Love
The Message I Never Sent
The Message I Never Sent The rain lashed against the coffee shop window, blurring the neon sign across the street into watery streaks of red and blue. Maya traced the condensation with a fingertip, her lukewarm latte untouched. Ten years. A decade since she'd last seen Leo, and yet, finding his obituary online this morning felt like a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs in the quiet hum of her apartment. They hadn't parted as enemies, not exactly. More like two satellites whose orbits had gently, inevitably drifted apart after university. Leo, chasing documentaries in war zones; Maya, building a meticulous life as an architectural historian in the city. Life happened. Calls became texts, texts became sporadic likes on social media, then... silence. The comfortable silence of paths diverging. Yet, Maya had carried a tiny, persistent ember of *something* for Leo. Not romantic, not anymore, but a deep, unspoken appreciation. A gratitude for how he’d seen her, truly *seen* her, during those intense, idealistic university years when she felt invisible to everyone else. He’d been the one to push her to submit her first research paper, the one who’d sat with her all night when her grandfather died, wordlessly handing her tissues and terrible instant coffee. Just last month, sorting old boxes, she’d found a photo. Them, laughing, crammed into a tiny booth at their favorite dive bar, Leo wearing that ridiculous blue sweater he loved. A wave of warmth had washed over her, followed by a sharp pang of "I should reach out." Not to rekindle anything, just... to say *thank you*. To acknowledge the space he’d held for her once. To tell him his documentary on refugee artisans in Lebanon had moved her profoundly. She’d even drafted the message. Sitting at her sleek desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard: > *Hey Leo. Random thought, but found an old photo today – the blue sweater lives on in infamy! Seriously though, been thinking lately. Just wanted to say thank you. For university, for being such a solid friend back then. Saw your Lebanon doc – stunning work. Hope you’re doing amazing. – Maya* Simple. Sincere. But then the doubt crept in. *Would it be weird after so long? Is he even on this platform anymore? Maybe he’s busy. Maybe he doesn’t remember those moments like I do.* She saved it as a draft. "I’ll send it tomorrow," she told herself. Tomorrow became next week, became forgotten amidst deadlines and the mundane rhythm of life. Until today. The stark black-and-white notice online. Leo. Lost to a sudden illness while on assignment. Gone. Just like that. The finality was a cold stone in her stomach. Now, sitting in the coffee shop, the rain mimicking the static in her head, Maya opened her messaging app. There it was. The draft. The unsent "thank you." The words that felt so small now, yet carried the weight of a decade’s unspoken gratitude. She stared at the blinking cursor, the "Send" button a taunting impossibility. The moment for him to hear it, to know, had vanished as completely as the steam from her cooling cup. A single tear escaped, tracing a warm path down her cheek, distinct from the cold rain on the window. It wasn’t just grief for Leo, though that was a raw, new wound. It was the crushing weight of the *unsaid*. The profound regret of assuming there would always be a "tomorrow" to offer kindness, to acknowledge impact, to simply say "you mattered to me." She closed the app without sending. The message would remain forever in digital limbo, a ghost of her intention. Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the streets clean, unable to touch the indelible stain of regret on Maya’s heart. The loudest words, she realized too late, were often the ones never spoken.
By Tasneem Ur Rahmanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Memory I Borrowed from a Stranger
The Memory I Borrowed from a Stranger Genre: Fiction / Poets / Surreal It started on a Wednesday. I remember that much. I was on the 7:42 bus, the one that smells like lukewarm coffee and regret, where passengers avoid eye contact like it’s currency. The kind of morning where silence hums louder than conversation.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Forgotten Sky
When the stars vanished, humanity discovered the truth hidden in the darkness. No one noticed at first. A few astronomers reported missing constellations, but the news cycle moved too fast for anyone to care. It wasn’t until the stars vanished entirely—one night, all at once—that the world finally looked up.
By abidnaseemabout a year ago in Fiction
The Heartbreak - then the Repeat
It wasn't my first heartbreak, but it was the first one that shattered my heart like it was made of glass. I had wanted it to work - so badly that I stayed silent and tried my best to push through everything and be someone that I couldn't look at in the mirror. I remember being so thankful that I never bruised. I remember being so grateful that when people asked questions, that I could use that I was shy or that it was our faith and I was being a good submissive wife.
