Love

She Sang in Steam
This city. The city was my home. The bitterness—the acridity—stifled my breathing, and the city's breathing. Almost. The steam encircling the city was like its living spirit of the present and the dying ghost of its past.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Fiction
The Day I Left Without Saying Goodbye
I didn't plan to leave that day. It just... happened. The morning sun was unusually warm for early October. I remember standing in the kitchen, watching the steam curl off my coffee, and thinking how quiet everything was. No text from her. No sound from the street. Just the hum of the fridge and the soft ticking of the clock above the sink. She had fallen asleep angry. Again. I had tried to explain, to make things right — but my words always seemed to hit a wall she had already built. We used to laugh. We used to dance in this kitchen at midnight, barefoot, drunk on cheap wine and each other. Now we barely spoke. And when we did, it felt like two strangers fighting for the last word in a story neither of us believed in anymore. I picked up my keys. Then I hesitated. Her coat still hung on the back of the chair — the gray one with the tear in the pocket I always meant to sew. Her slippers were tucked under the table. She was still here, in the way her presence filled every corner of this apartment — but I wasn’t. Not anymore. I walked out without a note. Without slamming the door. Without even looking back. I made it three blocks before I sat down on a bench, heart pounding. The city moved around me, uncaring and alive. I wondered if she’d call. If she’d even notice. I wondered if I had made a mistake, or if this — finally — was the beginning of something honest. We always imagine endings are loud, dramatic, full of tears and closure. But sometimes, endings are quiet. Just the sound of a door clicking shut and no one following after.
By Arifabout a year ago in Fiction
11 Daily Habits to Enhance Your Beauty
Daily Habits to Enhance Your Beauty 1. Get Adequate Sleep One of the most fundamental yet often neglected habits for beauty is getting good sleep. Sleep is when your body undergoes repair and regeneration, and lack of it can manifest as dark circles, dull skin, and premature aging.
By Mr Haris Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Fault in Our Stars
Hazel Grace Lancaster was sixteen, living with terminal thyroid cancer that had spread to her lungs. Every breath was a struggle, made easier only by an oxygen tank she carried everywhere. Her world was limited—books, TV, occasional classes, and the constant presence of her parents, who tried to keep her spirits up despite the looming truth. Life felt like a waiting room before death, until everything changed at a support group meeting in a church basement. That was where she met Augustus Waters. Augustus, or “Gus,” was seventeen—handsome, witty, and in remission after losing a leg to osteosarcoma. He had a confidence and charm Hazel hadn't seen in a long time. He joked, flirted, and looked at her like she wasn’t just a sick girl—but a person with fire and meaning. From their first conversation, Hazel knew this boy was different. They exchanged books. Hazel gave Gus her favorite novel, An Imperial Affliction, by the mysterious author Peter Van Houten. The book ended mid-sentence, unresolved, and Hazel always wondered what happened to the characters afterward. Gus was captivated by the story too and promised to help her find the ending. Their friendship quickly blossomed into something more. They talked for hours, laughed at dark jokes only cancer kids could understand, and shared their fears. Hazel was afraid of hurting people by dying. Gus was afraid of being forgotten. Determined to give Hazel the answers she longed for, Gus reached out to Van Houten, who lived in Amsterdam. To their surprise, the reclusive author responded—though cryptically. With the help of a cancer charity, Gus arranged a dream trip to Amsterdam for them both, with Hazel’s mom tagging along. In Amsterdam, romance bloomed fully. They walked along canals, visited the Anne Frank House, and finally met Van Houten. But the meeting was a disaster. Drunk and bitter, the author refused to answer Hazel’s questions. The fictional world she’d clung to unraveled. But even as her dream crumbled, Gus stood beside her. He kissed her in the attic of Anne Frank’s house, surrounded by history and pain, defying the cancer that tried to erase joy from their lives. Then Gus told her the truth. His cancer had returned. It had spread everywhere. He was dying. Hazel’s world shattered. She had tried so hard not to fall in love, not to burden anyone with her death—but now she was the one who would have to watch someone she loved slip away. They returned home. Gus’s health declined rapidly. He became weaker, unable to care for himself. Hazel visited him every day, cherishing each moment even as the fear of losing him tightened around her chest. Gus had once dreamed of being a hero, of doing something extraordinary. But now, confined to a wheelchair, vomiting and exhausted, he wondered if his life had meant anything at all. But to Hazel, he was already extraordinary. Gus died eight days after his pre-funeral, a mock ceremony he arranged where he asked Hazel and their friend Isaac to give eulogies while he was still alive. He wanted to hear what people would say about him. Hazel told him that she would always love him, even in pain. “You gave me a forever within the numbered days.” After his death, Hazel discovered that Gus had secretly written to Van Houten, asking him to help Hazel find peace after he was gone. Moved by Gus’s words, Van Houten reached out again—this time sober—and shared a bit of his own pain: the novel Hazel had loved was inspired by his own daughter, who died of cancer. He apologized and left her with a letter. In it, Augustus wrote: > “You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world... but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.” Hazel read the words over and over, tears falling, a quiet smile on her face. She liked her choices too. --- 🌟 Moral of the Story The Fault in Our Stars is not just a story about illness. It’s a story about living fiercely in the face of death, about finding light even in darkness. It teaches us that love is worth the pain, and even a short life can be filled with meaning, if lived truthfully and with heart.
