she walked outside. The sky was clear, spilling countless stars across the velvet dark. As she gazed upward, she noticed something strange: faint lines of light connected certain stars, glowing as if someone had sketched a story in the heavens. She blinked, certain it was her imagination. But the more she looked, the more she saw—shapes forming in the constellations. A ship on stormy waters. A knight with a sword. A child holding a lantern. At the heart of it all shimmered a golden thread, so fine it seemed woven through the universe itself. When Elara reached out, her hand brushed against something real. The golden thread hovered in the air, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Without knowing why, she took hold of it. In an instant, the world spun. She was no longer standing in her village but on the deck of a ship tossed by thunderous waves. Sailors cried out as lightning split the sky. A young captain clung to the wheel, his eyes fierce with determination. Elara stumbled, her weaving hands clutching the glowing thread that tethered her to something beyond this chaos. Before she could speak, the storm stilled. The ship, the sailors, the ocean—all of it dissolved like mist, leaving Elara alone again beneath the stars. Shaken, she hurried home. But night after night, she returned to that spot, pulling gently on the golden thread. Each time, it drew her into another story: a queen giving up her crown for peace, a wanderer crossing deserts in search of a single flower, a child standing before a dragon yet refusing to run. The stories were endless, spanning ages and worlds. Some filled her with joy; others broke her heart. And always, the golden thread wove them together, as if whispering that none of them were separate, none forgotten. One evening, as Elara traced the thread again, she found herself standing before a quiet fire. An old woman sat beside it, her face familiar in a way Elara could not place. The woman’s hair was silver, her hands worn yet graceful. She was weaving on a loom made not of wood but of starlight. Each strand she pulled glowed with the same golden light Elara had followed. “You’ve come,” the woman said, her voice like the rustle of leaves. “Who are you?” Elara asked, her breath trembling. The woman smiled. “I am what you may become. The keeper of stories, the weaver of eternity. You have touched the thread, and so it recognizes you.” Elara’s heart pounded. “But I’m just a weaver in a small village. I make cloth, not stories.” “Every cloth is a story,” the woman said gently. “Every hand that wears it, every journey it survives, every tear it bears. The world itself is woven, Elara. You have simply begun to see the pattern.” Elara stared at the loom of light. The threads stretched into infinity, crossing and knotting, forming pictures she could barely comprehend. She saw her village, her mother, her grandmother—each life a thread glowing in its time. She saw kingdoms rise and fall, lovers meeting and parting, heroes remembered and forgotten. All connected. All necessary. “Why show me this?” she whispered. “Because stories must be remembered,” the woman said. “And because the loom always needs hands willing to weave. When my time ends, yours will begin.” Elara wanted to protest, to say she wasn’t ready. But deep inside, she felt the truth stir. Her whole life she had woven without knowing why. Now she understood: every fabric was a shadow of the greater tapestry, each thread a reminder that nothing is lost. When she looked up again, the woman was gone. Only the golden loom remained, waiting. Elara stepped forward. Her fingers, trained by years of weaving cloth, found their way naturally to the glowing strands. She began to weave—not silk or wool, but moments, choices, lives. A child’s laughter. A soldier’s sacrifice. A farmer’s prayer. A lover’s song. They joined together, not as fragments but as a living whole. For the first time, Elara felt complete. And though her body still lived in the village, working at the loom each morning, her spirit returned often to the stars. She wove quietly, faithfully, her golden threads binding stories across ages. The villagers continued to admire her work, never guessing the truth: that each cloth carried a fragment of eternity, a memory of lives they had never known but somehow felt in their hearts. Elara never told them. She simply smiled, knowing that every story she touched—whether grand or small—was part of the same tapestry, shining forever in the sky. The threads of eternity stretched on, unbroken. And she, their keeper, wove until the stars themselves grew brighter with the weight of all that had been remembered.
By Masih Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
