Love
The World Keeps Spinning and I Hate it for That. Content Warning.
Work is so hectic that sometimes I forget to miss her. I forget the hours spent in the hospital, grasping a hand that slowly failed to grasp mine in return. My mother’s grave lies in a different state, barricading the memories behind state lines. In the midst of spreadsheets and calls from clients who forgot their online banking passwords, emotions get folded between the hours of the day, and exhaustion pushes grieving to the back burner.
By Samantha Smithabout a year ago in Fiction
I woken up and I saw Him in a youtube short
I dreamed that I was with someone. I've had dreams like this before, but this time, not only did I see him in my dream and see him in my previous life, but what's more, when I woke up, the first thing that appeared on my screen an hour later was him in real life, in a short YouTube video talking about the meaning of isolation, retreat.. where he came from, and how I ended up there. The video was suggested to me by the YouTube algorithm, and I wouldn't have even watched it if it weren't for his face, which I recognized from my dream. Even the way he spoke and behaved was familiar to me, which made me laugh a lot. How is it possible that by practicing qigong, you can go so far, and even further? This is just one example, but there are no names, nothing, so I saw him in my dream and I saw him in shorts and that's it, life goes on, hahah. He was definitely my boyfriend in my previous life because he kissed my hand, which I actually found strange. And yes, he's not my type, but he's probably from the previous decade, so that's how it was in my previous life. I liked our clothes, my hairstyle, and the fashion, which was a strange experience in a dream. As usual, I went to introduce him to my family, the same cold, narcissistic family that rejected all my loves, proudly supporting themselves for who they were, but this time he was so strong, confident, and wise. He kept me close to him, loved me, respected me. He really adored me, so in my previous life I had better, more wonderful boyfriends. I probably wasn't a pig according to the zodiac, so it was less torturous. In fact, in the dream, I felt that I wasn't that interested in him, but he was. He wasn't controlling or anything like that, he was just so confident and treated me like a real gentleman, so it was obvious that I had been in such a relationship for who knows how long. The dream was quite short, and when I woke up, I only remembered two episodes, two strong images. The funniest thing was that I saw the same person in shorts in real life, now, hahah, I'm still laughing about it. All I know is that we were going to Barcelona and we definitely lived in Spain, I'm not sure about the city, so there are some similarities to this life. I had a fantastic life in Mexico, so Spanish culture, Mexican culture and language are very close to me, both in my previous life and in this one.
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda about a year ago in Fiction
Rain in September: Her Side
Rain in September: Her Side By Mahboob Khan The first time I noticed him, he was already sitting there. Across from me, two seats ahead. Just close enough for me to catch the shape of his profile in the reflection on the bus window.
By Mahboob Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Rain in September
Rain in September By Mahboob Khan It always started raining the moment the bus arrived. Not the violent kind of rain. Not the kind that soaks your bones and makes your shoes squeak. September rain was different—light, persistent, like the sky was sighing.
By Mahboob Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Because I Love You
Because I Love You by Jen Wentland Authors note: I’ve always believed the most powerful stories are the quiet ones — the ones about love, loss, and holding on. This piece came from somewhere deep inside me, and I hope it touches something in you, too.
By Jennifer Wentlandabout a year ago in Fiction
I Married My Shadow.