By SULAIMAN SHAHabout a year ago in Fiction
After The Sunset The Stars As My Witness. Content Warning.
She loved how the sunset tainted the sky but not as much as the sunrise brought the earth to life. She hated what came after the beautiful sunset, the moon. The moon always forced her to brisk down nightmare lane. It had been many years since the incident and it always felt like she was going through it over and over again once the moon rose bringing the wicked to life. She was tired of the way she had been living, making men pay for a sin they didn't commit or know of but could you blame her they felt the closest to him she’d ever get to and she always thought she would feel better this way but lying to yourself can only take you so far, for her not so far. Even if she tried to avenge her innocence she would lose and no one would help her because she had become a monster like him feared by all the men and women in the neighbouring kingdoms. That was the closest thing to respect and power she had gotten to, fear. Meanwhile, in a kingdom that was oceans and lands away, her death was being plotted by a brave young man who wanted to make a name for himself since he couldn't do so with wealth. He had made empty brags of how he would kill her and bring her head as a gift instead of horses everyone was going to give to the King, the king of the kingdom that had welcomed him and his mother with open arms but closed hearts years ago. He didn't think anyone would dare him to because it was a dangerous journey and no one had lived to tell the tale, but that was exactly what the king wanted, her head or him dead. The king didn't care what would've happened, all he wanted was the young man’s mother as his wife and the only way was to cut the man out of the picture even if it meant death. If he went on the journey he was dead either way. It was either her wrath would kill him or the King’s betrayal using the gift to kill him. He didn't know this but he knew he wasn't going to die. Little did he know when his path finally collided with hers their lives wouldn't be the same and the sunset would be a reminder. She knew her days were numbered and that one day the sunset might set on her existence. Would anyone miss me or feel pain? She always wondered. She wanted to be accepted by more than just her family but no one dared to get to know her, unfortunately, her curse did not allow anyone the opportunity even if they wanted to or were daring. At least the curse is protecting me from the wicked men that roam this land, She would often console herself when she ran into her shadow on the walls of her cave or her reflection in ponds, or the ground that felt like it trebled as she walked because the animals and creatures would scatter when they sensed or saw her close. “Don't worry” The voices from her hair would hiss “They would have scattered before this” and they were right. Even before the curse when she was as beautiful as the nymphs and looked like the gods all came together to carve every inch of her with beauty and perfection, the animals would still scatter. However, as the animals scattered all the dangerous animals and creatures she would have scattered from before the curse bowed to her presence as Pegasus and Chrysaor followed behind her. She was Medusa, the gorgon, Athena’s once most valued priestess and He was Perseus, the demigod, son of Zeus.
By Ropafadzo Thokozani Zinyuke (Fadzo) about a year ago in Fiction
TRAPPED
Sweet-smelling flowers. Sparkling bottle of champagne. Grilled chicken with sauce. Soothing music... It was just the perfect night I always dreamed of. Angelo and I were head over heels in love with each other. His appearance that night was very captivating. You would say that he came purposely to steal my heart. And yes, he did. I was basking in his love-filled words. They were just artistic and thoughtful. His love was so tender, and the night was unforgettable. He spoke the words that almost every lady dreams of. He lovingly asked me to marry him. I gave him a yes without any form of hesitation. For I wasn't going to lose this dude sent from Heaven, I thought.
