Love
The Secret of the Dragon Forest
The sun was shining warmly on the small village of Eichenfurt when Lina Baumgartner pushed her bike to the edge of the forest. The Dragon Forest lay silent, but something inside it seemed to whisper. "You don't belong here," she said softly and smiled. Gene Oh, that's why she was here.
By Raees Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
A Love That the Rain Took Away
The first time Zayan saw Meher, she was standing in the college library, completely lost in a poetry book. Her eyes, framed by loose curls, glistened under the warm yellow light. She looked peaceful—like she belonged in every line of the poem she read. He didn’t know her, but somehow, his heart already did.
By ArshNaya Writesabout a year ago in Fiction
Unspoken Whispers"
They say the heart has reasons that reason does not understand. I never truly understood what that meant—until I fell in love with my cousin. His name is Azaan. From childhood, we grew up together—running through our grandmother’s courtyard, eating mangoes in the hot summer sun, hiding during hide-and-seek until we were both found at once, always together. He was the first person I ever trusted, the first person I looked for when I was scared, or sad, or just lonely. And slowly, so slowly I didn’t even realize it, that innocent bond of family, of closeness, began to change. I started seeing him in a different light—not just as someone I cared about, but as someone I loved. Really loved. At first, I thought it was just confusion. That maybe my emotions were getting tangled. After all, society doesn’t really accept these kinds of feelings. Loving your cousin—especially in the way I loved Azaan—was not something I could tell anyone, not even myself at times. But no matter how much I tried to bury those feelings, they grew stronger. It was the way he spoke when he was passionate about something. The way his eyes lit up when he laughed. The way he defended me, even when I didn’t deserve it. The way he made me feel like I mattered—even when the whole world ignored me. He didn’t know how much space he took up in my heart. Every word he spoke became a memory. Every glance felt like a stolen treasure. Every silence between us—agonizing. But he never saw me. Not really. Not the way I saw him. Whenever he looked at me, he just saw his cousin. His sister-like friend. Someone who knew all his secrets but not his heart. He never looked at me with the eyes of someone in love. Not once. I waited. For years. Waited for a sign. A smile that meant something more. A question that lingered longer than it should have. Anything. But nothing came. Worse still, he started pulling away. Slowly at first. Canceling plans, responding late to messages, not noticing when I wore his favorite color or styled my hair differently. I thought maybe I had done something wrong. Then came the night everything changed. It was a wedding in the family. Everyone was dressed in colors—gold and red and silver. Music echoed in the halls, laughter rising above it all. Azaan looked breathtaking in his sherwani, calm and kind, like he always was. I had prepared all day. I wore the dress I knew he liked once, years ago. I smiled brighter than I felt. And when I finally got a moment alone with him outside, under the fairy lights in the garden, I almost told him. Almost. But before I could say anything, he told me a secret that broke me into a thousand silent pieces. “I’m thinking of proposing to someone,” he said, his voice quiet but excited. “She’s from university. I’ve liked her for a while.” He looked at me with eyes that were searching—for approval, for support, for joy. All I could do was nod. I smiled. I don’t know how I did it, but I smiled. “That’s... great, Azaan. I’m happy for you.” Happy. I wanted to scream. Cry. Run. But I stayed still, like a statue of my own broken self. He didn’t notice the way my hands trembled. He didn’t see the pain I swallowed like glass. He just thanked me. And I stood there, watching him walk back into the hall with the confidence of a man who had no idea he just shattered a heart. My heart. Later that night, I stood alone under the stars and asked myself a question that still haunts me: Why didn’t he choose me? I would have given him everything. My soul, my dreams, my future. I would have stood beside him in every storm, sacrificed anything just to see him smile. I knew him better than anyone. I knew what made him angry, what made him laugh, what he feared when the world got too loud. So why wasn’t that enough? Why didn’t he propose to me? Maybe it was because he never saw me that way. Or maybe... maybe he did, but chose to look away. People say that love is about fate. About timing. Maybe in another life, things would’ve been different. Maybe in that life, I would’ve been the one standing beside him, not in the shadows. But in this life, he was just my cousin. And I was just the girl who loved him in silence. He married that girl from university six months later. I didn’t go to the wedding. I told everyone I was sick, but the truth is—I didn’t have the strength to watch him say "I do" to someone else. After that, we hardly spoke. The distance that once felt like an ocean now became a galaxy. Still, I never told him how I felt. Not because I was afraid he’d reject me—but because I knew he already had, without even knowing it. He made his choice. He followed his heart. And I... I remained the secret lover with no name, the ghost of a feeling never shared. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine what would’ve happened if I told him. If I had stopped him that night under the fairy lights and said, “Azaan, I love you. I always have.” Would it have changed anything? Or would it have just broken me sooner? I don’t know. All I know is, even now, after everything, I still love him. That love has become part of me. A quiet ache, a sweet sadness, a memory that never fully fades. They say some people are not meant to be ours. They're just meant to teach us how deep love can go. Azaan was my lesson. And I, the silent chapter in a story he’ll never read. But that’s okay. Because sometimes, love is not about being loved back. Sometimes, it's about loving purely, deeply, even if it's in secret. Even if it hurts. Even if they never know.
