Love
There is peace even in the strom
The rain hammered the tin roof of the old farmhouse in relentless sheets, each drop like a thousand impatient fingers drumming a frantic rhythm. Outside, the wind tore through the towering pines, bending their tops until they seemed on the verge of breaking. Willow Creek had been caught off guard by the sudden late summer storm, turning dusty roads into muddy trails and sending the townsfolk scrambling for shelter. Inside, Clara Hensley sat alone at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped tightly around a chipped mug of chamomile tea. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the worn lines etched deep into her face—lines that whispered stories she wished she could forget. Her auburn hair, now streaked with silver, was pulled back in a loose braid. This house, creaking beneath the weight of memories, had been her sanctuary for nearly five decades—her childhood, her marriage, the years raising her daughter Lily—all lived within these walls. But tonight, the silence felt cavernous. Lily was away at college, chasing dreams Clara barely understood. Tom, her husband of twenty years, had left three years ago—not for another woman, but for the bottle that offered him a false comfort Clara could never provide. The storm outside mirrored the turmoil inside her heart. Laid off from the library last month due to budget cuts, Clara now wrestled with mounting bills and dwindling savings. Selling homemade jams at the farmers’ market barely kept the darkness at bay. The weight of it all pressed heavily on her chest, making each breath a struggle. Yet, amid the thunder’s growl, an unexpected calm settled over her. There is peace even in the storm, her mother used to say. Clara clung to those words like a fragile lifeline. The sudden ring of the phone shattered the quiet. Seeing Lily’s name on the screen, Clara’s heart leapt—and then sank. Lily only called when something was wrong. She answered, steadying her voice despite the knot tightening in her stomach. “Hey, sweetheart. Everything okay?” “Mom,” Lily’s voice trembled through the line, strained but not panicked. “I’m fine, but… I need to come home this weekend. Can I?” Clara’s fingers tightened around the mug. “Of course, you can always come home. What’s going on?” A pause hung heavy between them. “I’ll explain when I get there. It’s complicated, but not bad. I promise.” Clara didn’t press. She’d learned to wait for Lily’s time. “Okay, baby. Drive safe. This storm’s a beast.” The storm raged on, but Clara busied herself with her grandmother’s recipe book, its pages yellowed and stained from years of love and use. Jams were her therapy—strawberry, peach, blackberry—each jar a small act of creation in a world that often felt like it was unraveling. The sweet aroma filled the kitchen, pushing back the damp chill. She thought of her mother, who had taught her to find joy in the smallest things, even when life was harsh. You don’t need much to make something beautiful, she’d said, flour-dusted hands kneading dough for Sunday bread. Clara missed her fiercely. By Friday, the storm had passed, leaving the air crisp and the fields glistening under a shy sun. Lily’s beat-up Honda crunched up the gravel driveway just after noon. Clara waited on the porch, heart pounding with a mix of joy and dread. Lily stepped out, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, eyes bright but shadowed. She wrapped Clara in a tight hug, and for a moment, Clara felt whole again. In the living room, sunlight poured through the windows, dust motes dancing in golden beams. Lily fidgeted with her sweater’s hem, her usual confidence replaced by a fragile uncertainty. “Mom, I’m pregnant,” she finally said, the words tumbling out like a secret long held. Clara’s breath caught. She searched Lily’s face, seeing fear, hope, and a fierce determination that mirrored her own at that age. “Okay,” Clara said softly. “Who’s the father?” “His name’s Ethan. He’s in my program. He’s… good, Mom. Scared, like me, but he wants to be there.” Lily’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I didn’t plan this. I don’t know what to do.” Clara reached out, squeezing her daughter’s hand gently. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You’ve got time. And you’ve got me.” The weekend blurred with long talks, tears, and unexpected laughter. Lily shared stories of Ethan—a quiet boy passionate about sustainable farming, raised on a farm much like theirs. They’d been dating quietly for six months, unsure of what the future held. Now, life had made the choice for them. Clara listened, heart aching for her daughter’s uncertainty yet swelling with pride. Lily was scared but unbroken, facing this storm head-on—just as Clara had faced her own: Tom’s drinking, her mother’s illness, the library’s closure. Each had felt like the end of the world, but somehow, she had found her way through. There was peace even in the storm. Sunday morning dawned clear and bright. At the farmers’ market, the air buzzed with life—the scent of fresh bread, ripe tomatoes, and autumn leaves mingling in the breeze. Clara set up her table, jars of jam gleaming like jewels in the sunlight. Lily helped, steady hands arranging the display, chatting with neighbors. For the first time in weeks, Clara saw her daughter’s smile—whole and unguarded. A kind-faced woman approached, picking up a jar of blackberry jam. “You made this yourself?” “Yes, ma’am,” Clara replied. “It’s a family recipe.” The woman smiled warmly. “You can taste the love in it. I’ll take three.” As Clara wrapped the jars, she caught Lily’s admiring gaze. “You’re good at this, Mom,” Lily said quietly. “You make people feel… seen.” Clara shrugged, warmth flooding her chest. “Just trying to keep going, sweetheart. That’s all any of us can do.” That night, wrapped in a quilt on the porch, they watched stars emerge in a sky so clear it felt like a promise. Lily rested her head on Clara’s shoulder. “I’m scared, Mom. But I think I can do this. With you.” Clara kissed her forehead. “You can. And you won’t be alone.” The days ahead weren’t easy. Clara took on extra market hours, began selling jams online, and even started teaching a canning class at the community center. Lily stayed in school, with Ethan by her side, planning to move closer after the baby’s birth. Doubts and worries still crept in during sleepless nights, but there were also moments of grace—Lily’s laughter, the comforting weight of a jam jar, the steadfast pines standing tall after the storm. Clara learned to find peace in the chaos, just as her mother had taught her. It wasn’t loud or obvious—it was in the small things: a hand resting on a belly, the warmth of a kitchen, the kindness of strangers. Life was messy and unpredictable, but it was real. And in that reality, Clara found a strength she never knew she had. The storm had passed, but others would come. They always did. Yet Clara knew now she could weather them—and so could Lily. Because even in the wildest gales, there was peace to be found—if you knew where to look.
