Love

Opening Night
Spotlight. The velvet claret coloured curtains draw back, exposing me to the critical eyes of the crowd. My co-stars begin, almost like a dance, floating through actions and dialogue, embodying the characters. The hour blows by and before my mind catches up, the presenter is announcing the brief intermission. Curtains draw closed and the atmosphere backstage shifts, as if the long drapes that had sat, mesmerised by so many performances, were catalysts for the switch. A stampede of actors scramble down stairs in all directions, to dressing rooms and hair and makeup. The costume change is quick, everything meticulously timed. As soon as I slip on the final piece of my costume, a sequin covered red vest, I’m rushed off to hair and makeup, with a smile and a “good job out there” and “good luck”. Echoes of the same sentiments to and from all the cast and makeup artists fog up the room full of mirrors and bright lights. Glitter floods the air as co-stars and crew alike excitedly chatter and hurry in and out of the room. It comes to my attention, as my eyelids are being brushed with an exquisite blue, that the chaos backstage is as much an experience as standing front of stage with the spotlight beaming down. I blink and it’s over, the audience full of some of the most well known critics in the city return to their seats, their temporary homes for this evening's experience. Standing behind the curtain, awaiting its opening is an energy like no other. The anticipation is palpable and the eagerness to immerse ourselves in a story we’ve rehearsed almost everyday for 2 months and for that story to be received by the theatregoers tonight is clear on the cast standing beside me’s faces. With one more shared nervous smile, a final goodbye to the magical backstage air, we launch into characters we’d dreamed of for years. From kids watching bootlegs of plays our parents would never agree to take us to, to our very first auditions, our first meetings with these characters. An hour later, the crowd erupts with applause, even the harshest critics give a short nod of approval. Standing on that stage, surrounded by people who have become my family, we drink up the praise and it occurs to me that for the first time since being a child hiding under my duvet, watching musicals way past my bedtime, I feel like I’m home.
By A.E. Greyscottabout a year ago in Fiction
The House that We Build
The House That We Build: A Haunting of Our Parents The house still stood, even after all these years. Leaning slightly westward with age, the shingles curling like dried petals, its gray frame cloaked in ivy and memory. It was ours once—The House That We Built, as our father used to say. Only, we never built it. We inherited it, like we inherited the sadness and silence that filled its rooms.
By Huzaifa Dzineabout a year ago in Fiction
The Ticket That Was Never Used
The ticket was still there, pinned quietly to her corkboard. Its corners had curled, and the ink had faded a little, but it remained—Flight 6E372 to Goa. July 4th, 2025. Window seat. A reminder of a summer that never happened.
By General gyanabout a year ago in Fiction
Stranger at Midnight
Every night at midnight, a single red rose appeared on Ava Sinclair’s balcony. No note, no footsteps, no trace of the stranger who left it—just a dewy, fragrant bloom glowing under the city’s restless lights. It began three months ago, always at the stroke of twelve, never a second off. It was romantic. It was unnerving. And Ava, a 29-year-old graphic designer trapped in the monotony of city life, was utterly obsessed.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Enchanted Boy
I was seventeen the summer I met him — the summer of sky lanterns, of music in the sand, of endless salt in the air and wildflowers in my hair.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Postman Who Delivered to Heaven
In the little town of Windmere, nestled between golden hills and roads no GPS could find, lived a postman named Eliot Finch. Eliot was 84, walked with a wooden cane and the kind of slow grace that made you believe time was just being polite around him. He had been delivering mail for 63 years — never missed a day, never lost a letter. His bag was patched, his route unchanged. People said Eliot knew the town better than anyone alive — which wasn’t entirely true. Because Eliot delivered letters to people who weren’t alive. He’d make his last round around sunset. Up the cobblestone hill. Past the old chapel. And then he’d stop by the cemetery gates. He’d open his mailbag. And gently place each envelope on a gravestone. No one knew where the letters came from. The stamps weren’t real. The ink smelled of lavender and old paper. But the handwriting was always different. Some were addressed to “My Dear Mama.” Others to “Charlie, who died before I could say I was sorry.” One was simply labeled: “To the one I still love.” And Eliot — kind Eliot — never read a single one. He just delivered. --- Every child in Windmere grew up hearing stories of “The Postman to Heaven.” Some believed it. Some laughed. But all watched in silence when Eliot walked by — eyes bright, back straight, heart full of invisible weight. One spring morning, Eliot didn’t show up for work. His tiny cottage was quiet. The mailbag sat by the door. The kettle was cold. The town grew hushed. By afternoon, the mayor and the doctor went to check on him. Eliot was sitting in his chair by the window, smiling. He had passed peacefully in his sleep. But there was one strange thing. On the table beside him was a single envelope. Addressed to: Mr. Eliot Finch Wherever You Go Next