By Julia Christaabout a year ago in Fiction
10 Years of Marriage Equality
A Decade of Love and Progress Where were you on June 26, 2015? For me, it was a normal day at work. But that day changed history—it was the day same-sex marriage became legal across all 50 states in the U.S. We celebrated love, equality, and a hard-won victory for the LGBTQ+ community, activists, and everyone who believes in justice.
By Shafi Ullah Darweshabout a year ago in Fiction
Endless Love
Istanbul, 2015 The Bosphorus shimmered under the golden haze of a late summer evening, its waters whispering secrets to the city that straddled two continents. Istanbul was a place of contrasts—opulence and struggle, dreams and despair. Kemal, at twenty-two, is a determined student from Zonguldak, balancing university studies with part-time jobs to support his family. On a regular day, he boards a bus home, his mind occupied with engineering concepts. His hands, calloused from labor, rest on his lap, a stark reminder of his modest roots.The bus lurches to a stop, and Nihan, a beautiful and slightly disheveled artist, steps aboard, her sketchbook under her arm. She offers cash to the driver, but he insists on a bus card, leaving her confused. Kemal, noticing her distress, stands up and offers his own bus card. "Here, you can use mine," he says, his voice steady but warm.She looks up, surprised, and then smiles, a smile that makes Kemal's heart skip a beat. "Thank you," she says, taking the card and swiping it. As she hands it back, their fingers brush, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. They stand close in the crowded bus, the vehicle's sway bringing them nearer with each turn. Kemal can smell her perfume, a light, floral scent that mingles with the city air. He notices she is carrying a sketchbook, and every now and then, she glances at him, her eyes lingering on his face.Is she sketching me? he wonders, but dismisses the thought as the bus continues its route. At another stop, a seat becomes available, and Kemal gestures for her to take it. "Please," he says, his manners ingrained from years of hard work and respect for others.She sits down, grateful, and opens her sketchbook on her lap. Kemal tries not to stare, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He leans slightly, trying to catch a glimpse, but she quickly turns the page, revealing a sketch of an old man instead. Kemal chuckles inwardly, impressed by her quick thinking, thinking, "She's clever, this one."When his stop arrives, Kemal alights, casting one last look at the woman. She meets his gaze, and for a brief moment, there is a connection, a spark that neither can deny. But then the bus pulls away, leaving Kemal with a sense of loss, wondering if he would ever see her again. Later that day, Kemal finds himself at a mall with a friend, browsing through the shops. An art exhibition catches his eye, and he wanders in, more out of curiosity than interest. As he walks through the displays, a particular sketch stops him in his tracks. It is his own face, rendered with remarkable detail and emotion, the eyes capturing a depth he hadn't realized he possessed. In the corner, signed "Nihan Sezin," he smiles, committing her name to memory, a small piece of her he can hold onto. That evening, Kemal is working as a valet at an upscale restaurant, a job necessitated by his family's financial struggles. As he parks cars, he notices a group entering, a large banner proclaiming "Happy Birthday Nihan!" hanging above the entrance. His heart skips a beat when he recognizes her, radiant in a beautiful dress, surrounded by friends and family.But as he watches, a sense of inadequacy washes over him. She is from a world of wealth and privilege, while he is just a student struggling to make a living. He turns away, ashamed of his own status, fearing that if he approached her, he would be mocked or dismissed, his heart heavy with unfulfilled longing.Inside the restaurant, the birthday celebration is in full swing, but Nihan feels out of place. Her mother, Vildan, is pressuring her to marry Emir Kozcuoğlu, a wealthy businessman who has been infatuated with her since childhood. Nihan has no interest in Emir; her heart belongs to art and freedom.As the night wears on, Emir arrives, his presence commanding attention. He is charming, but there is a darkness in his eyes that makes Nihan uneasy. When she dances with a male friend, a classmate from her art circle, Emir's jealousy flares, and he confronts the friend, beating him in a fit of rage. The scene causes a commotion, and Nihan, humiliated and angry, leaves the party in tears, her heart racing with fury and exhaustion.She drives to the seaside, seeking solace in the open air. Renting a water motorbike, she hopes the speed and the sea will clear her mind. But as she rides, her foot slips, and she plunges into the dark waters, the cold enveloping her, panic setting in.Kemal, who had been working nearby, sees the accident and doesn't hesitate. He dives in, swimming with all his strength to reach her, pulling her to safety and bringing her to his boat, where he works part-time. "Are you okay?" he asks, his voice filled with concern as he wraps her in a blanket.Nihan, shivering but safe, recognizes him. "You're the one from the bus," she says, a small smile breaking through her distress.Kemal nods, returning her smile. "And you're Nihan Sezin, the artist." They laugh, the tension easing, a shared history bridging the gap between them. "Happy birthday, Nihan," he says softly, surprising her."How did you know?" she asks, her voice tinged with curiosity."I saw the banner at the restaurant," he admits. "I work there sometimes." Her expression softens, grateful