Love

The Last Field
In a quiet village cradled between gentle hills and a winding river, there lived an old farmer named Karim. His back was bent from years of tending the earth, his hands rough and cracked like the dry soil after summer. But his eyes—deep and calm—still held a quiet fire.
By meerjananabout a year ago in Fiction
Just a Tiny Lantern
We’re only half an hour from town, but it feels like we’ve disappeared. Trees close in like we’re in a bubble, and the dry air smells like pine and dust. They banned travelling in the woods that morning because the ground was so dry, a campfire or hiking was no longer an option. We stayed close to our tent with little to do but talk and swim in the lake. The kids are zipped into the tent next to us, fast asleep. Our laughter bounces against nylon walls as we settle into Ben’s tent. He doesn’t usually camp. His setup is hilariously inadequate—a sad little bedroll, single pillow and a blue blinding flashlight, all items, including the tent, were carefully collected and borrowed from family members so that he could be part of our family’s summer camping ritual. I’ve brought my things—an avalanche of pillows, fleeces, folding chairs and my camping poncho. Ben laughs the minute I start pulling them through the small, zippered door of his tent.
By A Lady with a Penabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers That Changed the World
The wind rattled the wooden shutters of the old library, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. Outside, the cobblestone streets of Eldenwick lay deserted, bathed in the silvery glow of the full moon. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, dust, and something else—anticipation.
By Aminullahabout a year ago in Fiction
He kept the light on . Content Warning.
He passed his finger along a jagged edge of paper, but a door flung open, a pervasive memory of the past instead of a paper cut. The scene played as if it were nurturing. There was no movement. He knew the path the way he knew his mother. He thought his past would play a different song, but it was a race car reversing backwards. The person that changed everything came too close and it might cause a dangerous end to the present.
By Caitlin Charltonabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter I Never Sent
I found the letter last night, buried beneath a pile of old photographs in the wooden chest at the foot of my bed. The envelope was yellowed with age, the paper inside soft as fabric. My handwriting—shaky, almost unfamiliar—spelled out his name in faded blue ink: Elias. Just the sight of those letters made my chest tighten. I hadn’t seen him in thirteen years, and yet the moment I touched that envelope, the air felt heavy with the past.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Photo I Found in My Attic Wasn’t Supposed to Exist
I was cleaning out the attic last weekend, something I’d been putting off for years. The summer heat made the air up there heavy and still, and the dust clung to my skin as I pushed aside old boxes. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just trying to make space.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
A Stranger in Every Photograph
A Stranger in Every Photograph I found the photo album on a rainy Sunday afternoon, tucked behind boxes in the attic of my late grandmother’s house. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed, and the smell of old paper and faint perfume clung to it like a ghost.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day the Colors Fled
The Day the Colors Fled It started quietly, as if the city had taken a deep breath and let all color escape. I woke to gray skies and streets stripped of vibrancy. My walls, my clothes, the garden outside—everything was a shade of ash, steel, and stone. Even the sunlight seemed pallid, like paper left too long in the sun. I rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a trick of sleep. But the world outside my window confirmed my fear.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Café That Served Emotions
The Café That Served Emotions The café wasn’t on any map. Not in guidebooks, not on GPS, not even on the neon-lit streets of downtown. You stumbled upon it when you weren’t looking, through a narrow alley framed by ivy and flickering lanterns. The sign read simply: “Café Émotion”, its letters curling like smoke.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Letters to the Future Me
Letters to the Future Me It started on a Tuesday. I was pouring cereal at my tiny kitchen table when I noticed the envelope lying beside my bowl. Brown paper, neatly folded, with my name written in cursive I didn’t recognize. I opened it with cautious curiosity.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Knew How You’d Die
The Man Who Knew How You’d Die The bus smelled faintly of wet asphalt and stale coffee. It was late—past midnight—and only a handful of passengers sat scattered in their seats, staring at their phones or watching the city blur past.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Date Night
Alright, so I got my phone out. On date night. But... in my defence, he did it first. I know that sounds childish. I know it does. But here's the thing. For me, date night has always been sacrosanct. I'm the one who puts my phone away, and pays my date my full attention.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction