Love

What remains of celeste . Content Warning.
The boutique stood preserved like a chapel. It had once buzzed with waiting lists, white-gloved consultants, and the soft click of heels on marble. But now, velvet ropes barred the entrance like funeral cords. Beneath the golden signage — ADELINE in looping, delicate serif — tourists gathered to pose for photographs, quiet as if in a cemetery.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Moonlit Sky
The small coastal town of Bellmere was known for its sun-kissed shores, cobblestone streets, and the lighthouse that stood like a silent guardian over the sea. It was here, amidst the rhythm of the waves and the scent of salt and jasmine, that two hearts found each other.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
The Library of Lost Voices
No one ever noticed the little girl with the braid undone, sitting at the back of the classroom, her eyes following words she could not speak. Mira hadn’t spoken a word since the river took her brother last winter. Doctors called it “selective mutism.” Teachers called it “a challenge.” Her mother just called it grief.
By Asim Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
A brief moment into Happy.
Time has passed on by, but not for me. It seems like just yesterday that we were happy together---the writer pens in his journal.
By Novel Allenabout a year ago in Fiction
Love, With a Side of French Toast
The first time she made me breakfast, it was a disaster. Burnt toast. Cold scrambled eggs. Juice from a can that tasted like expired oranges. But she served it with a proud smile, like she was offering me a five-star meal, standing there in my oversized T-shirt with her hair in a messy bun and socks that didn’t match.
By M Aliabout a year ago in Fiction
The Choise Of Love
In a small, sun-kissed town by the sea, lived a beautiful and kind-hearted girl named Lila. With her sparkling hazel eyes and a smile that could melt hearts, she was adored by everyone—especially by two best friends, Ryan and Ethan. Ryan was the town’s brave firefighter—strong, protective, and always putting others before himself. Ethan, on the other hand, was a charming musician, whose soulful melodies could make anyone fall in love. Both loved Lila deeply, and she cherished them both, torn between two hearts that adored her. One evening, as the three sat by the beach, watching the sunset, Lila sighed. "I don’t know how to choose… you both mean so much to me." Ryan looked at the waves, his jaw tight. "I’d do anything for you, Lila. Even if it means stepping aside." Ethan strummed his guitar softly. "Or maybe… love isn’t about choosing. Maybe it’s about who chooses you back." Lila’s heart ached. She needed to decide. One stormy night, disaster struck. A fire broke out in Lila’s apartment building. Trapped inside, she coughed from the smoke, fear gripping her. Outside, Ryan and Ethan arrived at the same time. "Lila’s inside!" Ethan yelled, panic in his voice. Without hesitation, Ryan tied a wet cloth around his face and charged into the flames. Ethan tried to follow, but the heat forced him back. Inside, Ryan found Lila unconscious. He carried her through the burning hallway, shielding her with his body as debris fell. When they burst out of the building, Lila gasped for air, her eyes fluttering open to see Ryan’s soot-covered face, his arms trembling as he held her. "You… saved me," she whispered. Ethan rushed to her side, tears in his eyes. "I couldn’t… I couldn’t go in." Lila looked between them—her heart finally knew. Weeks later, under the same sunset where they had sat many times, Lila took Ryan’s hands. "You risked everything for me," she said softly. "That’s the kind of love I want forever." Ryan’s eyes glistened as he pulled her close. "I’ll spend my life protecting you… loving you." Their lips met in a slow, passionate kiss—a promise of forever. Ethan watched from a distance, heartbroken but smiling. "Take care of her," he whispered before walking away. Years later, Ryan and Lila stood on their porch, their little daughter, Sophie, giggling as she chased fireflies. Ryan wrapped his arms around Lila from behind, kissing her neck. "Remember when you chose me?" he murmured. Lila turned, cupping his face. "Best decision I ever made." As the sun set, painting the sky in gold and pink, their love story continued—one built on bravery, passion, and the sweetest happily ever after.
By Alice Talesabout a year ago in Fiction
"Whispers Beneath the Moonlight"
Beneath the sky of velvet blue, I found a soul — and it was you. A whisper echoed in the air, Like silent wishes, soft and fair. You came not with thunder, nor loud display, But like a breeze at end of day. Your eyes held stars I’d never known, A thousand worlds that felt like home. You touched my hand, and time stood still, My restless heart, at last, fell still. Each heartbeat sang a quiet tune, A rhythm born beneath the moon. You laughed, and colors came to life, Soft hues that healed my inner strife. No jewel could shine with such delight As one small glance from you at night. You are the calm in chaos wide, The lighthouse where my thoughts reside. Each breath you take becomes my song, In your embrace, I feel I belong. We wandered through the city lights, Our fingers brushing gentle nights. No need for riches, crowns, or gold — With you, I had the world to hold. I wrote your name in every page, A poet caught in love’s sweet cage. Your voice became my sacred verse, A lullaby to calm the curse. I’d wait a thousand lives for this — To taste the rain upon your kiss. To chase the dusk and greet the dawn, With arms around me — never gone. In secret gardens of the soul, You bloomed where once was dark and cold. A rose among the thorns of pain, You taught me how to love again. And when the storms began to rise, You stayed with truth behind your eyes. Not every day was soft and sweet, But even battles felt complete. You held me through the silent cries, And kissed the shadows from my skies. No perfect tale — but wholly real, In every scar, you helped me heal. The way your fingers trace my skin, As if the story lies within — Each line you touch, a secret told, A map of hearts in love's strong hold. We danced beneath the chandelier, Of stars that shone when you were near. Each moment stretched like threads of silk, Your lips like wine, your breath like milk. And time, that thief, may try its best To challenge hearts that beat in chest. But we — oh love — we stand so firm, Like roots that twist through every turn. I do not need a thousand songs, Just silence shared where love belongs. I do not dream of distant seas, Just you, and quiet evenings’ breeze. And if the world forgets my name, If fire dims and none remains, Let them remember only this: That I was hers — and she was his. So here beneath the moon I write, This poem born from softest light. A vow not carved in stone or scroll, But etched in heart, in mind, in soul. For love, true love, is not a race, But slow and steady, full of grace. It’s not in grand or showy ways, But in the small, consistent days. It’s coffee cups and shared routines, It’s folded shirts and in-between. It’s being there through joy and pain, And choosing love again, again. Let’s build a life from little things, Like early walks and wedding rings. Like reading books with tangled feet, And laughing till we can’t repeat. Let’s promise not with diamonds bright, But daily warmth and held hands tight. Let’s write a story, line by line, Where even silence says: “You’re mine.” So take my hand, let's walk as two, Through time, through change, through all we do. No matter how the tides may turn, For you, my love, I always burn. This love, this life, this poem’s breath, Will linger even after death. For though this world may fade and fall, You are my always, through it all.
By Bellaabout a year ago in Fiction
A Shepherd Promise. AI-Generated.
I. The Boy from the Mountains High in the emerald folds of the Azurian Mountains, where eagles soared and wildflowers whispered to the wind, lived a boy named Aurel. He was just twenty, with sun-golden skin, unruly black curls, and eyes the color of storm clouds—eyes that had seen the dance of wolves and the cry of hawks, but never the velvet hush of courtly halls.
By Kipplerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Sat at Table Seven
There’s a quiet little café on East 41st Street, nestled unceremoniously between a secondhand bookstore and a flower shop that always smells of jasmine and damp stems. Blink, and you might miss it. No neon signs. No whimsical chalkboard menus boasting fancy lattes or turmeric infusions. The awning just reads “Mira’s Café” in fading gold letters. Inside, it smells like toasted bread, warm milk, and stories too old to tell.
By Arshad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Echoes of the Yellow Scarf
When Mira stepped off the subway at 14th Street, the crowd swept around her like waves. It was the same platform, same train, same morning routine—but today, something was different. Clutched in her hand was a yellow scarf. Not hers. She had found it on the park bench she always sat on before heading to work. It was soft, handmade, and slightly frayed at the edges, with initials stitched in the corner: S.H. She hesitated before picking it up earlier that morning. Normally, she'd ignore lost items, let someone else deal with them. But something about this scarf felt… personal. Like it was meant for her to find. By the time she reached her office on the 22nd floor of a glass-paneled building, she couldn’t stop thinking about the initials. Who was S.H.? Why did it feel like more than just a lost scarf? She Googled the initials with “yellow scarf” and “New York”—of course, nothing. A thousand meaningless results. But then came the dreams. That night, Mira dreamt of a girl in a yellow scarf standing under a streetlamp, eyes full of sorrow. She said nothing. Just stood. Watching. Silent. The next night, she returned. This time, Mira spoke. “Who are you?” The girl looked up. “Help me find home.” Mira jolted awake. The scarf was on the chair beside her bed—right where she’d left it. But it looked newer. Less worn. As if time had reversed. In the days that followed, the dreams grew more vivid. The girl—always in that yellow scarf—stood by a bench, her back to Mira, facing a lake Mira had never seen before. And every time, she'd whisper, “Almost there.” Mira started drawing the scenes. She was no artist, but the urge was uncontrollable. She filled pages with images of the girl, the lake, the scarf fluttering like a whisper caught in wind. Her friends thought she was spiraling. “You need sleep,” they said. “You’re obsessing over nothing.” But she couldn't stop. One rainy Sunday, Mira walked aimlessly through Central Park, the scarf wrapped around her neck, the dreams echoing in her thoughts. And then—she saw it. The bench. Not just any bench. The bench. The one from her dreams. It faced a small, quiet lake. Willow trees bowed along the edges. A streetlamp flickered nearby. It was all real. She sat. A soft breeze passed. Leaves rustled. The scarf lifted slightly. And then, across the lake, stood the girl. Real. Flesh and bone. Same yellow scarf. Same solemn eyes. Mira stood. “Who are you?” The girl smiled faintly. “You found me.” Mira stepped forward, breath caught in her throat. But before she could speak again, the girl turned and walked toward the trees—fading like mist in morning light. Gone. Mira looked down. The scarf had vanished. In its place, on the bench, was a note. “Thank you. I’m home now. – S.H.” That was three years ago. Since then, Mira walks the park every Sunday. She never saw the girl again, but sometimes, when the breeze picks up just right, she feels a soft warmth on her neck—as if a scarf, unseen, still lingers. She doesn’t tell many people the story. Who would believe her? But if you ever find a yellow scarf where it shouldn't be… Hold on to it. Someone might be waiting.
By Arshad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Long Nose the Liar. Top Story - July 2025.
There was an old liar who lived in our village. I’m sure of it. No one else seems to remember him, but then again no one else seemed to like him either. Back then the other children called him “Long Nose the Liar” because he looked like Pinocchio, and all his stories sounded like lies.
By Judah LoVatoabout a year ago in Fiction
The Things I Inherited That Weren’t Objects
People talk a lot about inheritance — houses, rings, furniture passed down from generation to generation. The physical things, the treasures, the memories captured in photographs and objects. But my family didn’t have those things. We didn’t have china cabinets heavy with delicate dishes or dusty albums bursting with smiling ancestors frozen in time. No heirlooms passed carefully from hand to hand. What we had instead was something invisible, yet just as heavy. We had echoes.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Fiction