Love
How To Disappear: Part One
(Trigger warning: mentions of suicide, self-harm, homophobia, and bullying behavior) ~ Three days ago, Gabriel Hernandez threw himself from the fourth floor of his school building. The time was precisely four o’clock in the afternoon. He unlatched a window in the art classroom, stepped out onto the ledge, and jumped a distance of fifty feet down, landing on the concrete below.
By angela hepworthabout a year ago in Fiction
Niva's Task
Niva is a snow leopard who lives in the Himalayan Mountains, over 18,000 feet up in the air where very few ever dare to venture. She has made her home in the crags of two overhanging rocks where her two little cubs wait for her patiently. However, patience doesn't last long for the young and soon their are crying for something to eat. Niva rushes from her perch to soothe them before she decides to make the trek out to her favorite hunting grounds. Traveling in this cold mountain habitat is very precarious journey, but Niva has cubs to feed and can't back down no matter the cost.
By Toby Hewardabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letters She Never Read
The Letters She Never Read by (Mukhlis) He wrote her letters. One every week, without fail. From rain-soaked cities and quiet corners of the world, Ayaan wrote to Elina with the kind of love people read about in novels but rarely find in real life.
By NASRULLAH MUKHLISabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Phone Call
The Last Phone Call Some calls aren't meant to be answered. By Darwesh The phone rang at 1:47 a.m. I hadn’t heard it ring in weeks — not since I moved to the cottage in the hills, far from the city, far from the memories. The landline came with the place. I never gave the number to anyone.
By Shafi Ullah Darweshabout a year ago in Fiction
Respect in Love
Respect in Love True love isn't just about feelings — it's about honor, space, and silent understanding. When people talk about love, they often talk about passion. About butterflies, kisses, jealousy, and those long late-night calls that stretch into the morning. But love, the kind that actually survives, has something deeper at its core — respect.
By hammad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
🌕 Mailbox to the Moon
It all started with a blue mailbox that wasn’t supposed to be there. It stood crookedly at the end of the cul-de-sac, right where the neighborhood path curved into the woods. No street number, no postal mark, no name—just a faded moon sticker peeling from the side like a forgotten dream.
By Pir Ashfaq Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
Between Lectures
The autumn sun fell like gold dust across the old stone walls of Langley University. Leaves rustled through cobblestone paths, students hurrying with steaming cups of coffee and worn textbooks tucked under their arms. Amid the chatter of the quad, in the sanctuary of the English Literature department, Professor Elias Hart sat in his office, reviewing an essay that stood out from the rest. It was from a student in his Modern Poetry seminar—Clara Moreau. Her words were bold, vivid, and filled with something he hadn’t seen in years: wonder. He leaned back, surprised. It wasn’t just talent; there was sincerity in her work, like someone writing because they had to, not because they should. He looked at the name again. Clara had a way of asking questions in class that made the others pause. Not the kind that aimed to impress, but ones that revealed how deeply she thought. Elias, barely thirty-two and in his third year of teaching, had seen students try to charm professors before. But Clara didn’t do that. She challenged ideas, not egos. Their first real conversation came after class one rainy Thursday. She stayed behind, gathering her notes slowly while others rushed out into the storm. "You said something about metaphor being a doorway," she began. "Can I ask… what do you think is on the other side?" Elias smiled, closing his notebook. "That depends. Are you opening it with fear, or curiosity?" She tilted her head. "Maybe both." From then on, she’d stop by during his office hours—not to flirt, not to linger—but to talk. About literature, yes. But also about the silence between lines, the grief tucked into sonnets, the joy that lived in the absurdity of Beckett. Every time, Elias reminded himself where the line was. And every time, he felt it blur. Clara was in her final year, twenty-two and already submitting pieces to journals, some of which had accepted her. Their relationship was intellectual. Professional. Yet undeniably… magnetic. One evening in late October, the faculty hosted a small reading event. Clara had been invited to share one of her pieces. She arrived in a dark green dress, her auburn hair pulled back, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on Elias. When she read her poem—about the ache of waiting, about a train that never quite left the station—Elias felt as if the words had reached into his chest and rearranged things. After the event, she found him in the quiet of the library’s second floor. "Did you like it?" she asked, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I loved it," he said softly. "You wrote with restraint, but every word felt… necessary." She looked at him for a long moment. Then, as if the words weighed more than air, she whispered, “Sometimes I think we’re all just waiting for someone to tell us it’s okay to feel things too deeply.” And in that moment, Elias knew something had shifted. But he was her professor. She was his student. A line still stood. The weeks that followed were careful. Clara stopped attending office hours. She still wrote, still participated in class, but there was a space between them that hadn’t been there before. Elias respected it, though he felt it every day. Then came December. Snow fell over Langley, and with it, the semester’s end. The final class wrapped quietly, students offering nods and thank-yous. Clara stayed behind, holding a sealed envelope. “I didn’t know if I should give you this,” she said, handing it to him. “But I figured… after grades are submitted, I’m not your student anymore.” She smiled, hesitant. “I’ll be back next semester, but not in your class.” She walked away without waiting for a response. Elias sat at his desk long after the building emptied. Finally, he opened the envelope. Inside was a single page, handwritten: “To the Man Who Taught Me More Than Literature,” You taught me how to listen between the words. How to be honest in my voice. But more than that, you reminded me that longing isn’t weakness—it’s what makes us human. I never crossed a line, and neither did you. But I hope—when the line disappears—you’ll let something begin. —Clara The air in his office felt suddenly too still. The world outside was moving on, slipping toward holidays, toward a new year. But something inside Elias stirred—like the first page of a book he hadn’t dared open. They met again in January. A new semester, new roles. She was no longer his student. He found her sitting under the oak tree near the library, reading Rilke. “You remembered,” she said, smiling as he sat beside her. “I remembered everything,” he said quietly. There were no dramatic declarations, no kisses under falling snow. Just the slow, careful unfolding of something true. Walks through the campus garden. Shared coffees in the morning sun. Discussions that danced between Neruda and Netflix. Love, they discovered, was not always loud. Sometimes it waited in quiet corners of university halls. Sometimes it spoke not in grand gestures, but in poems read aloud and glances held a second too long. It asked for patience, respect, and timing. Years later, Elias would publish a book of essays titled The Quiet Between Lectures, dedicating it to “the one who taught me how to wait without forgetting how to feel.” Dear Reader, Have you ever met someone at the wrong time—only to discover later that it was actually the right time all along? Love, like literature, is about interpretation, patience, and timing. What stories are waiting to be written in the margins of your own life?
By Julia Christaabout a year ago in Fiction
When Hearts Remember
When Hearts Remember It started in a small college town located in Lahore, where the scent of old books mixed with the fragrance of blooming jasmine in the spring. Areeba was the quiet type—reserved, thoughtful, always carrying a novel and a thermos of chai to class. She was the kind of girl who wrote poetry in the margins of her notebooks and found comfort in the silence between words.
By Zaheer Uddin Babarabout a year ago in Fiction
