Love

Bailey's Back. Runner-Up in The Second First Time Challenge.
The sun shone brightly on the Alabama Gulf Coast that day, sparkling like a string of diamonds on the deep, blue-green water. Bailey stole glances at it as she drove, mostly because she just couldn't help herself. She hadn't seen the Gulf of Mexico in over ten years. Not since she left home and traveled north for college.
By Natalie Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
The Diving Instructor
It’s like another unrequited love. At the beginning, I thought he liked me. Because every time he saw me, he asked if I had a boyfriend, if I’d gotten married, if my boyfriend likes diving, and how old I am. He’s 5 years’ old than me, which looks pretty match.
By PlanetExabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Message
I found the phone washed up on the shore during my morning walk, just as the tide was retreating and the sun cracked the horizon. It wasn’t a model I recognized—sleek, metallic, almost seamless. No ports. No buttons. Just a faint pulsing light on its surface.
By Saqib Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
What remains of celeste . Content Warning.
Adeline’s empire rose like silk smoke in a shallow sky—graceful, untouchable, and ever-expanding. Her atelier became a shrine for the world’s most elite; fashion editors called her a visionary, collectors called her bags immortal. She smiled for the cameras, always with that glint—one part charm, one part shadow. And beneath it all, the world moved too fast to notice the cracks. The stories of missing girls—brief, flickering headlines—were buried beneath celebrity gossip, political scandals, wars and tech unveilings. Names vanished from posters just as quickly as they appeared. No one connected them. No one dared. Adeline’s hands stayed clean. Her legacy stitched in silence, lined with flesh, masked in perfection. And the world kept buying. The city never stopped moving. Neon light, couture shows, clinking champagne flutes. Somewhere in the background, missing posters fluttered against walls before being peeled off, replaced by ads for a new season of handbags. Adeline had long stopped noticing. Her world had grown quiet. Her name still echoed in fashion houses, whispered with reverence. But in her workshop, the mirrors were covered, the windows sealed. She hadn’t taken a client in months. Not since the bag returned. Not since the rot set in — not in the leather, but in her. She tried to forget Celeste’s scent. She failed. She tried to forget the way her skin felt beneath her hands when she did that to her. She failed. The perfection she had captured in that first bag — no other could match it. No other would. One night, Adeline stood in her workshop, candles lit, the scent of preserved oils and decay thick in the air. She laid out tools with the precision of ritual. Clean blades. Stretched canvas of tanned hide. A sketch of a new design. But there was no hide waiting on the hooks. Just her. She faced the mirror for the first time in years. Her face had not aged poorly — not visibly. But her eyes were ancient. Her hair, still red, now fell with a brittle sadness. She studied her arm under the dim light. Pale. Smooth. Flawless. Just enough. The letter from Celeste was folded in the drawer. It felt like it still smelled faintly of her perfume. Adeline read it one last time. “I forgive you. I wrongfully blamed you.” She wept, but not from guilt. From love. From longing. She wanted to be held by Celeste again — and if she couldn’t, then perhaps she could hold herself. In leather. She worked methodically, numbing the pain with tinctures used only in emergency tanning — chemicals that burned and preserved at once. Her arm was first. She marked the patterns with charcoal, as she had on so many hides before. Then, blade in hand, she cut. The sound was soft. Almost like silk tearing. The pain was distant, buried beneath layers of obsession and grief. She had trained herself to ignore it — pain was only the price of beauty. She peeled the skin in sheets, careful not to tear. Her blood stained the tiles, but she did not falter. She wrapped her arm tight, wrapped her wound with cloth one-handed with the precision of an artist, and moved on. Only enough. Just enough for a single bag. She dried the skin in a low-heat press, watching it cure through blurred eyes. She cleaned it, softened it with oils, treated it like sacred parchment. Then she began to sew — the final creation, made not from ambition, but from memory. And if she couldn’t hold hands and run through the gardens with