Love
The Summer Villain
By the time the sun goes down, the apartment has the temperature and moral ambiguity of a sauna. The living room window is propped open with a paperback Bible and a cracked sandal, but the air barely moves. The fly strips dangle like sad party streamers for a party that never ends and never gets fun.
By The Kind Quillabout a year ago in Fiction
The Conundrum
My plan was all in place. If it worked out, I would be financially stable, probably for the rest of my life. It was a solid business model, grounded on proven strategies, designed for the 21st century. Now, all I had to do was sell it to the company owner, Preston Hewitt. I had never met him in person. My rung was much too low on the ladder.
By Julie Lacksonenabout a year ago in Fiction
A Night to Remember: The things you keep
A laugh slipped out as she said, “You have to be joking right?” “Not at all, that’s exactly how it happened.” It was that smile. Something about how it lit up in a crowd like fireflies dancing around her, drawn to something they couldn’t name. But why her?
By Shreyas Vartiaabout a year ago in Fiction
Mirage Man
He was always in the same corner of the marina pool—shirtless, golden, and impossibly composed. One Miller Lite after another, never slurring, never stumbling, never laughing too loud. His sun-bleached hair, tanned skin, and startling blue eyes made him look like he’d been plucked from one of those senior dating site ads. Even his teeth—white and symmetrical—seemed to defy time. He had to be in his late sixties, but nothing about him hinted at age or erosion. From a distance, he was practically perfect.
By Lizz Chambersabout a year ago in Fiction
The Memory Vending Machine
I first saw the vending machine on a Tuesday night, half-hidden between a cracked pillar and a graffiti-covered bench on the lower platform of East 12th Street Station. It didn’t sell chips or soda. Instead, rows of tiny glass bottles lined the inside, each one glowing faintly, a handwritten label tied around its neck. Above the coin slot, in faded gold letters, were the words: “Memories — $3 each.” I almost laughed. New York was full of gimmicks, but this one was charming enough to make me stop.
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter She Never Sent. AI-Generated.
The envelope was yellowed at the edges, its paper thin from years of hiding. Sarah found it wedged between the pages of her mother’s old cookbook, the one that still smelled faintly of cinnamon and something else — something sad. The handwriting on the front was familiar, but shaky. For Emily. Emily had been gone for thirteen years. Sarah’s little sister. She was only nine when the accident happened — a rainy road, a driver in a hurry, and a silence that settled into their home like dust. Her mother had never spoken about that day. Sarah sat at the kitchen table, the letter trembling in her hands. She had always wondered what her mother carried inside, the words she never spoke. With a deep breath, she unfolded it. --- My sweet Emily, If you’re reading this, then I’ve found the courage I couldn’t find while you were here. The day you left, I learned something terrible — that time is not a promise. I thought we had years. I thought I could say “I love you” tomorrow, after the dishes were done, after I was less tired. I should have said it more. Do you remember the night you told me you wanted to be an artist? I said something silly — that it wasn’t practical. You went to your room, quiet. I thought you’d forgive me by morning. But there was no morning. Not with you. If I could have one more day, I’d let you paint the walls, the windows, even the floor if you wanted. I’d tell you your dreams are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’d say, over and over, until the stars grew tired of hearing it — I love you. I’m so sorry I didn’t say it enough. Love always, Mom --- The paper blurred as Sarah’s tears fell. She read the letter twice, then a third time, feeling the weight of every word. Her mother had passed away last winter. This letter was a piece of her heart Sarah had never seen — a fragile bridge between the past and now. She tucked it back into the cookbook, but not before slipping in a note of her own. --- Dear Mom, I found your letter to Emily. I wish you’d told me sooner how heavy your heart was. I wish I’d told you how much I loved you every single day. I can’t send this to you, but I’ll speak it into the air tonight, under the same stars you used to point out to us. Maybe you’ll hear it. Love, Sarah --- Sarah closed the cookbook and placed it back on the shelf. In the quiet kitchen, she whispered to no one and to everyone: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
By Daily dose of amazing stories about a year ago in Fiction
Do You Think You Could Take Me Home?
