Love
A Portrait of Silent Love
Deep within the heart of a dense forest, far from the reach of wandering eyes and sunlit paths, bloomed a wildflower. She wasn’t a flower of renown—no dazzling colors, no intoxicating fragrance. And yet, she was a symbol of silent beauty, a creation of nature that only solitude could nurture.
By Sadia Afrinabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Message I Couldn't Unsend"
The Message I Couldn't Unsend It was 2:03 AM in New York City. The kind of hour where regrets echo louder than traffic, and memories feel heavier than sleep. I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, heart pulling me toward a message I wasn’t sure I should send. My last message to her. We hadn’t spoken in four months. Not since that final argument in the rain outside her apartment in Brooklyn. I remember the way her voice cracked when she said, “You don’t fight for me anymore.” I had turned away instead of replying. I didn’t know then how much silence could say. Since then, I replayed that night like a scratched vinyl — same fight, same ending, same emptiness. She moved on, or at least that’s what Instagram told me. I hadn’t. Not even close. That night, insomnia was louder than usual. The streets outside were asleep, but inside me was chaos. Her laughter, her texts that used too many emojis, the way she’d nudge my arm during movies — everything came flooding back. And so, I opened our old thread. The one I never deleted. It was still there — the last message from her: “Please just say something.” And I hadn’t. I stared at the blinking cursor for twenty minutes before I typed: "I never stopped loving you. I just didn’t know how to show it. And I’m sorry I let you walk away thinking I didn’t care." I hovered over “Send.” My thumb trembled. It was a truth I'd buried beneath pride and fear. But sometimes love doesn’t die — it just waits behind locked doors. And maybe, just maybe, she'd still be on the other side. I hit send. Three little dots appeared. My breath caught. She was typing. Then they vanished. Ten seconds. A minute. Two. Nothing. The screen stayed quiet, like the night around me. And in that moment, I realized the truth: not every apology gets a reply, not every wound is meant to heal with words. But I didn't regret it. That message wasn't just for her. It was for the version of me that never spoke up, that let love slip through his fingers while pretending it didn’t hurt. That message was my release. The next morning, I woke up to no reply. Just the blue ticks — proof she saw it, nothing more. Weeks passed. Spring turned to summer. I started going to therapy, picked up journaling, reconnected with old friends. I didn’t send another message. I didn’t need to. Because the last one said everything. Maybe she found peace in those words, or maybe she deleted them right away. I’ll never know. But that’s okay. Sometimes closure isn’t a reply. It’s the courage to speak your heart, even if the world stays silent. And maybe — just maybe — that silence is the answer we were both looking for her. I used to think closure came from conversations — the kind where both people sit across from each other, unraveling every tangled thread. But now I know, sometimes closure is quiet. It’s a message you send without expecting a reply. It’s waking up the next morning knowing you finally said what needed saying — not for them, but for yourself. And in that silence, I found something I hadn’t felt in months: peace. Not the kind someone else gives you — but the kind you earn by being honest, by being brave. I may never know what that message meant to her. But I know what it meant to me: the beginning of letting go "If you liked the story, please leave a like or comment and share your thoughts with us." Thanks for reading
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
Shadows of the Last Light
Rhia pressed against a graffiti-stained wall as her breath echoed down the deserted alley. The last rays of a dying sun painted the crumbling skyscrapers in bruised purple shadows. Neon signs sputtered overhead, flickering across rust and overgrown vines. In her trembling hand, she clutched a glowing data crystal. For a moment she felt alone, yet holding the crystal felt like a spark of resistance against the night. With every heartbeat, the city felt alive with danger.
By Muhammad Sohailabout a year ago in Fiction
The Man Sitting in the Shadows
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the patch of grass where he sat, barefoot and contemplative. The sky had just begun to shift from bright blue to the faintest hue of lavender, brushing the horizon with the softness of approaching dusk. A light breeze stirred the leaves of the bushes behind him, whispering secrets only silence could understand.
By Taslim Ullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Memory Market
The moment Lia stepped into the Memory Market, the scent of lavender and static filled her lungs. Rows of glowing capsules floated in midair, each pulsing with a faint heartbeat of light. A whisper surrounded her—the echo of a hundred lives for sale.
By FAIZAN AFRIDIabout a year ago in Fiction
When I Lost My Love
The wind felt colder that morning—not because of the season, but because of the silence you left behind. When I lost my love, time didn’t stop. That’s the cruel part—it kept moving, mocking me with every tick of the clock, dragging me further from the last time you said my name. We met at a bookstore, of all places. You reached for the same copy of The Little Prince, and our fingers brushed like the universe had planned it all. You smiled and let me take it, but returned a week later to tell me you'd gone back and bought your own copy—just so we’d have something in common. That’s who you were—quietly thoughtful, effortlessly kind. Falling in love with you felt like coming home after being lost in a storm. There was warmth in your voice, light in your eyes, and laughter that made even the worst days seem survivable. You didn’t just become part of my life—you became the reason for it. When the doctor called with the results, I remember squeezing your hand so tightly, hoping that if I held on hard enough, the truth would change. But cancer doesn’t negotiate. It doesn’t care how good a person you are, or how deeply you are loved. It just takes. The months that followed were both too long and too short. You fought with grace, never letting fear steal your smile. I watched you lose your hair, your strength, but never your spirit. Even on the worst days, you still found ways to make me laugh. You made me feel strong, when it was you who needed it most. I didn’t want to believe that goodbye was coming. I convinced myself every breath was another miracle, every sunrise another promise. But love doesn’t stop death—it only softens the landing. And on that final morning, as you lay in our bed with my hand pressed to your heart, I felt the world shift as yours stopped beating. Grief is a thief. It robs you of joy, of appetite, of sleep. It plays cruel tricks—making me think I heard your voice in the next room, or feel your hand in mine at night. I kept reaching for my phone to text you, only to remember there would be no reply. It broke me in ways I never thought a human could break. I wasn’t just mourning your death—I was mourning our future, the children we’d never raise, the trips we’d never take, the arguments we’d never laugh about afterward. People tried to help. They brought food, they shared memories, they told me time heals. But they didn’t see me crying in the shower so no one would hear. They didn’t know that some nights, I slept with your scarf just to pretend you were near. Time didn’t heal. It just made the pain quieter, more private. But somewhere in the silence, something else grew. I started writing letters to you, pouring my heart onto pages you’d never read. I visited the park where we had our first picnic, not to dwell, but to remember. Slowly, your love stopped feeling like a wound and started becoming a part of me again—not as pain, but as presence. You’re still here, in all the best parts of me. When I comfort a friend, when I see beauty in small things, when I hear The Little Prince quoted, I feel you. Loving you changed me. Losing you broke me. But remembering you is what puts me back together, piece by piece. I’ll never stop missing you. But I carry you with me, in everything I do. And somehow, that’s enough to keep going.
By Dr Gabriel about a year ago in Fiction
