Love

I Knew All Along
Everyone said it was love, though that seemed like the wrong word for it. It had the shape of love, certainly—the outlines, the choreography—but not the substance. Or maybe it was love, just the kind that didn’t quite survive daylight.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
We Were Just Having Breakfast-Then the Water Took Us
By Zahir Ahmad Morning came gently to the Swat Valley, with golden light spilling over the hills and dancing across the rippling waters of the Snha River. The sound of birds calling through the crisp mountain air blended with the faint gurgle of the river as it wound its way around smooth stones and under swaying willows.
By Zahir Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Every City I Loved You In
I used to keep track of cities the way people collect stamps or postcards. Not because I was obsessed with travel, but because each place carried a version of you.
By majid aliabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of a Forgotten Melody
The rain tapped gently against the café windows, painting the world outside in shades of grey and nostalgia. Inside, the warm scent of coffee mingled with the quiet hum of conversation and the soft notes of a piano playing in the corner. It was in this little corner café in Vienna, tucked between antique bookstores and flower shops, that Sophie Laurent found herself staring at a ghost from her past.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
Yours, Forever
It all began with a letter that shouldn’t have existed. Claire Whitmore, a literature professor in Vermont, had inherited an old cabin in the Adirondacks from her grandmother. It was the kind of place where forgotten memories slept under layers of dust and pine-scented air. Her plan was simple: spend two weeks clearing out the place and listing it for sale.
By HUBREXXabout a year ago in Fiction
The Train That Never Came
It was a rainy Thursday when Noor reached the deserted railway station of Chanar. Time stood still here. The station clock had stopped ticking years ago, but people still glanced at it out of habit—hoping maybe, like the train, time would also come back someday. Noor, wrapped in a faded blue shawl, held an old letter in her hand — creased, yellow, and fragile like her hope. She had come here every Thursday for the last 17 years, waiting for the same train. The one that left with him. His name was Zayan. They were childhood friends. Grew up in the narrow, rain-soaked streets of old Lahore, chasing kites in the spring, stealing mangoes in summer, and sharing dreams in the dim flicker of lantern light during the long power outages. Their bond wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet, like a secret prayer whispered before sleep. They had no need for confessions. They never said, “I love you.” They never had to. The whole mohalla knew they were meant to be. Even their parents, once skeptical, had begun to understand — maybe even hope. Life was good, and simple. Until it wasn’t. Zayan got a job offer in Karachi — a big break. The kind of opportunity boys from small towns only dreamed of. “I’ll go,” he said, “but only for a few weeks. Then I’ll come back. With something solid in hand. A job. A future. And next time, I’ll come not just for you, but to ask for you.” Noor smiled through her tears. “Promise me?” “Next Thursday,” he whispered, holding her hand tightly at the station, “I’ll be back. And I’ll never leave again.” That Thursday never came. The train didn’t return. Noor waited. First with hope, then with worry. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into years. No calls. No letters. No Zayan. People said he moved on. That he found someone else in the city. Others whispered he died in an accident. Some claimed he simply forgot her. But Noor didn’t believe them. She couldn’t. She kept coming every Thursday to the station, dressed in that same blue shawl he once said made her look like the sky at dawn. She brought with her the letter he had left, the only one — written just before boarding the train: "Don't wait too long. Life is cruel to those who stand still. But I’ll be back before you blink." Irony. The world moved on. Friends got married. Her siblings grew distant. Her parents died — still believing their daughter was living in some dream. She became “that mad girl from Chanar station.” Children laughed at her. Shopkeepers pitied her. But she never stopped waiting. Then, on her 35th birthday, something changed. A rusted postman’s bicycle rattled into her lane. He handed her an envelope, no sender, no return address. Inside, just one line: “If I told you the truth, would you still wait?” Noor froze. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was him. The following Thursday, she didn’t just wait — she searched. She asked every vendor, every porter, every soul who had once known him. That’s when she met Babu — the old porter with trembling hands and tired eyes. “You still waitin’, beti?” he asked kindly. “Yes,” she nodded. He looked down. “I think I owe you the truth.” Her heart stopped. “Zayan did come back. Three Thursdays later. I remember it like yesterday. It was raining just like today. He looked like death — pale, soaked, trembling.” “What happened?” she whispered. “Your father sent him away. Told him you were married. That you had forgotten him.” Noor staggered back. “He cried,” Babu continued, “like a child who’d lost everything. Said he never imagined you'd give up so easily. He left me a note for you. But your abba saw it… and burned it.” Noor collapsed onto the bench, her knees weak. “I tried to stop him,” Babu said softly. “But I was just a servant.” She felt everything collapse. The weight of 17 years of waiting for a man who had, in fact, come back. A reunion that never happened because of a lie. A life spent mourning someone who had mourned her too. “Where did he go?” “No one knows. Just said he’d disappear. That ‘the tracks are cursed.’ That he’d never return to a place where love was punished.” Noor didn’t cry. There were no tears left. She got up slowly, straightened her shawl, and walked down the rusted tracks — like a ghost retracing the past. The tunnel ahead was dark, overgrown, almost forgotten by time. Then, a silhouette emerged. A man, older now. His hair grey, his frame thinner. But his eyes — those same eyes — still searching. Zayan. They stood in silence. He held a crumpled photograph in his hand — of her, from years ago, in that blue shawl. “I came every year,” he said quietly. “But I never had the courage to face what I thought was true — that you forgot me.” “I never did,” she replied. “Not for a second.” He broke. Years of pain and longing flowed in a single tear down his cheek. She stepped forward, placing the old letter in his hand. He opened it. Two words: “Still waiting.” And just like that, the abandoned platform saw something it hadn’t in years — love that survived betrayal, silence, and time. As they embraced, the broken station clock began to tick again.