There was no stamp. No return address. Inside was a letter, written in the handwriting of every person who had ever sent him one — as if a thousand voices had signed it at once. It read: You delivered our love when no one else could. You carried the words we were too late to say. And now — it’s time we return the favor. We’ll be waiting at the gates. Come home. --- Now here’s where things get strange. At Eliot’s funeral, the whole town came. Children sang. Elders wept. The sky, they swore, turned the color of rose-petals just as they lowered him into the ground. But that night — the mail resumed. Fresh envelopes appeared on the graves again. New messages. New names. Only now, there was no postman to deliver them. Or so they thought. Because just before dawn, Mrs. Linwood — who opened her bakery at 4 a.m. sharp — swore she saw a figure on the hill. An old man in a brown coat. Walking with a cane. Mailbag slung across his back. He tipped his hat to her. And vanished behind the chapel. --- Soon after, children began reporting something even stranger. The children would leave letters of their own— addressed to lost pets, beloved grandparents, even stars that had fallen — and by morning, the letters were gone. But in their place was always something small, something gentle. A feather. A pressed flower. A candy wrapper that smelled like their favorite memory. “I think he read them,” one little girl said. “And he left me something back.” --- A new postman took Eliot’s route. But he always left the last stop blank. “That hill belongs to someone else,” he’d say, with a wink. People still left letters at the cemetery gates. Not every night. Not always seriously. But once, during a particularly snowy winter, a widowed man left a note that read: “I don’t know who you are. But if she gets this, please tell her I’m learning to live again.” The next day, he found a pressed daisy on his windshield. His wife’s favorite flower. many years have passed...... The roads are now mapped. The bakery sells espresso. But the legend has only grown. Visitors come with folded letters in their pockets. They ask, nervously, “Where do we leave them?” Locals just smile and point toward the hill. And once in a while — just once — someone sees him. A man walking softly between tombstones. Worn coat. Crooked cane. A gentle smile. They try to follow, but always lose him behind a breeze, or a rustle of trees that seems to whisper, thank you. The twist? Someone discovered Eliot's childhood diary in an old trunk. Inside, tucked on the last page, was a scribbled note from when he was just ten: “If people can send letters anywhere… why can’t they send them to heaven?” “When I grow up, I’ll be the postman who makes sure they get there.” He never told anyone. He just became it. And in doing so — gave a thousand broken hearts a place to heal.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
My Twin Sister Died in 2005—But She Still Texts Me
I was only fifteen when my twin sister, Eliza, died. It was a rainy October afternoon in 2005. We were supposed to walk home together from school, but I stayed behind for a group project. Eliza took the shortcut through the woods—something we’d promised Mom we wouldn’t do anymore. A fallen branch. A slippery hill. A single misstep. They found her body at the bottom of the ravine two days later. Broken. Still clutching her phone.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
My First Summer Love
I waited and waited for Marty to appear. I waited long into the evening hoping to see his handsome face come around the corner of my house, apologizing for being so late.
By Barbara Gode Wilesabout a year ago in Fiction
Trapped in love
I stopped seeing him, I told him I could no longer be involved with a man that was still in love with another woman. He promised he would leave her, but I didn’t want him to leave to be with me, I told him if he left it should be because he really didn’t want to be with her. He reached out for me and I continued backing away, how could I be so naive again? He brought up our conversation about having a daughter and getting married, how could I? You’re in love and living with another woman. He tried to blame me for going back to her, he wanted me to believe that my being upset because he wasn’t sure of what he wanted that I was the problem. I asked him to leave. He grabbed at me again and asked me not to be cold to him, please, just go, I have things to do.
By Her Sincerelyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror That Lied
Maya’s studio smelled of turpentine and defeat. Canvases leaned against exposed brick walls – half-finished cityscapes, abandoned portraits, experiments in styles she couldn’t master. Her last rejection letter from the Chelsea Gallery sat crumpled on the floor: “Technically proficient but lacks a distinctive voice.”
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Crimes of the Heart: When Love Turns Deadly
Love is a powerful feeling. It can bring people joy, warmth, and hope. But sometimes, love can also turn into something dark and dangerous. In some cases, love becomes the reason behind crimes — painful, shocking crimes that hurt others and ruin lives. These are called crimes of passion or crimes of the heart.
By Hamza Tahirabout a year ago in Fiction
The Message I Almost Sent
By [Hubaib Ullah ] I still have it saved in my drafts. One hundred and seventy-three words. Seven paragraphs. Three spelling errors I never fixed. The kind of message you type furiously in the heat of midnight clarity and then stare at for twenty minutes, unable to hit send.
By Hubaib ullahabout a year ago in Fiction