Celeste , her friend, her sister, ever again, then perhaps she could hold herself. In leather. --- It was a small handbag, the final art made by Adeline. Two inches bigger than the palm of her hand — delicate, minimalist, almost shy in its form. She didn’t craft it for the world, not for fame or collectors. It was for her. A relic of truth. A confession stitched in flesh. The seams were uneven, trembling from the blood loss and pain. Her fingertips fumbled, but she persisted. Every puncture of the needle was a prayer. Every thread, a memory. She lined the inside with velvet — soft, like Celeste's voice when she said goodbye. When it was done, she held it to her chest, cradling it like a newborn. And in the dim lamplight, with her skin wrapped neatly into something beautiful, Adeline smiled. The bag didn’t shine like her others. Because It shined brighter. It simply existed — raw, human, perfect. By dawn, the room was cold. Quiet. On the workbench sat a bag — softer, sleeker, more refined than any that had come before it. Almost...human. It glowed with a strange warmth, as if the skin still remembered being touched. It bore no logo. No brand. And it was never for sale. When her assistants found it, Adeline was nowhere to be seen. Only the bag remained, wrapped in silk, with a note that read: “For her. For me. For love. Let no one else wear this.” No one ever did. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Cursed
Allegra sat at her desk covered in growing stacks of paperwork and fidget toys, trying to keep to herself and keep to her work. As she sat fiddling with her purple pencil, Sabrina, the director's new-ish assistant, pushed a cart filled with letters, memos, and new assignments around the huge cubicle-less workspace.
By K.B. Silver about a year ago in Fiction
Time is Money 💰
In the city of Chronovale, time wasn’t just measured—it was currency. Every citizen wore a sleek, silver wristband that ticked down their life’s seconds, each tick a coin spent on survival. Rent, food, love—everything cost time. The wealthy hoarded years, their wristbands glowing with surplus, while the poor scrambled, their bands dimming toward zero. Elias Kane was one of the latter, a street artist whose wristband flickered at 3 days, 7 hours, and 42 minutes.
By TrueVocalabout a year ago in Fiction
Her Smile Was the Last Clue
The Girl Who Smiled at Rain It all began in the quiet town of Willowbrook, where the rain fell almost every afternoon, and the streets smelled of old books and roses.
By Muhammad Hayatabout a year ago in Fiction
After The Sunset The Stars As My Witness. Content Warning.
Danae was often blind, deaf, and mute when it came to the reckless decisions that spewed out of Perseus’ often idle mind. Her son was all she had and she wanted him to be free and happy without her restricting him and maybe just maybe the empty feeling he always felt would go away. Even if she tried to guide him it was of no use, he was as stubborn as the donkey in Polydectes' courtyard that had refused to work for the past month despite the merciless whips it got. she thought of him more like the sun, you don't command it to rise or set or disappear it does as it pleases, majestically. This time would be different, this decision would be more than just reckless and she was going to try to stop her sun, she didn’t want her sun to set forever leaving her to the darkness to feast on her. However, she would not hear of these antics from the horse's mouth but instead from the one that fed the horse with the idea. “Danae!” A familiar and unpleasant voice called from behind her. She tried to subtly increase her pace. “Danae!” he yelled louder than before, drawing everyone's attention even the deaf beggar must have heard him from the way he stared at her. She stopped, waiting for him to get to her. “Polydectes,” she smiled as he approached “Your majesty,” she bowed her head and curtsied, dreading the conversation that was going to erupt between them, she already knew what the conversation would revolve around. They’d frequently had this conversation since Perseus had reached the mature age for marriage. “You have been on my mind lately,” Polydectes would always break the ice, that was already broken. “ Oh, you have?” she would always respond. She could recite their interaction and knew his intentions though she pretended to be oblivious. “I have, of what your life would be like after…” he cleared his throat “Perseus?” he whispered like it was a secret only she should know “And what would have happened to Perseus?” she asked softly suppressing her