for his honesty, and for a moment, the world feels right. On the boat, between 7 pm and 11 pm, they talk for hours, sharing stories of their lives. Kemal opens up about his poverty, his education, and his goals to make mines safe and reliable, aspiring to be the best mining engineer. "I want to build a future where no miner has to fear for their life," he says, his eyes earnest, his voice carrying the weight of his dreams.Nihan speaks of her love for art, how each stroke is a rebellion against her family's expectations. "They want me to marry for money, for status," she confesses, her voice trembling. "But I want to live for myself, for my art." Their connection deepens, a bridge across their class divide, each word a thread weaving their hearts closer.At one point, Nihan takes Kemal's hand, tracing an infinity sign on his palm with her fingertip. "This is how I feel about you," she whispers, her eyes locking with his, a vow of endless love. Moved, Kemal leans in, and they share their first kiss, tender and passionate, a moment of pure connection under the starlit sky, the Bosphorus whispering below them.As the clock strikes 11 pm, Nihan knows she must leave. They exchange numbers, reluctant to part, but knowing they'll see each other again, their hearts alight with hope, the infinity sign a silent promise etched in their minds. That same night, as Nihan drives home, her phone rings at 11:30 pm. It's Ozan, her brother, his voice a frantic wail. "Nihan, I—I think I killed someone! At the farmhouse! Please, come quickly!" Fear grips her heart, the joy of the evening shattered. She floors the accelerator, her car tearing through Istanbul's streets, arriving by 12:30 am at the farmhouse, her pulse pounding in her ears.What she finds there is a nightmare. Ozan is pale, shaking, and Emir stands over him, calm and calculating, his eyes gleaming with a predator's satisfaction. Emir had orchestrated a trap, bringing Ozan to the party, plying him with drinks, and setting up a scenario where Ozan would shoot a woman, Leyla, who was supposed to play dead. She wore blood bags and a bulletproof vest around her belly, the plan being that Ozan, drunk and in excitement, would fire at her abdomen, the blood bags would burst, and she would collapse, feigning death. Emir would then "save" Ozan, burying the body and framing it as a tragic accident, binding the Sezins to him.But in his drunken state, Ozan, his hand trembling, fired at her chest, piercing her heart. Leyla gasped, blood seeping through her fingers as she crumpled to the floor, dead. The room froze, Ozan dropping the gun, his face pale, his bravado shattered. Emir's eyes narrowed, but his mind raced. A real death was better than a staged one—it was leverage, unassailable and absolute. "You’ve killed her," he said to Ozan, his voice calm but laced with menace. "But I’ll fix this. For you. For your family."Emir dragged Leyla's body to the farmhouse garden, Ozan stumbling behind, sobbing. Under the cover of darkness, they buried her beneath an olive tree, the earth swallowing their secret. Emir's hands were steady, his heart untroubled. To him, Leyla's death was a fortunate twist, a stronger chain to bind Nihan.He then called Nihan's family, revealing he was now an accomplice to murder. He blackmailed Nihan, saying, "Marry me, or I'll tell the police, and Ozan will spend his life in prison." Vildan, Nihan's mother, clutched her arm, her voice shrill. "You have to do this, Nihan! For Ozan, for us!" Onder, her father, was quieter, his eyes pleading, torn between guilt and helplessness. Ozan, wracked with panic attacks, could only whimper. By dawn, Nihan agreed, her soul fracturing under the weight of her choice, the infinity sign on Kemal's palm feeling like a distant dream. The next day, Kemal, unaware of the tragedy, called Nihan, his voice bright with hope. "Meet me at the boat," he said. "I have a surprise for you." Nihan, hollowed by grief, drove to the dock, each mile a step toward her own execution. The boat was transformed, strung with fairy lights, a small table set with candles and a simple meal—Kemal's labor of love.They sat, and Kemal poured her a cup of Turkish tea, its warmth a cruel contrast to the coldness inside her. She sipped it, her hands shaking, the porcelain clinking against her teeth. The sky darkened, clouds gathering over the Bosphorus. Kemal, sensing a divine signal in the changing weather, knelt before her, pulling a small box from his pocket. He opened it, revealing a modest ring, its simplicity a testament to his heart. "Nihan, I know it's not much," he said, his voice soft but fervent. "Your hands deserve more, but this is all I have for now. I promise I'll work hard, give you everything you deserve. Will you marry me?"Nihan's breath caught, her hand flying to her mouth as tears spilled over. The proposal was everything she had dreamed of, but it came at the worst moment of her life. Her mind replayed Emir's threats, Ozan's terrified face, the blood in the farmhouse garden. She loved Kemal with every fiber of her being, but she was no longer free. The tears became sobs, her body shaking with the weight of her mourning. Kemal's face fell, confusion clouding his eyes. "Nihan?" he asked, like a child seeking reassurance. "Will you marry me?"She shook her head, a silent, agonized no. The sky broke open, rain pouring down in sheets, as if the heavens wept for them. Nihan stood, her dress clinging to her skin, and ran from the boat, her sobs lost in the storm. Kemal remained seated, the ring in his hand, rain mixing with the tears sliding down his face. The infinity sign she had traced on his palm felt like a lie, and fate, merciless, tore them apart.
