Love

"Leave the Lights On"
The dashboard clock showed 11:47 PM as Arjun's Maruti Swift cut through the darkness of the Mumbai-Pune expressway. His phone had been buzzing for the past hour—seventeen missed calls from his mother. He was driving away from everything—his family's expectations, the engagement ceremony scheduled for tomorrow morning, the girl whose horoscope matched his perfectly according to the family astrologer. Meera was beautiful, educated, kind. Everything a man should want. Everything except the one thing that mattered to him was she wasn't Kavya. Typically reminds him of VTV Ganesh Dialogue “Ulagathula Evlo Ponnunga Irunthum Na Yen Jessie ah Love Panen “ from the movie Vinnaithandi varuvaaya.
By BGabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echo in the Mountain
Dr. Aris Thorne knew the Earth’s voice better than her own. Seismographs were her language tutors, translating the planet’s rumbles and groans into data points on her screens. Her work at GeoDyne Labs predicted earthquakes, saved lives, and earned accolades. It also gnawed at her nerves like tectonic plates grinding under pressure.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Love Among the Cotton Fields. AI-Generated.
Don’t miss this beautiful love story set in peaceful cotton fields. A simple yet touching romance that will warm your heart. Read till the end and enjoy every word!
By Bilal Mohammadiabout a year ago in Fiction
Seven Steps to Death: A Love That Defied Honor in Balochistan
Part One: The Desert Pact They were supposed to begin a new life together. A life they had envisioned far from the burning gaze of disapproving eyes and tribal customs that choke love before it can bloom. But for the young couple from Balochistan—names still withheld for security and legal reasons—their first steps as husband and wife would also be their last.
By Muhammad Abbas khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Cup of Coffee
Start writing...The coffee machine blinked. That small red light again. She stared at it, unmoving, holding the mug she didn’t even remember picking up. The kitchen smelled like early mornings and quiet endings. Mira hadn’t had a proper night of sleep in days. She wasn’t sure if it was the stress or the silence. Maybe both. Ever since Tom left, the apartment felt bigger somehow. Not cleaner, not emptier—just larger, like space had stretched to make room for her loneliness. The coffee finally dripped into the pot with a soft hiss. Mira watched it, arms folded tight, mug pressed against her chest. Tom used to do this every morning. He'd hum while the machine sputtered, his fingers tapping the counter like he was drumming along with some tune only he could hear. Sometimes she'd tell him to stop; it was too early for noise. But now she’d give anything to hear it again. She poured a cup, careful not to spill, and carried it to the table. There were two chairs, but she only ever used one now. She didn’t have the heart to move the other. It sat across from her, untouched, its cushion still slightly indented from his weight. The coffee was too hot. She blew on it gently and stared out the window. It was raining again. A soft, steady drizzle, not enough to cause chaos, just enough to keep people inside. The kind of rain that made her feel small. She reached for her phone. No messages. Of course not. It had been two weeks since Tom packed his things into two big duffel bags and said he needed time. He didn’t cry. She did. He kissed her forehead and whispered something she couldn’t remember anymore. All she remembered was the sound of the door closing. She sipped her coffee. Bitter. She hadn’t added sugar. Tom used to tease her for pouring in too much. “Want some coffee with that sugar?” he’d say, grinning. She used to roll her eyes, but secretly liked that he noticed. The apartment ticked quietly—pipes expanding, rain pattering against the windows, the fridge humming. No voices. No music. Just the noise of life continuing whether she wanted it to or not. Mira got up, walked slowly to the bookshelf, and pulled out an old photo album. The pages were worn, corners bent from years of being opened and closed. She turned the pages slowly, fingers tracing over photos of smiles and places and things that used to mean everything. There they were at the beach—Tom laughing, sand in his hair. There they were in their first apartment, walls still bare, pizza boxes stacked high. There she was, sitting on his shoulders at a music festival, her arms stretched to the sky. She closed the book. Her chest ached in that quiet, sharp way. Not loud enough to cry, just enough to feel something. Back in the kitchen, the coffee had cooled. She poured the rest down the sink. Watched it swirl away. She washed the mug slowly, rinsed every part of it, even the handle, even the bottom. She set it upside down on the drying rack, next to one more cup she hadn’t touched in days. She opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and notepad. The paper was lined and slightly yellow. She wrote: > Tom, I hope you’re sleeping okay. I hope you still hum in the morning. I’m drinking coffee again. I’m drinking it bitter. I miss you. Not just the noise, but the quiet we used to share. You don’t have to come back. I just wanted you to know. Mira. She folded the note in half. Then again. She wasn’t sure where to put it. So she left it under his mug. Just in case. Then she grabbed her coat, keys, and walked outside into the rain. It soaked her hair almost immediately, but she didn’t care. She let it. The cold made her feel more awake than the coffee ever did. She walked down the street with no real direction—just somewhere that wasn’t inside. Maybe one day he’d come back. Maybe he wouldn’t. But for now, she still had mornings. And coffee. And the quiet. And maybe, someday, she’d find comfort in that again.
By Qaseem Ahmadzaiabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Words I Never Said"
I met her on a Thursday. She was standing near the college library, struggling with a stack of books that kept slipping from her arms. I didn’t know her name then. I didn’t know how someone so ordinary-looking could be so unforgettable. But I offered help, and she smiled. That was it. That was the beginning of everything—for me.