By Nauman Hassan Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Touch Grass
He is lying on his back, his posture defying his backbone. His left arm is tucked under his back, and he is clutching his new phone with his right, keeping it suspended in mid-air. The screen is tilted downwards, and he cranes his neck unnaturally to keep his eyes at level with it. His legs are askew, propped against the wall. The back of his head rests on a jumble of sheets. There is a pillow on his belly and two others on the floor.
By Shrean Rafiqabout a year ago in Fiction
I tried living like a book character for 7 days
It all started with a late-night scroll through TikTok and a video captioned: "Live like your favorite book character for a week. I dare you." I laughed, scrolled past, then scrolled back. The idea clung to me like a plot twist I didn’t see coming. I grabbed a notebook, flipped through my bookshelf, and whispered to myself, “Why not?” Books have always been my escape. But I wanted to see what would happen if I didn’t just read the escape—I lived it. Day 1: Elizabeth Bennet (Pride and Prejudice) I started with Lizzy, Jane Austen’s sharp-witted heroine. I put on my most classic dress, took a long morning walk, and avoided all forms of technology. No phone. No Spotify. No TV. Instead, I read poetry under a tree and sipped tea while journaling my thoughts like letters to an imaginary Mr. Darcy. The world moved slower, and I noticed things I never usually see—the shape of clouds, the rhythm of birdsong, the curious looks from strangers who saw me in a full-length dress in the park. I didn’t care. I felt graceful, grounded, and more articulate than ever. Day 2: Katniss Everdeen (The Hunger Games) This day was rough. I dressed in black, tied my hair in a braid, and trained like I was about to enter the arena. I went to an archery range for the first time in my life and actually hit the target. Once. I ate only what Katniss might have: berries, nuts, stale bread. No sugar, no comfort food. I even practiced being silent for long stretches, observing everything. It made me realize how much we talk just to fill silence—and how empowering it is to sit in it instead. Day 3: Jay Gatsby (The Great Gatsby) I dressed in vintage glam and hosted a solo cocktail night with jazz music echoing through my apartment. I imagined I was throwing a party for someone who might never show up. It sounds sad, but it wasn’t. It was romantic in a tragic kind of way. I wrote letters I never intended to send, expressing feelings I hadn’t dared say out loud. That night, I understood Gatsby more than ever: the longing, the loneliness, and the illusion that one more perfect moment could fix everything. Day 4: Matilda Wormwood (Matilda) This was a day of pure joy. I visited the local library, sat cross-legged on the floor, and devoured children’s books I hadn’t read in decades. I asked the librarian for her favorites and listened like I was five again. At home, I spent hours learning random facts, solving puzzles, and trying to move objects with my mind (I got a pencil to roll off the table, but it might’ve been the wind). Still, I felt magic—because learning is a kind of magic. Day 5: Sherlock Holmes (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes) I people-watched like it was my full-time job. At a coffee shop, I guessed strangers’ jobs based on their shoes and posture. I eavesdropped (with dignity), made mental notes, and even solved the mystery of the missing office keys in my building (they were in the janitor’s closet). I felt smart, precise, and incredibly observant. But I also felt lonely. Sherlock was brilliant, but often misunderstood—and I finally saw why. Day 6: Luna Lovegood (Harry Potter series) This was my favorite day. I wore mismatched clothes, painted stars on my shoes, and talked to animals like they could talk back. I visited a botanical garden and named every plant something silly like "Glimmer Fern" or "Wobblyroot." I let go of logic and let wonder take over. People looked at me weirdly—but Luna would’ve smiled through it. And so did I. Day 7: Jo March (Little Women) On the final day, I stayed in. I wrote. I poured out everything I’d experienced into a notebook. Jo March taught me that writing isn’t just storytelling—it’s soul-saving. I lit candles, listened to instrumental music, and allowed myself to dream like Jo dreamed—big, bold, and boundless. --- What I Learned from Living Fiction Living like a book character didn’t just entertain me. It transformed me. I walked more slowly. I listened more closely. I treated everyday life as if it were a story worth telling—and you know what? It was. Fiction lets us borrow bravery, wisdom, and wildness. But sometimes, we forget that we can actually apply it. You don’t need a magic wand or a dragon or a tragic backstory to be interesting. You just need intention. So, next time you finish a book and wish you could jump inside it—maybe you can. Maybe, for a day or a week, you can live like the person who inspired you. Not to escape your life, but to enhance it. And maybe, just maybe, you'll come out of it a little more you than before.