By Joshua Kenabout a year ago in Fiction
When Raindrops Remembered
It was raining the way old memories fall—slow, scattered, and soft enough to make your chest ache. She stood by the cafe window, tracing circles on the fogged-up glass, watching as drops slid like forgotten promises down the pane. Outside, umbrellas bobbed like drifting ships, and inside, her silence was louder than the jazz humming low in the background. He entered with the scent of rain on his coat and a kind of hesitation that felt familiar. Time hadn’t changed the way his eyes searched the room—wide, blue, unsure. He hadn’t expected her. She hadn’t prepared for him. Yet, there they were—strangers only in the present tense. Years ago, they were pages written in the same chapter. Late-night calls, long walks with untold feelings walking beside them, letters never sent, poems folded into the backs of books. But life, with all its timings and detours, pulled them away before the ink could dry. She remembered the last thing he said before disappearing: "Sometimes love means leaving first so the other can fly." He had flown. She had stood still, learning to read between the lines of her own heart. And now, here he was, older, maybe wiser, carrying the scent of regret wrapped in hope. They didn’t greet each other like the past demanded. Instead, he asked, “Still writing in the margins of everything?” She smiled, that familiar half-curve that once made him write poetry he never dared to share. “Only where it matters.” He laughed softly, unsure if it was permission to sit, but he did anyway. The space between them filled with words unsaid and years unclaimed. “I tried to forget you,” he confessed, eyes downcast. “So did I,” she said. “And then I tried to remember you gently.” His fingers drummed the edge of the table. “Did it hurt less that way?” “No,” she replied. “But it felt honest.” The cafe around them faded into a blur of background noise as if the universe had dimmed the lights just for them. Their story resumed—not from where it ended, but from where it had always wanted to begin. A story not of rekindling, but of understanding. Of recognizing that the love which once came too early might now arrive precisely on time. He spoke of the cities he wandered, the hands he held that never quite fit, and the poems he wrote without realizing they were still about her. She spoke of the quiet she had befriended, the pages she had filled, and the way her heart still paused every time it rained. “Do you believe in second chances?” he asked. “I believe in honest ones,” she replied. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t promise. They didn’t fall back into old patterns. Instead, they built a new rhythm—one born of truth, time, and tempered hearts. The rain outside didn’t stop, but it no longer mirrored their melancholy. It sounded like a beginning. He offered to walk her home. She didn’t refuse. Along the wet sidewalks, beneath a shared silence, their steps fell into sync. He reached for her hand, not like someone claiming ownership—but like someone finally recognizing where his belonged. The city lights shimmered in puddles like scattered stars. The air was thick with the scent of lavender from her coat and the warmth of things finally said. By the time they reached her door, words weren’t necessary. They had already spoken the kind that mattered. She turned and asked, “Will you stay in the story this time?” He nodded. “Only if you keep writing it.” Under the soft glow of a streetlamp and the rhythm of a rain that had waited as long as they had, something old turned beautifully new. They didn’t need to say they were in love. The rain said it for them.
By Lucina Grayabout a year ago in Fiction
The Thousandth White Rose
For ten winters, the delicate chime of crystal above the florist’s door had been Liam’s evening benediction, heralding his arrival. It was a sound woven into the fabric of Liam’s existence, as predictable and comforting as the fading of daylight.
By Heydoabout a year ago in Fiction
Pocahontas
She was running as fast as she could through the forest, the wind and branches catching the edges of her hair. The pulling didn’t bother her when a piece got snagged, she was used to that. It motivated her to run harder and faster. She ran until she broke through the tree line out into the field. In front of her by a few yards the river roared towards home. She was almost there now, could almost smell the smoke from cooked fish and squash. She ran toward the river and turned at the last second to follow the flow south. Up ahead there was a cliff, the river jumped over the edge in great gulps of waves, splashing into the water below. It was getting closer and she sped up, feeling her heartbeat quicken. Right before she reached the edge she leapt into the air, inspired by the deer she’d watched jumping over fallen trees or off of rocks as someone hunted them. She felt the wind hit her even harder as she floated for a moment, she was flying. Down she went, riding air just in front of the waterfall until she landed feet first into the water at the bottom. Going down several feet she felt her extended foot hit the sand for a split second and she pushed hard to bounce herself back up. It was around twenty feet or more to the surface and the bounce cut the effort she would need to break through the water in half. She could see a figure on the bank of the river as she reached the surface. She broke through and gasped hard, taking in as much air as she could as she brushed the hair and water off her face. She’d been turned around, so she spun the water to see her visitor.
By Raine Fielderabout a year ago in Fiction
13 steps into the attic . Content Warning.
