Love
"When Trust Healed Our Broken Hearts: A Love That Taught Me Faith"
The Story I met Alina on a rainy afternoon at a tiny book café tucked away on a quiet street. It was one of those places that smelled like damp pages and old stories. She was standing by a window, a book of Rumi poems in her hand, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. The way her eyes lit up when she read aloud softly to herself made me want to memorize that exact moment forever.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Were You Ever Really There?
You were not my friend. I was 12, you were 16. At that age, a four-year gap seems enormous. But I always looked up to you and longed to be your friend. It's just that you had so many other friends closer to your age that I felt shy around you all. Not sure half of them even liked me.
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bench on Sixth Street
I saw her again today. Not her, exactly. Just someone who looked like her — same dark curls tied in a loose knot, same way she tucked her coat around herself like the world was colder than it actually was. She sat down on the bench across from the bookstore on Sixth Street.Our bench. I hadn’t walked this way in months. Not since last November, when I left her standing there with tears she wouldn’t let fall. She had that look — the one that screamed, “Don’t let me go,” even while she stayed silent. And I had that arrogance — the kind that thinks walking away is strength when it's actually fear. But today, I stopped. The woman who looked like her had a red scarf. Ella never wore red. Said it made her feel like she was shouting in a room full of whispers. She liked soft things. Lavender tea, poetry books with cracked spines, and music that sounded like rain. God, she loved the rain. Used to say it washed everything except memory. I watched from across the street. The fake-Ella checked her phone, sighed, and eventually walked off. I stood frozen, my hands deep in my coat pockets, heart punching through years of pride and regret. That bench was still hers. Still ours. I remember the first time we sat there. Summer, sticky heat, iced coffee in hand. She had just found out her mother was sick, and instead of crying, she talked about constellations and how stars die slowly, beautifully. I didn't understand it then — how people grieve sideways, avoiding the heart of the thing. But I understand now. We sat there on birthdays, after fights, between classes. Sometimes in silence, sometimes with laughter. Sometimes pretending we were fine when we were anything but. It became the only place where honesty didn’t feel dangerous. One evening, she asked, “If we ever lose this… promise me you’ll come back here someday.” “Why?” I laughed. “So I can haunt you, obviously,” she smirked, nudging my arm. “Also… so you’ll remember.” I didn’t ask what she meant. Maybe I didn’t want to know. It’s been 412 days. I counted. I’ve replayed that last conversation like a song with lyrics I keep trying to change. We both made mistakes — sharp ones, stupid ones. But mine was worse. Mine was final. She texted me once after. Just one line. “Do benches remember the people who break promises on them?” I never replied. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did. Too much. I didn’t know how to answer a question like that with a yes. But now, standing here, hands trembling slightly in the cold, I realize what she really meant. The bench isn’t wood and metal. It’s a museum of moments. A witness. A monument to what was — and maybe what could’ve been. And the truth is… I came back because part of me hoped she would too. I sit down slowly, like I’m afraid it might reject me. The air still smells like city dust and faint espresso. I close my eyes. For a second, I pretend she’s sitting beside me again. That her laugh still echoes here. That I can turn to her and say all the words I never found in time. I whisper them anyway, to no one. “I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve listened.” And then… I feel it. A tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes. She's standing there. Different scarf. Same eyes. "Hey," she says, softly. I don’t speak. I can’t. She sits down beside me. We don’t hug. We don’t cry. We just sit — like we used to. Like nothing’s broken, even though we both know it is. And maybe… that’s enough. Maybe some places don’t just remember us. Maybe they forgive us, too.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Fiction
He Promised Me Forever—Then Left Without a Warning"
They say love doesn’t always end with a bang. Sometimes, it ends in a whisper—or in my case, with a slow fade and a final “Seen” under my last message. He didn’t block me. He didn’t ghost me outright. He just… stopped trying. No dramatic goodbye. No closure. Just a growing silence that wrapped around me tighter with each passing day. At first, I made excuses for him. “He’s just busy.” “He’s going through something.” “He’ll come around.” He never did. And somewhere between his last “good morning” text and my final unread message, I realized—I was the only one holding on. We were never official. But that didn’t matter. We talked every day. Shared late-night confessions. Told each other our dreams. And in all the ways that mattered to my heart, it felt real. So when he stopped texting first… then stopped replying altogether… I started unraveling. I overanalyzed everything. Was I too available? Too intense? Did I say something wrong? Did he meet someone new? I lost count of the nights I cried myself to sleep, phone in hand, staring at our last conversation like it held the secret to my worth. But here’s what no one tells you: You can grieve someone who was never yours. And it can hurt just as deeply as a breakup. The truth is, I had built a home in someone who only saw me as a temporary shelter. And when they walked out, they didn’t just leave—I had to rebuild everything I thought I was. That kind of heartbreak doesn’t break you in half. It breaks you in pieces—quietly, invisibly. You still go to work. You still smile at your friends. But inside, you’re constantly wondering: Why wasn’t I enough? And then, one day, something shifted. It wasn’t a big moment. No grand revelation. Just… stillness. I looked at my phone, and for the first time, didn’t hope to see his name. I passed our old pictures, and my heart didn’t ache the same way. I heard one of “our” songs, and instead of crying—I turned it off. It was subtle. But it was healing. I started doing things for myself. I went on solo walks. I journaled my pain, every ugly word of it. I talked to friends who listened without judgment. I cleaned out my room—and in a way, cleaned out my soul. I stopped waiting. And slowly, I realized something powerful: I didn’t lose him. I found me. Because what I thought was love was really just attachment. What I called “connection” was mostly hope. And what I thought was “forever” was just a lesson in disguise. I used to beg the universe to bring him back. Now I thank it every day that he left. Because if he had stayed, I would’ve kept dimming my light to make him comfortable. I would’ve kept shrinking myself to fit into the idea of what he needed. I would’ve kept pouring into someone who only ever held out a paper cup. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t evil. He just wasn’t ready. And I finally realized I’m not here to convince anyone of my worth. So to the version of me who cried over someone who never chose her fully—I see you. I love you. And I promise, you won’t go through this in vain. And to you, if you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of that silence—the kind where someone is still alive, still posting stories, still laughing in other people’s lives but has completely disappeared from yours—please hear me: You don’t need their apology to heal. You don’t need their closure to move forward. You don’t need their love to be whole. You are allowed to outgrow the people who never saw your magic. And sometimes, heartbreak isn’t a punishment—it’s a push. A divine redirection. So if he stopped replying... let him. If she blocked you... thank her. If they left... let them go. Because the people who are meant to stay will never leave you questioning your value. They will show up. Consistently. Freely. Fully. Until then, become everything you were waiting for someone else to be. That’s not loneliness. That’s freedom. And it starts the moment you decide you’re worth more than “almost.”
By Nimatullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Things I Never Said to My Father
The Things I Never Said to My Father There are conversations we rehearse in our heads a hundred times but never let pass our lips. Words that sit in the back of the throat like stones, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow. This is for all the things I never said to my father — and probably never will.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