By Jane Smith about a year ago in Fiction
The Love Lady Rodgers Lost
In the heart of the 1800s, in the grand southern Queendom of Levthia, there lived a belle named Kaylin Rodgers. Upon her chest rested a brass crown, adorned with a delicate heart at its center, from which a single diamond hung like a drop of morning dew. This crown was a precious heirloom, passed down by her grandmother Agatha—the emblem of a love so rare it was said to bloom but once in a lifetime.
By Angel Aguilarabout a year ago in Fiction
"He Loved Me in Silence—And I Didn’t Realize Until It Was Too Late"
I used to think love was loud. That it came with grand gestures, dramatic speeches, flowers at my doorstep, and kisses in the rain. I thought love meant constant messages, endless compliments, and the kind of passion that burns fast and hard. So when I met Ayan, I almost missed him. He didn’t flirt the way others did. He didn’t send good morning texts or comment heart emojis under my selfies. He didn’t try to charm me with smooth words. Instead, he listened. He remembered the little things I said in passing—the name of my favorite song, the brand of coffee I liked, how I hated the sound of people chewing. He noticed when I was quiet in a group and made sure I felt included. He once stood in the rain just to wait for me, holding his jacket above his head like it was no big deal. But I didn’t notice any of that. I was too busy chasing noise. I was drawn to people who knew how to shine in a crowd, who gave me butterflies with their words, not realizing that butterflies aren’t the only sign of love. Ayan and I were friends. Or at least, that’s what I believed. We talked about books, life, our dreams. He always made time for me, even when I didn’t ask. He was steady, kind, and constant—the kind of presence you take for granted because you think they’ll always be there. He never told me he loved me. Not with words, anyway. He showed it in the way he looked at me when I laughed too hard. In the way he waited for me after late classes. In how he encouraged me to chase opportunities even if it meant I’d move away. I didn’t see it then. I was blind to quiet love. Then one day, he stopped being around as much. Our conversations grew shorter. The late-night talks disappeared. He still smiled when he saw me, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And I—too late—started to feel something. A gap. A loss. I began missing his presence like you miss warmth after stepping into the cold. That’s when I realized: I had lost something I never truly appreciated. Not because it wasn’t there, but because I was too focused on what love should look like, instead of recognizing what it was. One evening, I gathered the courage to ask him. “Did something happen between us?” He paused, and for the first time, I saw sadness in his eyes. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just a quiet ache. “No,” he said. “Nothing happened. That’s the thing. Nothing ever really happened.” And I knew then—he had waited. He had hoped I would see him. And when I didn’t, he let me go without resentment. Without demands. Without a scene. That’s the kind of love he gave me. One that didn’t beg to be noticed. One that stayed in the background, steady and true, until it quietly walked away with its heart still full but tired. It broke me more than any loud breakup ever had. People talk about heartbreak as something dramatic—a scream, a shattered glass, a goodbye text. But sometimes, heartbreak is soft. It’s realizing you looked for fireworks and missed the candle that burned for you every single day. Years have passed. We’ve both moved on. I heard he’s married now—to someone who, I hope, noticed him from the start. Who saw the way he showed love without needing to say it out loud. Someone who didn’t need grand gestures to know he cared. As for me? I’ve changed. I no longer chase the noise. I no longer confuse attention with affection. I’ve learned to notice the quiet ones—the ones who show up, who stay, who love without needing applause. If I could go back, I’d look at him a little longer. I’d ask him what his silence was trying to say. I’d say thank you—for loving me in the way only the best people do: silently, deeply, and without conditions. Because sometimes, the loudest love isn’t the one that shouts. It’s the one that whispers… and still waits to be heard.
By Nimatullahabout a year ago in Fiction
letters, elephants, and heartbeats . Top Story - July 2025. Content Warning.
"What is grief, if not love persevering?" - Vision, from WandaVision Today is a hard day. I stand in front of the door, brushing my hand on the small elephant patch glued to the center.
By Alexandria Stanwyckabout a year ago in Fiction
Colder Weather
How long has it been? A week? A month? Maybe a year? I can’t remember the last time you talked to me. Yet here you are, an echo in my head refusing to let go of the pleasant memories we shared together. I can still see you sitting on the couch, curled up with the books you used to try and get me to read. I always told you I was too busy to sit and join you while I started up the car and started driving. Driving away from you.
By Gunnar Andersonabout a year ago in Fiction