By Adora Hooperabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Letter in Vienna
I didn’t go to Vienna looking for anything. Not love. Not meaning. And definitely not a letter that would change my life. But stories, I’ve learned, don’t wait for permission. They just show up—sometimes in dusty bookshops, sometimes in the hollow places inside you. It was a narrow alley off Kärntner Straße, the kind you’d miss unless you were actively avoiding where you were supposed to be. I was meant to meet my tour group at the Mozart House—but guilt has a funny way of tugging your feet in other directions. That’s when I saw it: Antiquariat Stein & Söhne. The name was almost invisible, its gold paint faded and peeling under a tangle of ivy. A cracked bell above the door jingled faintly as I pushed it open. Inside, it felt like I’d entered another century. The air smelled like parchment, pipe smoke, and dreams people once had. Books towered in uneven stacks. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting patches of blue, red, and amber across the floorboards. “Looking for anything special?” asked the old man behind the counter. His English had a crisp Viennese tilt. His eyes were sharp, curious. “No,” I replied. But that wasn’t the truth. I was looking for something I couldn’t name—something to fill the silence inside me since Nathan left. I wandered the narrow aisles until a slender book caught my eye. Liebesbriefe von 1941. Love Letters from 1941. Its spine was worn, its cover soft with time. As I flipped through its pages, something slid out. A real envelope. Yellowed. Fragile. Sealed. The name written in elegant cursive: Elena Hofstadter. And beneath it: Für immer, Dein A. (Forever, yours, A.) There was no address. Just a date: 20 April 1945. I stared at it, heart racing. The past had slipped between the pages of fiction. And it had found me. I sat in the back of the bookshop, letter trembling in my hands. Finally, I broke the seal. > Meine liebste Elena, If you're reading this, it means you found the book. It means I’m gone. But you must know: I never ran. I never betrayed you. What they said—I need you not to believe it… He had been accused of helping Jewish families escape the Nazis. He had been taken. But he left her this letter, and instructions—cryptic, hurried—about something hidden behind a painting in their favorite café in Mariahilf. It was a goodbye. It was a plea. It was a final breath sealed in paper. I felt the lump in my throat swell. Whoever he was, A. had died loving her. Desperate to be believed. And now I was the only one who’d heard his voice. I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about Elena. About A.. About the photo he said he’d hidden behind that painting. By morning, I had made my decision. I boarded the tram to Mariahilf. The café was still there—Café Rosenlicht—timeless and warm. The painting, a landscape of the Danube, hung in a quiet hallway near the restrooms. My heart beat in my throat as I touched the frame. It moved. Behind it: a loose brick. Inside the small crevice: a tin box, rusted at the corners but still intact. Inside the box: a faded black-and-white photograph of Elena and A. in front of the Danube. A pressed violet. A second letter—still sealed. I didn’t open it. It wasn’t mine to read. Back at the bookstore, I placed the tin box on the counter. The old man peered inside, then at me, his eyes glassy. “My father mentioned a couple during the war,” he said. “They used to visit this shop. He said they disappeared... but he never knew what became of them.” He looked at the photo gently, like touching history. We put the letter, photo, and violet in a glass case by the shop’s entrance. I helped write the plaque: The Last Letter of Vienna A love preserved through war, time, and silence. Tourists now stop to read it. Some take photos. Some just stare, the way I did when I first opened that letter. I came to Vienna running—from a wedding that never happened, from a man who couldn’t even give me a reason why. I wanted quiet. I wanted to disappear into a city that didn’t know me. Instead, I found love. Not for myself—but through it. In it. Because of it. A kind of love that crossed wars, walls, and time. I still write letters now. To people who’ll never read them. Not because I expect a reply, but because someone, someday, might find one—and feel less alone. Just like I did. Some stories live in us quietly, waiting. Others, like this one, crash into us unexpectedly—reminding us that even in endings, there are beginnings. Even in silence, there’s a voice. And even in forgotten bookshops, love survives.
By Muhammad Abuzar Badshah about a year ago in Fiction
The Last Waltz at Leviathan. Runner-Up in Leave the Light On Challenge.
Rhiannon and Hal sat across from each other at the old beech leviathan of a table, in their small, candlelit kitchen. Fragrant rosemary and olive oil wafted around the house, as they enjoyed the romance of lamps and candles.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
And again and again and again and
The first time it happened, I thought it was a dream. Same with the second. The third felt too real---I thought, he must be a ghost. By the fourth I figured I must be crazy, hallucinating this perfect conjuring of what might have been. But the fifth time proved that others could see him and I felt him under my touch and he must be real. This was real. This is real.
By Raine Nealabout a year ago in Fiction
Title: The Ashes We Loved
The city had been burning for days. Smoke curled into the blood-red sky, blotting out the sun and choking the air. Ash fell like snow, covering the ruins in a soft gray blanket. Buildings were crumbling, streets were split open, and the once vibrant hum of life had given way to silence, punctuated only by distant screams and the crackle of fire.
By abidnaseemabout a year ago in Fiction