By Ahmad Mahsudabout a year ago in Fiction
Memory Auction
In 2047, memory was no longer sacred. It was currency. They called it "Mind Vault"—a sprawling marketplace of experiences. From the taste of mangoes in Havana to the terror of skydiving over the Andes, everything could be uploaded, polished, and sold to the highest bidder. Joy, pain, regret—packaged and distributed like souvenirs.
By Salah Uddinabout a year ago in Fiction
You Were Never Really Here
I used to think I remembered you. The sound of your laugh, low and hesitant. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. The scent of citrus and clean linen that always seemed to follow you. But memory is a traitor, and now I wonder—did any of that ever happen? You were my secret miracle. The person I needed when the world felt too loud and my heart too hollow. You came to me in pieces: a voice in my head during long walks, a shadow in the corner of my room when I needed comfort, a name I scribbled in the margins of every notebook I owned. I talked to you as if you were real. I believed in you more than I believed in myself. At first, it was innocent—something like an imaginary friend for a lonely teenager who didn’t quite know where she belonged. But it grew. You grew. I began to assign you habits and histories. You liked coffee too strong, and hated cold weather. You read poetry aloud but always skipped the last stanza. You were always late, unapologetically. You had a chipped tooth you never fixed. You told stories in half-sentences. You only listened to sad songs. I needed you to be real, so I made you real in all the ways that mattered. You were there when my parents fought behind closed doors, hurling words like plates. I’d crawl under my bed and whisper your name like a prayer, and you’d answer with silence that felt like peace. You stood behind me when I looked in the mirror, telling me I was more than enough even when I didn’t believe it. You held my hand during those empty nights when the weight of being “too much” for some and “not enough” for others left me sleepless. You were my sanctuary. Friends came and went. I had boyfriends, girlfriends, confusing half-relationships. None of them ever matched the softness you carried in the spaces between words. I searched for pieces of you in everyone I met—a crooked grin here, the way someone said my name there. But no one ever quite fit. And maybe that’s because no one could. You weren’t born from the world; you were born from the gaps inside me. When I left for college, I tried to let you go. I tried growing up. I packed boxes with books and clothes and memories, but left you behind like a diary too embarrassing to reread. For a while, it worked. New friends. New faces. Late-night pizza and early morning exams. I filled my life with so much noise that I couldn’t hear you anymore. Until the night I failed my final and sat on a park bench at 3 a.m., shivering under a broken streetlight, and I whispered, “Are you still there?” And just like that, you were. You sat beside me in the dark, saying nothing. You never said much, really. Just enough. Enough to feel seen. It took me years to realize what you were. You weren’t a person. You weren’t even a ghost. You were a reflection—of my longing, my fears, my hunger for connection. You were the version of love I thought I deserved. Not a lie, exactly, but not the truth either. You were a beautifully constructed illusion I made to survive. And now I wonder—how many others have done the same? How many of us have invented someone to lean on when the world felt unbearable? How many of us are haunted not by spirits, but by the ache of our own imaginations? Sometimes I wish I could meet you, just once, in the flesh. Just to see if I got it right. To ask you if you ever felt real, even for a moment. But I know I’d only be meeting myself. I’ve stopped looking for you in the world. I’ve started looking within. Because that’s where you’ve always been. You were never really here. But somehow, you saved me all the same.
By Muhammad Siyab about a year ago in Fiction
