Love
Whispers Between Heartbeats
I never believed love could arrive quietly. I used to think it needed grand gestures—movie-worthy scenes, explosive declarations, something loud enough to drown out doubt. But when I met Ayaan, love didn’t come like a storm. It came like a whisper.
By Mohammad Arifabout a year ago in Fiction
We Were Never Just Friends
We Were Never Just Friends I’ve spent years trying to name what existed between us. We never dated. Never kissed. Never confessed. But everyone knew — or maybe they just felt what hung heavy in the air whenever we were together. It was in the lingering glances, the late-night phone calls that bled into dawn, the way we finished each other’s sentences and remembered the smallest details. It was in the fact that neither of us ever brought a partner around when the other was there.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Moonlake
Chapter One: The Lake That Remembers They say the Moonlake sings only for those who have truly loved and lost. No one knew this better than Elira, the girl with stardust in her hair and silence in her heart. For three long years, she walked the shores of the cursed Moonlake, whispering the name of the boy who vanished beneath its silver surface—Kael.
By Shakespeare Jrabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night We Stopped Being Strangers”
I never believed in fate. To me, life was a series of random events stitched together by choices and chance. I didn’t think people were “meant” for each other. That was the stuff of novels and daydreams. And then I met her. It was a rainy Friday night in Berlin. I had just missed my bus, soaked from the downpour, heart heavy from a breakup I wasn’t quite over. I ducked into the U-Bahn station, not really knowing where I was going—just needing movement, air, distraction. The platform was nearly empty except for a girl sitting on the bench, humming to herself. Her coat was bright yellow. Ridiculously bright. Like sunshine against a city of grey. I might not have noticed her, but she looked up at me and smiled. Not a flirtatious smile. Just… kind. The train rolled in, and we stepped into the same car. I sat across from her, earbuds in, pretending to scroll my phone. But I wasn’t watching anything. I was watching her. She had this way of tucking her hair behind her ear like she’d done it a thousand times before. Her eyes were a soft brown, the color of autumn leaves. And when our eyes met, she didn’t look away. “You look like someone who needs a better night,” she said suddenly. I pulled out one earbud. “Is it that obvious?” She laughed. “Only because I’ve had those nights too.” We talked. Just like that. About music. About heartbreak. About how she’d once quit her job to travel and got lost in Lisbon for two weeks with nothing but a backpack and broken Portuguese. Her name was Lara. She had a tattoo of a paper airplane on her wrist. Said it reminded her to keep moving. One station became two, then ten. We were both supposed to get off an hour ago. “I’m starving,” she said, glancing at the empty car. “Want to get noodles?” I should’ve said no. I didn’t know this girl. But I did. Because somehow, she felt familiar. Like a memory I hadn’t made yet. We sat at a small late-night place by the canal, slurping spicy noodles and sharing stories. She told me about her mother, who sent her postcards even though they lived in the same city. I told her about my fear of becoming like my father—quiet, distant, always running from emotions. She didn’t judge. She listened like she really wanted to understand. By the time we stepped out, the rain had stopped. The streets were slick with reflection, everything glowing under the amber streetlights. She walked me back to my tram stop. Neither of us said what we were thinking: that we didn’t want the night to end. “So… strangers or something else now?” she asked, half-smiling. “Something else,” I said. “Definitely something else.” She kissed me. Right there under the streetlight. Not a desperate kiss. Just soft. Certain. It felt like a beginning. --- Over the weeks, we became something more. Lazy Sundays in bed. Grocery shopping like old couples. Notes on mirrors. Late-night calls just to say, “I miss you.” She made me believe in softness again. In connection. In love that didn’t have to be chaotic to be real. But love, I learned, doesn’t always mean forever. She got the job offer she’d been dreaming of—in Tokyo. A two-year design residency she’d applied for before we even met. I wanted to ask her to stay. She didn’t ask me to come. We cried. We laughed. We promised to write. The night before her flight, we went back to the station where it started. Same bench. Same train line. Different hearts. “I hate timing,” I said. She nodded. “But I love that we had this.” She handed me a postcard. On the front was a paper airplane, just like her tattoo. On the back, in her slanted handwriting: “Some people are chapters. Some are entire stories. You were both.” I watched her walk away, bright yellow coat vanishing into the crowd. I didn’t chase her. Because some loves are meant to be remembered, not held onto. --- One year later, I got a postcard. It was from Tokyo. On it, a sketch of a train car. Two people facing each other. Smiling. No words. Just a paper airplane drawn in the corner. I smiled. I still don’t know if fate is real. But I know this: Sometimes, one night is enough to change everything. And sometimes… we stop being strangers just long enough to fall in love.
By Nimatullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Oh, Winnie!