annoyance. “Well, he will marry one day or you may…” he clears his throat as if he was preparing her for a revelation “He may not return from his quest” What quest? she wondered, Perseus hadn't mentioned any quest. Polydectes could read the confusion that imprinted all over Danae on the mention of the quest. “Well, on my birthday feast, you see. He promised the severed head of the mortal gorgon…” He paused to watch Danae’s expression turn from confusion to horror. It couldn't be who I think it is she hoped in her heart “Medusa” he whispered with amusement tingling in his tone confirming what Danae feared. “Medusa,” she gasped. Euryale watched the clueless colony of tourists touring the beach and venturing into their territory, Sthetho scanned through the treasures they brought out of their ship while Medusa was supposed to plot the routes they’d use to hunt but instead got distracted by the sunset. As the sun set giving the moon a chance to finally shine Medusa hissed quick haphazard instructions as the sisters spersed out to hunt. Hunting was harder for Medusa compared to her sisters because she had to hunt with her eyes closed to avoid turning their prey to stone but the people were loud and reeked of fear which diluted the intensity of the challenge. Hunting always made her feel powerful, as screams of terror purged through the beach and the rest of the island it would deafen the memory that would always tag along with the moon because as she attacked and defeated them she would pretend it was him she was defeating. Children and pregnant women were exempted from the purge but would live with the trauma of seeing their loved ones die. Medusa thought that would be better than death but like her trauma, it would eat them up till there was nothing left. The survivors would be escorted by Meritus, their servant, to assist the survivors back on to the ship and shipping them away. The sisters would then return to their cave with their stolen treasures. “I was thinking of making something like this,” Euryale said wrapping the cloth around her body from their recent treasures. “What do you think,” she asked as she turned away from the mirror to face her sisters, Medusa stood behind her eliminating the jewellery that didn't flatter her taste while Stheno studied the weapons they’d found. Medusa always felt like it was her fault because she let her guard down and Stheno always felt like it was her fault because she wasn't there to protect Medusa but it was none of their faults, if Medusa hadn't let her guard down it still would've happened and If Stheno had been there she would’ve hopelessly watched the scene and failed to protect her anyway. And Euryale lived with the guilt.
By Ropafadzo Thokozani Zinyuke (Fadzo) about a year ago in Fiction
Stitch Count. Winner in You Were Never Really Here Challenge.
Lola could have easily worked in a munitions factory. "I love the repetition, it's so peaceful," Lola said while we took a break from rolling napkins and polishing silverware. She leaned against the cold brick, blowing smoke into the night sky, grinning like a child while she stared at the moon.
By Autumn Stewabout a year ago in Fiction
Grandma’s Attic Had a Secret She Never Told Anyone
Grandma’s Attic Had a Secret She Never Told Anyone The house creaked with the kind of silence that only comes after someone is gone. Ellie stood at the bottom of the narrow staircase leading up to the attic—her grandmother’s attic. She’d been asked to clean it out, to sort through boxes and old furniture for donations. But as she stared at the cracked wooden steps, something in her chest told her this wouldn’t be a simple clean-up.
By Hamidabout a year ago in Fiction
Manual of Love 2 (2007)
Scene 1: A Love Born from Tragedy – A Paraplegic and His Nurse The film starts with a sad but kind of sweet story. We see a guy’s life change completely when he gets an accident and becomes a paraplegic. While he’s adjusting to his new normal, he feels hopelessly lonely.
By Shoaib Rehmanabout a year ago in Fiction
The 90-Day Love Lab: How Your Brain Secretly Tests Relationships (And How to Pass)"
"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies." — Aristotle Modern neuroscience has uncovered what poets have long suspected: romantic love follows a precise biological timeline. The first 90 days of a relationship represent a critical evolutionary threshold where infatuation chemistry either transforms into lasting attachment or fades into memory. This transitional window reveals fundamental truths about how and why we love.
By shoaib khanabout a year ago in Fiction