They say never count the steps to the attic. But I did. Thirteen. Thirteen creaking wooden steps, each one groaning under a weight that didn’t always feel like mine. The first twelve were ordinary, dusty, old. But the thirteenth? It never made a sound. Never creaked. Never shifted. As if it weren’t a step at all. Just... a threshold. When my sister Liz vanished, it wasn’t from a parking lot, or a school, or a gas station. She vanished from our grandmother’s attic. The police said she must’ve run away. No signs of a break-in. No struggle. Just a single sandal left on the top step. And the attic door locked from the inside. --- I came back to the house a year later, just after Granny passed. She’d left it to me—maybe guilt, maybe pity. But I knew it wasn’t just a house. Not anymore. Something in there had taken Liz. And I was going to find it. I moved in on a rain-heavy Thursday. By Sunday, the whispers started. Late at night, from above my room, I’d hear footsteps. Not rats, not raccoons— footsteps. Slow. Dragging. And the soft thump of something moving across the attic floor. When I tried to record it, the audio came back silent. so, was it all just in my head? Every single time. --- The attic door was at the end of the upstairs hall, locked with a rusted bolt and a smaller, strange lock I didn’t recognize— old but sturdy . I pried it open on the fourth night. The air changed instantly. It wasn’t musty or warm. It was... still. Like a grave. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and began counting as I stepped up. One. Two. Three. The steps groaned, as they should, coated in dust and something sticky beneath it. Something like syrup or old blood. Seven. Eight. Nine. I felt watched. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Then silence. Step thirteen made no sound under my foot. My breath caught. My light flickered. I turned it back toward the attic. And the attic wasn’t empty. --- There was furniture that didn’t belong—an antique chair, a broken crib, a mirror that hadn’t been there before. None of it was Granny’s. I knew this house. This room had changed. The mirror caught me. Not my reflection. Just me, staring back—no phone in hand, no light. And in the reflection behind me stood a girl with one eye sewn shut. I turned around. Nothing there. --- I came down shaking, locked the door, and told myself it was grief. Insomnia. Trauma. Until I looked at the photos on the hallway wall. All the family portraits had changed. In every one, Liz was missing. Not blurred. Erased. And in her place, further in the background than before, was the one-eyed girl. Closer. Clearer. Watching. --- I started sleeping downstairs. I nailed the attic door shut. I drank. I left lights on. But each morning, the door was unsealed. The nails untouched. And the thirteenth step always clean—free of dust, blood, anything. It wanted me back. --- On the seventh night, I found my phone sitting on the kitchen table, playing a video I never recorded. It showed me, climbing the attic steps. But in the video, I never turned back. I reached the thirteenth step... and vanished. I don’t remember doing it. I don’t remember leaving my phone. But the video was dated tomorrow. --- I should’ve left. I didn’t. At 11:47 p.m., I climbed the stairs again. One. Two. Three. I was shaking. Six. Seven. Eight. The walls felt tighter. The shadows deeper. The air still, pressing against my chest. Twelve. Thirteen. Silence. --- The attic was darker now. The crib was gone. The mirror cracked. And in the corner sat Liz. She hadn’t aged. Not a day. Same striped hoodie, same scuffed knees, same bitten nails. Time hadn’t passed for her—it had paused, like a broken clock caught between ticks. While I’d grown older, grayer, heavier with guilt, Liz remained exactly seven. Trapped not just in space, but in the second she disappeared. She looked up. One eye sewn. The other crying. She stared at me like I was a stranger. Her one good eye wide, unsure. “Are you... the new babysitter?” she whispered, voice trembling like it hadn't been used in years. My heart broke in places I didn’t know were still intact. “Liz,” I said, kneeling down, “it’s me. Your sister.” She shook her head slowly. “No... my sister’s thirteen. You’re... you’re old.” The words didn’t hurt. Not like the way she flinched when I reached for her—like I was something dead pretending to be alive. “Don’t look in the mirror,” she whispered. But I already had. It didn’t show me this time. It showed stairs—thirteen steps, descending. And from the top, the one-eyed girl was crawling down. Toward me. --- I grabbed Liz. She screamed. The room buckled, twisting like a stage set on wires. Wood split. The mirror shattered into dust. The attic door slammed behind us. And I ran. I didn’t look back. --- We tumbled down the stairs together. My hands bled. Liz was sobbing, shaking, half-real, half-gone. I held her until morning. When the sun rose, the attic door was gone. The hallway wall was smooth, painted over. No hinges. No knob. As if it had never existed. But Liz remained. --- A month later, we live in a different house. We don’t talk about the thirteenth step. We told the world she was my daughter.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Where Are You?
The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window as Mia sat curled up on the worn-out couch in her tiny apartment. Her phone lay silent beside her, the screen dark and empty. For the hundredth time that day, she glanced at it, hoping for a message, a call—anything that would tell her Lucas was still out there, somewhere. But there was nothing.
By Mian Nazir Shahabout a year ago in Fiction
Death or Love. Content Warning.
Under the burning twilight of a kingdom falling into chaos, a lone warrior named Ean strode through a scarred battlefield. His eyes, filled with fierce resolve, mirrored the raw intensity of his spirit—a spirit that had chosen the honorable death of fighting for a dream over the lingering pain of love.
By Edge Alexanderabout a year ago in Fiction