The other day I spent some time with an old friend. I read his stories over and over again. He likes to sit and think a lot of the time, but he is never sure of what he is thinking for he is a bear of little brain, so he thinks. He enjoys his friends and his favorite snack. He knows right from wrong for he tries to help but always seems to get into a fix of some kind or two. So, he thinks and sings a little tune till something pops into his small mind. Silly ole bear.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The King's Night of Revelation**
**The King and the Woodcutter: A Lesson in Humility** In a quaint, serene kingdom, nestled amidst rolling hills and lush forests, there reigned a benevolent king. He was a monarch of many virtues, but among his deepest passions was the thrill of the hunt. It was a sport that allowed him to escape the confines of his opulent palace and connect with the raw, untamed beauty of his land.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
Once More With You
Maybe I was meant to sail in darkness. The dark halo I see in others, is it a reflection of my own? My bright light peppered with salt, ravaged by time. Left to be neglected, forgotten and turned into the darkness. Darkness falls on us all, like the waves of sea where turtles and doves turn dark like night. Blanketing us with memories, seeping into our porous pores. Greying us with age until the vast cities within us falter towards the skies, breaking apart until they crumble. Wearing down to the bone before drifting away. No longer do stony mountain tops kiss upon fresh, foggy clouds, or break the dawn of our rising sun. No more do legends bask upon whispers of lost kingdoms, hither no more, wither no more. For we are the mightiest of kingdoms. We are the grace, the bless-ed few. No matter our vows to others and the fall-out that may come. We are the letter writers, the Calvary, the army sent atop horned beasts to bring war and defeat to all of our enemies upon the kings “best behalf”. Its only when we step into ourselves, do we learn to accept our fates, to fly with unburdened wings. To soar into the dewy moons and dust the stars in preparation for our valiant return. For it truly is a curse to see with half-hearted certainties—untamed, unfiltered and starved for touch. Left to wonder if any of this means anything. But in you, with you, it all comes flooding back. Something happened. Something changed, making me remember a feeling I had once long thought dead.
By K.H. Obergfollabout a year ago in Fiction
The Lion Who Lost His Roar
Once upon a time, in the heart of a dense, emerald-green jungle teeming with life, a hunter, known for his cunning and keen eyesight, managed to capture a lion cub. The cub was incredibly young, barely a few weeks old, and still entirely dependent on its mother's nourishing milk for survival. The hunter, envisioning a unique addition to his humble home, carefully brought the tiny, bewildered creature back with him. His own children, a playful and curious bunch, were utterly delighted to see the miniature king of the jungle. Their faces lit up with joy, and they immediately began to interact with the cub, giggling as it tentatively pawed at their fingers. They spent a considerable amount of time captivated by its innocent antics, their youthful energy mirroring the cub's own nascent liveliness.
By Muhammad Saeedabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Heart
In the quaint town of Willowbrook, where cobblestone streets met blooming gardens, lived a young woman named Elara. She was a librarian by profession and a dreamer at heart. Every day, she lost herself amidst the pages of stories — tales of adventure, mystery, and love. Yet, in all her stories, she never quite found one that mirrored the yearning she felt deep inside. Elara had always believed in love. Not the fleeting kind, but the timeless, soul-stirring love that poets wrote about and songs sang of. Yet, despite her hopes, she had never experienced it. Her days were calm, punctuated by the rustling of pages and the soft footsteps of visitors in the library, but a silent wish for something more danced within her. One crisp autumn morning, as amber leaves drifted lazily from the trees, a stranger walked into the library. His name was Aiden — an artist traveling through towns in search of inspiration. With tousled dark hair and eyes that held stories of distant lands, he moved with a quiet grace that caught Elara’s attention immediately. Aiden was looking for a book on local folklore. Elara guided him to a dusty shelf in the far corner. Their fingers brushed as she handed him the volume, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. There was an unspoken connection, a delicate thread weaving their souls together. Days turned into weeks, and Aiden found himself returning to the library not just for books but for Elara. They talked about art, dreams, and the beauty of simple things. He shared sketches of the town’s serene landscapes, and she introduced him to her favorite poets. In each other’s company, they found a refuge — a place where time softened and hearts opened. But love, as it often does, came with its shadows. Aiden’s journey was not just one of wandering but of healing. He carried scars from a past he rarely spoke of, wounds left by love lost and trust broken. Elara sensed the walls around him but chose patience over pressure, offering him her presence without demands. One evening, under a sky smeared with stars, Aiden showed Elara a painting he’d been working on. It was a portrait — not of a person, but of a feeling. The canvas held a swirl of colors, vibrant yet tender, capturing the essence of hope and renewal. “This is what you make me feel,” he said softly. “Like maybe love isn’t just a story in a book. Maybe it’s real. Maybe it’s us.” Elara’s heart fluttered with a warmth she’d never known. In that moment, the distance between their past fears and present hopes vanished. They leaned in, and their lips met in a kiss that spoke of promises, healing, and new beginnings. Yet, as the season changed, so did the tides of fate. Aiden received news that his journey had to continue. A commission awaited him in a far-off city — an opportunity he couldn’t refuse. The thought of leaving Willowbrook, and Elara, shattered him. The night before his departure, they met beneath the old oak tree by the river — their special place. Silence hung between them, heavy with unsaid words. Finally, Elara broke the quiet. “Will this be the end of our story?” Aiden took her hands, trembling. “No story ever truly ends, Elara. Some chapters close, but the pages remain. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know that meeting you has changed me forever. Wherever I go, a part of you goes with me.” Tears glistened in her eyes, but she smiled bravely. “Then we’ll write the next chapter when the time is right.” With a lingering embrace, they parted — not as endings, but as hopeful beginnings. Months passed. Letters flew between cities, filled with words of longing, sketches of memories, and dreams of reunion. Their love grew stronger across miles, rooted in trust and nourished by hope. One spring morning, as the town awakened with blossoms and songbirds, a familiar figure appeared at the library’s door. Aiden, with the same gentle smile and eyes sparkling with affection, stepped inside. Elara’s breath caught. Time had only deepened her love, and the wait had made this moment sweeter than she ever imagined. Without a word, Aiden closed the distance between them, taking her hands in his. “I’m home,” he whispered. And in that embrace, amidst the scent of old books and new beginnings, their hearts whispered a promise — that love, when true, transcends distance, heals wounds, and writes the most beautiful stories of all.
By Shahab Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