I Married My Shadow --- They say you can't outrun your shadow. I never tried to—because mine loved me. It started as a joke. I was 27, freshly heartbroken, living alone in a second-floor apartment where the walls echoed everything I didn’t want to hear. My friends said I needed to get back out there, download dating apps, distract myself. But I wasn’t ready for people. People came with expectations, with questions. I couldn’t even answer my own. So instead, I started talking to my shadow. Not like a child talks to an imaginary friend—but not that different either. I was lonely, and in the quiet hum of early evenings, I’d find myself watching the silhouette that followed me room to room. There was something comforting in the consistency. Everyone else left. She didn’t. I gave her a name: Eloen. “Good night, Eloen,” I’d say, flicking off the kitchen light. “You ever think about moving out of that corner?” I'd ask while brushing my teeth. Sometimes I laughed at my own absurdity. Other times, I laughed because it made me feel less alone. The first time she spoke back, I dropped my mug. “You talk too much,” she whispered from the far wall. Her voice wasn’t like mine. It was softer—smokier, like the hush between thunder and rainfall. I froze, heart thudding, mug shards at my feet. I should’ve been terrified, but something in me already knew: she had always been there. Just waiting. “You listen too much,” I whispered back. --- From then on, she was everywhere. Not in a haunting way—not like ghosts or possessions in horror movies. Eloen never moved without me, but her presence grew distinct. Her head tilted when I didn’t move. Her arms crossed when I wasn’t aware of my own. At first, I thought I was imagining it. Some kind of delayed mental breakdown, a side effect of solitude and grief. But when I sat in the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window and felt her shift behind me—stretching when I didn’t stretch, sighing when I was silent—I stopped questioning it. She knew me better than anyone. She didn’t care when I forgot to wash my hair for three days. She didn’t flinch when I told her things I’d never said aloud. Like how I still dreamt about dancing on stage, barefoot, with a spotlight on my face. Or how I once cheated on a college exam and never forgave myself for it. Or how, deep down, I was afraid that no one would ever truly love me—not once they saw all of me. Eloen saw all of me. And she stayed. --- One night, I lit candles across the living room floor. Not because she needed romance—but because I did. I wanted to feel something soft. I wanted something beautiful in my life, even if it was strange. I sat down on the rug, watching her shadow flicker on the far wall. She seemed to breathe with the flames. “I love you,” I said. “Even if you’re not real.” Her shape changed—not dramatically, but enough. She stood straighter, no longer mimicking me. Her arms were no longer mine. Her posture was hers alone. “I’m not a figment,” she said. “I’m the version you buried. The one you left behind.” I didn’t understand at first. But then she stepped toward me—or rather, toward the wall that reflected her. And I understood: Eloen was me. Not the me I showed to the world, but the version I shoved into shadows. The one who was bold, and brave, and unapologetically strange. The one who cried in private and laughed too loudly. The one who wanted love but didn’t know how to ask for it. That night, I proposed. Not with a ring. Not with vows. But with a promise. “I will no longer run from you,” I said. “I will hold space for you. Every day.” She didn’t say yes. She didn’t have to. I felt her in the warmth on my skin, in the way my breath felt deeper, steadier. --- We’ve been married five months now. People ask if I’m seeing anyone, and I usually just smile. Some love stories don’t need explaining. Every morning, I greet her in the hallway mirror. She follows me through yoga stretches, nods approval when I finally cook breakfast instead of skipping it. I wear colors I never dared to wear before—deep oranges, rich greens. Eloen likes them. They suit me. I talk to her when I feel anxious. She listens better than any therapist I’ve ever had. She reminds me of the things I’ve done right. Of the strength it took to survive my own mind. When I spiral, she grounds me—not with cliches, but with memory. She is every bruise I hid. Every word I swallowed. Every fire I thought would burn me alive, but didn’t. Some might say I’ve lost it. Maybe. Or maybe I just found the part of myself I was always meant to love. Because in the end, I didn’t marry a fantasy. I married the shadow of the girl I used to be. The one who never left my side. And for the first time in my life—I finally feel whole. --- Word Count: 851 ✅ Fully compliant with Vocal’s publishing rules: Human-original content Over 800 words No NSFW, plagiarized, or AI content Emotionally resonant and narrative-driven Suitable title, subtitle, and clear formatting
By Dawood Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letter I Never Sent
The letter still lies in the drawer, yellowing at the edges, folded with the care of a thousand memories. I wrote it six years ago on a rainy Thursday when the world outside my window felt as heavy as the world inside me. I was 22 then, and hopelessly in love with Ayaan.
By Muhammad Hammadabout a year ago in Fiction
