Love
The Person You’ve Never Met but Miss Every Day
The Person You’ve Never Met but Miss Every Day I don’t know her name. I don’t know what color her eyes were, what her laugh sounded like, or the shape of her hands. I don’t know if she loved thunderstorms or was afraid of them, if she hummed while she cooked, or if she bit her nails when she was nervous.
By Kine Willimesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Love I Never Held
The Love I Never Held My name is Julia, and this is not a story of love found, but of love felt—and never returned. It's a story I don’t often share, because it doesn't have the sweet ending we all wish for. But sometimes, silence grows too loud, and the ache within the heart deserves its moment on the page. I don’t have my love, and I often wonder why. It’s not that I haven’t been open to love. I’ve looked for it in cafés, in conversations, in eye contact across train stations. I’ve looked for it in the soft glow of text messages and in the silence between calls. But love has always passed me by, like a familiar stranger who almost remembers my name—but doesn’t stop. I used to believe in fairytales. That someone out there was made just for me, shaped perfectly to fit the empty spaces in my heart. As a little girl, I imagined meeting him on a rainy day, maybe as he offered his umbrella. We'd laugh, exchange glances, and life would never be the same. But life, as it turns out, is not made of well-timed movie scenes. I remember the first time I thought I was in love. His name was Daniel. He was kind, with a laugh that could calm storms. We met in university—both of us lost in books, notes, and possibilities. He'd sit with me after classes, talking about everything and nothing. I thought maybe, just maybe, he felt it too. That invisible thread pulling us together. But one day, he introduced me to her. “This is Claire,” he said, glowing. “My girlfriend.” I smiled, pretending my heart hadn’t just splintered. That moment marked the beginning of a pattern. I would meet someone, feel something grow inside me, only to realize I was the only one watering the garden. Over time, I began to doubt the way I loved—was I too much? Too intense? Too quiet? Too available? People say love finds you when you’re not looking. But what if it finds everyone but you? I dated, of course. A few short relationships here and there. People who held my hand but not my heart. People who liked the idea of me more than the truth of who I was. Some stayed for the comfort. Others left at the first sign of depth. I tried to change—tried to be more what I thought men wanted. Smiled more, spoke less. Waited hours to reply to texts, as if pretending not to care would make someone care more. But the truth is, pretending made me feel lonelier than being alone ever did. Years passed. Friends got engaged. Married. Had children. And I became the “best friend,” the “maid of honor,” the “wise one.” Always close to love, but never quite in it. Sometimes I wonder if it’s fate or flaw. Is it possible that some of us are meant to live without great love stories? Or am I simply too guarded now—my heart armored with past disappointments? They say love is a risk. But how many times can you fall off a cliff before your soul refuses to climb again? I’ve been told I’m beautiful. That I’m kind. That I have an old soul with eyes that understand. And still, love does not stay. It touches the edges of my life and retreats before it can settle. There was one man, years later, who almost changed the story. His name was Arman. We met by accident at a bookstore—both reaching for the same poetry collection. He smiled and said, “It’s yours,” and I smiled back, handing it to him anyway. We met for coffee a week later. Then again. And again. He understood me in ways I didn’t think were possible. He saw the storms behind my calm, the chaos behind my kindness. For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t too much—or not enough. I felt seen. But Arman wasn’t ready. “You’re everything I want,” he said, “just not right now.” I wanted to scream. Why not now? Why not me? He left, not with cruelty, but with hesitation. And hesitation is a softer kind of heartbreak—it doesn’t shatter, it erodes. Slowly. Quietly. Daily. That was two years ago. Since then, I’ve stopped chasing love. Not because I don’t believe in it, but because I no longer believe it’s promised. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe some of us are meant to love in different ways—in the loyalty we offer, the poetry we write, the silent prayers we send for people who never knew they mattered to us. I still think of Arman sometimes. Not with bitterness, but with the soft ache of what could’ve been. I wonder if he ever thinks of me when he reads that book of poetry. I wonder if he ever regrets his “not now.” I no longer ask, “What’s wrong with me?” Instead, I ask, “What am I learning from this solitude?” I’ve learned that love is not always found in someone else’s arms. Sometimes, it’s in the way you hold yourself when no one else does. In the dreams you build, the strength you show, the nights you cry quietly and still wake up with hope. Sometimes, love is unrequited, unspoken, unfinished—and still real. People like to end stories with happy ever afters. But this isn’t that kind of story. This is a quiet story. A true one. I don’t have my love—not the romantic kind. Not the one I imagined as a girl with flowers in her hair. But I have love. I see it in the way my mother looks at me when I surprise her with coffee. I hear it in the late-night calls from friends who need advice, knowing I’ll listen. I feel it in my own heart, when I write letters I’ll never send to people who’ll never know. And maybe, one day, love will arrive—not dramatically, not with fireworks, but gently, like morning sunlight on a windowsill. And maybe it won’t. Either way, I am Julia. And I am not missing anything.