By Muhammad Usamaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Second First Time
They met again beneath the wisteria-covered trellis at the old train station—where years ago, teenage hearts had whispered promises too fragile to hold. The air still smelled of jasmine and engine smoke, but this time, time itself moved differently—like it held its breath for them.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Message I Never Sent
>> WRITTEN BY PROFESSOR KHAN 1. Alone in the Glow The apartment was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that settles deep in your bones and makes the air feel heavy. The only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old pipes in the walls. I sat on the edge of my bed, the warmth from the blanket barely touching the cold that lived inside me.
By Professor khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The 30-Day Love Challenge That Changed My Life
I didn’t expect a simple challenge to change everything. In fact, I didn’t expect anything at all. My heart had been quiet for months—maybe years—after too many disappointments, too many false starts, and too many days of wondering if love was something only other people got to feel fully. I was surviving. I was functioning. I was smiling when necessary. But deep inside, something was missing.
By Adrian-Razvan Ispasabout a year ago in Fiction
If You Ever Come Back
The toothbrush is still in the cup. Your favorite mug — chipped on the side — is still next to the kettle. And your jacket hangs by the door like you just stepped out for a walk.
By Hasnain Ul Haqabout a year ago in Fiction
The House that We Build
He comes home from work. He walks through the door, happy but exhausted. Thinking of what’s for dinner, the video game he is going to play. But he is tired. The dogs greet him, the cats meow. Me, his wife before him, tense my shoulders and I told him how he didn’t empty the dishwasher this morning. That delayed me making dinner because the saucepan and all the other cookware were still in there.
By Mr Fihsak about a year ago in Fiction
The Rain That Falls Upwards
It began on a quiet Tuesday. The kind of day where nothing feels urgent, and the world spins gently, as if half-asleep. In the small town of Elmsbrook, where time moved like syrup and the sky rarely argued with the earth, something peculiar happened. It rained. But not downwards. At first, no one noticed. A single raindrop hovered near the ground, quivering like a thought about to be spoken. Then, in a moment of quiet rebellion, it rose. Not with the force of wind, nor the dance of heat. It simply… ascended. Silently. Delicately. Children laughed, thinking it a trick. Grown-ups squinted and blamed mirrors or migraines. But when entire puddles began lifting from the streets like reversed waterfalls, the town went still. Umbrellas lay unopened. People stood in silence, watching their reflections drift away into the clouds. A World Turned Softly Upside Down Reality began to shift, not with violence but with gentleness. Leaves floated from the ground back to the trees. Paper bills escaped wallets and flew toward the sky like butterflies seeking freedom. The church bell no longer rang—it hummed, as if unsure of its role in this newly quiet world. In the local bakery, flour rose from sacks and danced midair. In the library, forgotten books flew open, releasing words that drifted like fog. And across the park, a poet named Lina sat on a wooden bench, pen in hand, watching ink rise from her page. Her poem had just one line: "What does the sky remember that the earth forgets?" Lina and the Stranger As the rain continued to fall upwards, a stranger arrived. No one saw him enter, yet there he stood—beneath an invisible umbrella, untouched by the strange phenomenon. His coat was stitched with stardust, his shoes quiet as dusk. Lina was the first to speak. “You’re not from here, are you?” He smiled, but his eyes held storms. “No. But neither are you, not anymore. You’re one of the few who still sees poetry in strange things.” She hesitated. “Why is this happening?” The stranger looked at the rising rain. “Because sometimes, the world must unwrite itself. So it can be read again.” Lina stared at the sky, now full of puddles and poems. She understood—not with logic, but with a part of her heart she thought had long gone silent. The Town Begins to Listen As hours passed, Elmsbrook changed. Not in its buildings or streets, but in its people. They began to whisper again. To wonder. To watch. Shopkeepers started gifting items “just because.” Neighbors who hadn’t spoken in years shared coffee under weightless rain. Children lay on rooftops, catching droplets in their palms. Old couples danced in gardens, feet never touching the grass. And through it all, Lina wrote—her notebook pages lifting, but never flying away. She wrote of memories buried in silence. Of love letters never sent. Of dreams that didn’t fit the rules. Each word she wrote seemed to steady the world, like sewing threads into a loose garment. When the Rain Returned to Earth After seven days, the rain paused mid-air. Not a drop moved. Then, in a single breath, it reversed direction. Slowly, softly, gravity returned. But Elmsbrook was not the same. The puddles did not reform. The air was clearer. The silence was no longer empty—it was sacred. A silence full of meaning, like a page waiting for the right word. Lina closed her notebook and stood. The stranger was gone, leaving behind only a silver feather tucked beneath the bench. She smiled. Not everything needed an explanation. Some mysteries weren’t meant to be solved, only felt. Epilogue: The Town That Remembered Even now, years later, Elmsbrook remains a place of odd beauty. People speak softer there. They greet the wind like an old friend. And every so often, when the sky turns a certain shade of violet, someone looks up and whispers: “Do you remember the rain that fell upwards?” And someone always answers, “Yes. It made everything… right again.”
By Asad Khanabout a year ago in Fiction