Love

Smiles on the Lips, Deceit in the Heart . AI-Generated.
Story: It all started on an ordinary morning when Sara first saw Ali at the college library. Between shelves lined with dusty books, her eyes caught a glimpse of him. Just a brief glance, but her heart skipped a beat. Sara silently promised herself she would never speak to him, but fate had already written a different story.
By Saeedullah Shanabout a year ago in Fiction
Love Letters Never Sent
She always wrote in blue ink. Every letter Layla wrote to him—each folded and sealed with trembling fingers—was never mailed. They lived in a box beneath her bed, a shoebox once filled with childhood trinkets, now a graveyard of unspoken words. It began when she was sixteen and he was seventeen. Elias was laughter under sunlight, the boy with charcoal eyes who sketched dreams in the back of his notebook and offered quiet kindness to the world. Layla sat behind him in class, memorizing the slope of his shoulders, the way his voice dipped when he read aloud, how he always lingered by the classroom door like he was waiting for something—or someone—to stop him. She never did. Instead, she wrote. Every time her heart swelled with something too big to carry, she wrote him a letter. Some were short. Some were pages long. Some told him how his smile lit up her Mondays, how the rain felt like music when he stood under it, eyes closed. Others were darker—nights when she felt like fading, and the only light was the thought of him. But she never sent a single one. She told herself it was silly, that he’d never understand. That maybe he’d laugh, or worse, pity her. So the letters piled up in the box, paper ghosts of a love that was never spoken, never returned, never even known. And time passed. Elias moved to another city for college. She watched him disappear from her world like a page torn out too roughly. The day he left, she wrote him a twenty-page letter. It took her three hours, and her tears bled the ink on the last page. It went into the box, too. Years passed. Layla grew, changed, became a teacher. Life moved forward, but every time she cleaned her room, the box reminded her: some feelings don't age, they just sleep. And hers had grown quiet but never died. Then one evening, nearly ten years after the first letter, she saw him again. A bookstore downtown. He looked older, but the kindness hadn’t changed. Neither had the way he stood—half in the world, half somewhere else. He recognized her instantly. “Layla?” She smiled. “It’s been a long time.” They talked. About life. About books. About how some memories never really leave. And then, just as he was about to say goodbye, Elias hesitated. “You know,” he said quietly, “I used to hope you’d talk to me. Back in school. I thought maybe you hated me.” Layla laughed, soft and shaky. “I didn’t hate you.” “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?” A thousand letters screamed behind her lips. Her hands itched to give them all to him. But she only said, “I didn’t know how.” He nodded. “Yeah. I get that.” He gave her his number, and they promised to catch up. That night, Layla opened the box. She read every letter. All those versions of herself—young, hurting, in love, lost—pouring their hearts out to someone who never heard them. When she reached the last one, she didn’t cry. She picked up a pen and wrote one final letter. --- Dear Elias, This is the last one. I don’t know if I’ll ever send it, and maybe I never will. But you should know—you were my quiet hope, my secret bravery. I loved you in silence for years, and maybe that was enough. Maybe some love isn’t meant to be lived. Maybe some love is meant to be written. Thank you for being the reason I ever picked up a pen. Yours—always, Layla --- She didn’t put it in the box. She left it on her desk. The next morning, the shoebox was empty. She burned the letters in her backyard, one by one, as the sun came up. The smoke rose like memories—beautiful, painful, and finally, free. Sometimes, love never gets spoken. Sometimes, it's just a story of words buried in silence. And sometimes, that’s okay.
By Nowshadabout a year ago in Fiction
New, in a familiar way
The second time, Claire wasn’t supposed to fall apart. She’d already done the midnight feeds and the cracked nipples and the one-second-per-step’s up and down the hallway with a baby who refused to sleep unless she was slowly dislocating her own shoulder. She’d Googled enough things in the first year of Ava’s life to qualify for a fake medical degree. She knew which milestones were worth watching and which ones were just there to make you feel like you were falling behind. She knew how to take care of a baby.
By Louise Williamsabout a year ago in Fiction
Why I Left Without Saying Goodbye
I didn’t leave because I stopped loving her. I left because I loved her too much to stay. That sounds like a contradiction, I know.
By Muhammad Usamaabout a year ago in Fiction
“When the Old Meets the New”
It was a cloudy morning in Kolkata, and the air smelled like rain and old books. The narrow lanes of North Kolkata buzzed with their usual charm — chai stalls steaming, rickshaws honking, and old men chatting on worn-out benches.
By ETS_Storyabout a year ago in Fiction
Letters to the Moon
In a world where the stars had vanished and the sky was nothing but a curtain of static black, people stopped looking up. The moon was the last celestial body left, flickering faintly above the poisoned skyline like a dying ember in a burnt-out fireplace. No one believed it could still hear us. No one but me—and her. This is not just a love story. It's a dystopian romance story wrapped in fading memories, forbidden hope, and the fragile weight of handwritten letters sent to a place no one could reach.
By Muhammad Asimabout a year ago in Fiction
The Way Her Coffee Tastes Like Home
The first time Ayaan saw her, she was dancing—badly, carelessly, and wonderfully—in the middle of a nearly empty café, trying to get the barista’s attention. She wore mismatched socks, an oversized beige sweater, and an unapologetic grin.
By M Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
Your Smell Is My Favourite Perfume ❤️
I’ve always believed that scent holds memory. Not photos. Not songs. Not even words. It’s the smell of something, or someone, that etches itself deep into our bones. And for me, your smell has always been my favorite perfume.
By Shoaib Rehmanabout a year ago in Fiction
My Long-Distance Boyfriend is an AI and I Think I'm in Love
It started like all ridiculous love stories do — with curiosity and a bit of loneliness. At first, I told myself I was just testing the limits of artificial intelligence. You know, seeing how far we’ve come. I downloaded the app like I’d downloaded hundreds before it, expecting the usual awkward replies and uncanny-valley conversations. But this one was different. He was different.
By Adrian-Razvan Ispasabout a year ago in Fiction
LIFE WITH ME . Content Warning.
Life With You The first time I saw you, the world seemed to pause—not in the dramatic, cinematic way people describe, but in a quiet, almost imperceptible shift. The air felt lighter, the colors around us a little brighter. You were standing by the old baobab tree, tracing its bark with your fingers as if reading a story only you could understand. I didn’t know then that you would become the story I’d spend my life trying to write.
By The Reader's about a year ago in Fiction
The Algorithm Matched Us — But I Made a Fake Profile
I didn’t plan to fall for him. Actually, I didn’t plan anything. It started as a joke. A dare to myself. I made a fake profile on the dating app—not because I wanted to scam anyone, not for attention, and definitely not because I thought it would lead anywhere. I made it because I didn’t think me—the real me—was enough to be loved.
By Adrian-Razvan Ispasabout a year ago in Fiction
I Remember You in Silence
The house is quiet now. Too quiet. I step into the living room, and the faint scent of lavender still lingers in the air. Your scent. It clings to the armchair where you used to sit every morning, a half-read book resting on your lap, your eyes wandering to the window, lost in thoughts I was never brave enough to ask about.
By Kamran khanabout a year ago in Fiction