By Ziauddin about a year ago in Fiction
The Day All Lies Became Truth
The Day All Lies Became Truth It began at 7:03 AM. My daughter, Amara, had just woken up, her little fingers rubbing sleep from her eyes as she mumbled, “Where’s Daddy?”
By Musawir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
She Disappeared from Our School Overnight and No One Talks About It
You think stories like that are made up. I wish I could tell you mine. Her name was Lila Harper. We weren’t best friends or anything. But she sat right next to me in English class, third period, by the window. She always wore matching socks, doodled in the margins of her notebook, and hummed softly when the teacher wasn’t looking.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Fiction
He Said the Stars Were Mine, So I Lit the Sky on Fire
By- AK STORY: He said the stars were mine. Every single one. He said it on the roof of his broken-down Chevy, hands laced behind his head, breath fogging into the cool August air like he was exhaling dreams. His voice was steady, almost too steady, like he’d practiced the line in the mirror a few times. I should’ve known then. “You see that cluster?” he pointed, “That’s Andromeda. Yours. And that one—Orion—he’ll guard you when I can’t.” He was full of poetry like that. Big words, small actions. Grand gestures, forgotten birthdays. But back then, I didn’t care. I was seventeen and willing to believe that stardust could be currency. That if someone gave you the sky, they wouldn’t take it back when the weather changed. For the first few months, it felt like magic. We made a list of all the places we’d go. Printed it. Laminated it. Stuck it in his glove compartment like a sacred relic. We’d drive nowhere with the windows down, screaming songs into the wind and kissing at red lights. He wrote my name on the fogged-up window once. It stayed there for days until it rained. I still remember how it looked—the way the letters blurred as the water ran down the glass. --- He changed slowly, like most people do. First, the texts got shorter. Then, the calls got quieter. And one day, his eyes stopped following me in a room. I asked if something was wrong. He said, “You’re too much.” I laughed like it was a joke. It wasn’t. “You talk about everything like it matters,” he added. “It’s exhausting.” Funny thing is, that used to be what he loved most. The way I lit up about galaxies, or the way I noticed patterns in the way people spoke or carried sadness in their shoes. But somewhere along the way, he stopped finding it charming and started finding it inconvenient. He didn’t say goodbye. He just… stopped showing up. --- Two months later, I saw him under those same stars. With someone else. Different laugh. Different lips. Same constellation promises. I stood across the parking lot, clutching a milkshake I’d bought myself after a solo drive to clear my head. My hands were shaking. Not from anger, not even from heartbreak—but from realization. He never gave me the stars. He just knew I wanted them. --- So I did what any heartbroken girl with a fire inside her would do. I took them back. Not literally, of course. I’m not a goddess—though I started acting like one after that night. I meant spiritually. Metaphorically. Emotionally. Cosmically. I lit the sky on fire. I started showing up to the places I used to avoid. Wore red lipstick even on Tuesdays. Took road trips alone, played my music louder, danced in diners with no shame. I unfollowed him, un-tagged myself from our memories, and unlearned every lie he wrapped in stardust. I wrote letters to the constellations. Not to him—never to him—but to the parts of myself I left behind in his orbit. And slowly, they started writing back. --- One night, I climbed the hill behind my house with a blanket and a notebook. The same one I’d once used to write love poems about him. I crossed them out. Page by page. Then I started a new list—not places I wanted to go with him, but places I wanted to go alone. Or with someone who saw all of me and stayed anyway. The sky was still there, waiting. Orion still stood tall. Andromeda still shimmered. The stars didn’t belong to him. They never had. They belonged to anyone brave enough to look up and claim them. --- Here’s what they don’t tell you about heartbreak: It doesn’t kill you. It makes you louder. Bolder. Hungrier. It teaches you to set your own fires instead of waiting for someone else to hand you a match. I started painting again. Not pretty watercolors like before, but chaotic, cosmic canvases. Deep blacks and violent blues. Gold-leaf galaxies. Suns colliding. My bedroom turned into a universe, and every wall held a piece of me. When people asked what inspired it, I just smiled and said, “A boy once gave me the stars. I gave myself the galaxy.” --- Now, when I lie under the sky, I don’t think of him. I think of how I mistook crumbs for constellations. How I confused poetry for presence. And how beautiful it felt the moment I stopped asking for space and started taking it. So if you ever find yourself on the receiving end of a promise wrapped in stars, take a second. Ask yourself: Is it a gift—or a leash? Because the right person won’t give you the sky as a distraction. They’ll sit beside you while you build your own. And when you’re done, they’ll point to the brightest one and say, “That one’s yours—and no one can ever take it away.”
By anas khan about a year ago in Fiction
Redemption. Content Warning.
Part 1 - Sideways The heat rising from the pavement played tricks on Finn's eyes as he rounded the bend. It promised to be a beautiful day, and he had his heart set on racing through the backfields with the new mare after he finished repairing the broken fences.
By KA Stefana about a year ago in Fiction
Lance's Romance
Fast track lifestyle expert, feeling like a winner Lance’s smile, said it all, as his loop of Henle emptied, only taking a second. “Whatever that maiden was claiming,” the vivid artiste who was out of the money, gritted his teeth, unloading all his bodily fluid, “my winning shot put on a show.”
By Marc OBrienabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silence After Thunder
No one in town spoke of the night the thunder vanished. They just stopped mentioning it—like it never mattered. But I remember. I was there. I heard the last one.
By Hanif Ullah about a year ago in Fiction