I never asked for much. Just a place to belong. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. A hand to hold when the world feels too big. When the noise of everyday life drowns out my own heartbeat. I used to wander. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was peace. Maybe just a smile that didn’t fade too quickly. There were nights when the stars above seemed too far away, like distant promises I couldn’t reach. I walked empty streets, my shadow my only companion. My thoughts whispered stories of a home that existed only in dreams. I met people — strangers with warm eyes, kind words, and temporary shelter. But those moments felt like borrowed time, like sand slipping through my fingers. I was never sure if I’d wake up in the same place the next day. Sometimes, I imagined a door opening just for me, a place where I could set down my tired soul and finally rest. But the door never came. Until you. You appeared like a quiet light in a dark room — gentle, steady, real. At first, I was afraid to reach out. Afraid that if I touched that light, it would vanish like everything else. But you didn’t disappear. You stayed. You listened. You saw me — really saw me — without judgment or haste. You held my hand, not out of obligation, but because you wanted to. I never believed in miracles. But you felt like one. You didn’t ask me to change or pretend. You just wanted me to be. To be here. To be safe. I never thought I’d find that — a place, a person — who could take me home. Now I ask you, quietly, with hope tucked inside my voice: Do you think... just maybe... you could take me home? What is home anyway? Is it a building with walls and a roof? A place where your mail gets delivered? Or is it something deeper — a feeling, a space inside that grows warmer when you’re with the right person? I used to think home was a fixed point on a map. But now I know better. Home is where the heart finds rest. Where your story is accepted and held gently. I want to tell you my story — the good, the bad, and everything in between. I want to share my dreams and my fears, my laughter and my tears. Because I’ve learned that home isn’t perfect. It’s messy, and complicated, and sometimes frightening. But it’s real. It’s where you don’t have to hide behind walls or masks. It’s where your soul can breathe. I never thought I’d be brave enough to ask. To say, “Take me home.” Because that means trusting someone with all the parts of me I usually keep locked away. But here, with you, I feel safe. So, I ask again: Do you think... just maybe... you can take me home? And maybe, just maybe, That home isn’t a place at all. Maybe it’s the two of us, building something together. A quiet refuge in a noisy world. A shared story of hope, healing, and belonging. If you can take me home, I promise I’ll bring my whole heart — imperfect, hopeful, and ready to stay. Because home is more than shelter. It’s the way your eyes soften when they find mine across a crowded room. It’s the comfort of knowing that even on my worst days, you won’t turn away. It’s the small, unspoken moments — the warmth of morning coffee shared in silence, the safety of your voice calling my name, the stillness between words that somehow says everything. And I’ll give you my version of home, too. I’ll give you late-night talks on the balcony, where the city lights look like fallen stars. I’ll give you a place where your worries can take off their heavy coats and rest for a while. I’ll remember the little things — the way you like your tea, the songs you hum when you think no one is listening, the exact shade of your smile on a Sunday morning. We’ll build a life where we can laugh loudly and cry freely, where mistakes don’t mean the end, and where silence doesn’t mean distance. We’ll fill the walls with memories — some messy, some beautiful, but all ours. I imagine us walking through quiet streets at night, hands brushing until they finally meet. I imagine rainy days where the world outside feels far away, and the only sound is the soft hum of our togetherness. I imagine arguments that end in understanding, and days when love is loud, and days when love is quiet, but always present. Because real home is not made of perfection — it’s made of persistence. It’s choosing each other again and again, even when it’s hard. It’s not walking away when the storm comes, but holding tighter until it passes. If you take me home, I won’t promise you that life will be flawless. But I will promise you this — you will never have to face it alone. I’ll carry the weight with you. I’ll stand in the rain with you. I’ll celebrate every sunrise we get to share, and I’ll hold your hand through every sunset we watch fade into the horizon. And one day, years from now, when the lines on our faces tell the story of all we’ve lived through, I hope we can look at each other and know — we kept our promise. So here I am, with all that I am, standing at the doorway of something I’ve searched for my whole life. If you’ll let me, I’ll step inside. I’ll stay. I’ll be yours. And maybe — if we’re lucky — we’ll both finally be home.
By Behind the Curtainabout a year ago in Fiction