By Julia Christaabout a year ago in Fiction
Like it never happened
It’s him my thoughts always drift back to. Especially late at night when I’m alone. I had a good run without him taking up space in my head, but it always happens like this. He just invades me every once in a while and I can’t help the temptation to remember him. Remember us. Even in the dark room, I can see our memories playing clearly on the ceiling. Sometimes it feels like it was all a fever dream. Or like the world has imploded but I’m the only one who knows.
By Tiffany Fairfieldabout a year ago in Fiction
Love and Pride
It was an old street in Lahore, lined with dusty rose-colored bricks and narrow lanes that seemed to whisper stories of years gone by. In a modest house on that street lived Zimal, a beautiful, headstrong, and stubborn girl. Her greatest flaw was her pride. Since childhood, she had been taught never to bow her head before anyone — no matter how close, no matter how dear. Not far from her house lived Arham. Arham was a calm, thoughtful young man, known for his soft smile and kind heart. He had loved Zimal for as long as he could remember. Their story had begun like countless others — as childhood friends chasing kites on rooftops, sharing secrets under neem trees, laughing over stolen mangoes in summer. As they grew, so did the feelings they had for each other, changing from innocent childhood companionship into something far deeper. They never needed to say it aloud. It was there in every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every time Zimal saved a sweet for Arham or he carried her books home from college. The whole neighborhood whispered about them. It was only a matter of time before they would be married — everyone was sure of it. --- The Seeds of Pride But pride has a way of poisoning even the sweetest love. One evening, under the same old neem tree, Arham finally decided to speak. He brought a small silver ring, simple yet sincere. His hands trembled as he held it out to her. “Zimal, you know me better than anyone. I want you with me — forever. Will you marry me?” For a moment, a shy smile danced on her lips. Her heart screamed “yes,” but her mind held her back. What if people thought she was too eager? What if they thought she had no self-respect? Instead of answering, she teased, “So soon? Maybe you should prove your love a bit more. Besides, I don’t like simple rings.” Arham was startled. “It’s not about the ring, Zimal. It’s about us.” “But it is about these things too. Why hurry? Let’s wait. Let’s see how serious you are.” Hurt flickered in Arham’s eyes, but he nodded. “Alright, if that’s what you want.” --- The Growing Distance Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Zimal waited for Arham to come again with a grander proposal, perhaps something flashy, something that would satisfy her pride. Arham, on the other hand, felt humiliated. His heart broke a little every day, thinking that the girl he loved cared more for show than his sincere feelings. Their meetings became fewer. Conversations, once filled with laughter, were now edged with irritation. Neither was willing to take the first step back. Pride stood like an iron wall between them. One afternoon, Arham saw Zimal at the market. He smiled and walked toward her, hoping to mend things. But Zimal turned away, pretending to fix her dupatta, too proud to greet him first. Arham stopped in his tracks, his smile fading. If she couldn’t even acknowledge him in public, what was left? He decided then that he would no longer chase her. His love was deep, but his dignity was deeper. --- Love Lost to Ego Months later, news spread through the street that Arham’s family had finalized his engagement to a distant cousin. It was a quiet affair, arranged by elders who thought it best to help him move on. Zimal heard the news from a neighbor. Her hands trembled, the cup of tea she held slipped and shattered on the floor. That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind echoing with “What if…?” What if she had just said yes that evening? What if she had swallowed her pride for the sake of love? But pride is a cruel companion. Even now, her heart ached to run to Arham, to tell him how deeply she loved him — yet her stubbornness chained her tongue. Arham, too, spent countless sleepless nights. His heart still longed for Zimal, but his wounds were too raw, his humiliation too fresh. Both of them loved fiercely, yet neither could humble themselves enough to save that love. --- The Silent End Years passed. Zimal remained unmarried, living with memories of laughter under neem trees and hands brushing by accident. Often she stood by her window, watching children fly kites in the street below, wondering how her life might have been if she had simply listened to her heart. Arham had a family of his own now, a wife who cared for him and children who laughed in his lap. Yet every time he passed that neem tree, something deep inside him twisted with an old, unhealed ache. Thus ended a love that could have been beautiful — ruined not by time, not by fate, but by two hearts too proud to bend for each other.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Love at First Sight
Amaan was never the kind of boy who believed in love stories. He always thought they were exaggerated tales people told to make life sound more colorful than it really was. But on the first day of college, that belief shattered like fragile glass.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Love Letters for Long Distance Hearts
Love, in its purest form, has always found a way to endure. But when two hearts are separated by miles, time zones, and the constant ache of absence, the journey of love becomes both beautiful and bittersweet. The story of long-distance love is not just about waiting—it's about growing, trusting, and finding meaning in every message, call, and letter sent across the oceans.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
❤rian’s Night: When the Dark Almost Won❤
It was late at night. The wind whispered through the cracked window of a small room, lit only by a dying bulb. Arian sat on the edge of his bed, his hands gripping his face, his shoulders trembling — not from cold, but from the weight of everything he had tried to carry for too long.
By Abdulmusawerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Secret of the Old Diary.
When Zara agreed to spend a few weeks at her grandfather’s old house in the quiet village, she had imagined peaceful days, maybe a chance to sketch or catch up on reading. What she didn’t expect was to uncover a secret that would change how she saw her family forever. The house was tucked away at the end of a dusty lane, its wooden doors weathered by decades of rain and sun. Inside, everything smelled faintly of sandalwood and old books. Her grandfather spent most of his days sitting on the veranda, sipping tea, lost in thoughts. One afternoon, when the sun was high and birds chirped lazily from the neem trees, Zara decided to explore the attic. She climbed the narrow staircase carefully, brushing aside cobwebs. The attic was dim, with tiny spears of sunlight piercing through cracks in the wooden roof. Pushed into a corner was an old chest, covered in dust so thick that her fingers left deep trails when she touched it. Curiosity overpowered hesitation. She pulled the heavy lid open. Inside were bundles of old letters, sepia photographs of people she did not recognize, and at the very bottom, a leather-bound diary. Its cover was cracked, the gold lettering nearly faded away, but she could still make out: “Memories & Secrets.” Zara sat down on an old trunk, the diary balanced on her lap. As she opened it, a gentle scent rose from the pages — something like dried roses mixed with time itself. The first few entries were simple. Notes about village life, small joys, descriptions of market days and rains that turned roads to rivers. But then, about halfway through, Zara found something that made her heart catch. It was a letter, written in her grandfather’s hand, but never sent. > “My dearest Fariha, I wonder if time will ever be kind enough to let us be together. Each day, I see your smile in every flower that blooms, hear your laughter in the rustle of leaves. But our families would never allow it. I hope one day, when we are old and the world has tired of its stubbornness, we will sit under the mango tree, your hand in mine, with nothing left to fear…” Zara closed her eyes. Her grandfather had always been a figure of calm strength — gentle, wise, but never someone she thought of as a man who had once been desperately in love. The diary unfolded more letters like this, little passages that spoke of secret meetings by the riverbank, stolen glances during village fairs, dreams of a future that never came to be. Then came an entry that was different — dated many years later. > “I saw Fariha today, after all these years. Her hair is silver now, her laughter softer, but she is still the girl who made my heart race under the old neem tree. We spoke of gardens, of grandchildren, pretending the past never happened. But when she left, she pressed a jasmine into my hand. Some things, it seems, never truly fade.” Tears filled Zara’s eyes. She thought of her grandfather sitting on the veranda downstairs, looking out over fields where perhaps he once dreamed of walking hand in hand with the love of his life. All these years, he had carried this quiet ache, and no one had known. Gently, Zara closed the diary, holding it to her chest as if she could feel the heartbeat of the young man her grandfather had once been. She went back downstairs, the afternoon light now mellow and golden. Her grandfather looked up and smiled. “Find anything interesting in the attic, beti?” Zara walked over and sat by his side. For a moment she simply looked at him, seeing not just the gentle old man she’d always known, but also the boy who once wrote love letters under starlight. “Yes, Nana,” she said softly, slipping her hand into his wrinkled one. “I found memories. Beautiful ones.” He chuckled, a sound both wistful and warm. Then he squeezed her hand. “That’s all life is, my dear — a box of memories. We’re lucky if we get to share them before they turn to dust.” They sat there together as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in strokes of orange and lilac. The breeze carried with it the faint scent of jasmine. Zara closed her eyes, imagining a younger version of her grandfather, standing under the neem tree with Fariha, love shining bright and fearless in their eyes. Some secrets, she realized, weren’t meant to stay hidden forever. Sometimes they waited quietly, tucked away in old diaries, hoping to bloom again in someone else’s heart.
By Aman Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
