Love

Borderline Hearts
Elena stood at the edge of the old stone bridge, the cold wind tangling her hair, her heart thundering with a mixture of excitement and fear. The city lights shimmered across the river, whispering promises of change. For years, she had lived carefully, hiding behind walls built from silent heartbreaks and unseen scars. Tonight, those walls trembled.
By Alex Farnandoabout a year ago in Fiction
"Ashes & Embers"
In the forgotten edges of the world, where the veil between realms grows thin and the stars hang like secrets, there stood a village bound by silence. Hollowmere, they called it. A place of still winds, old curses, and people who knew better than to stray into the woods after sunset.
By Huda Yusufabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Letter
Neera had met Rahel in college. Both were literature students, drawn together by poetry and passion. On the very first day, she noticed his gentle smile and calm eyes. Slowly, their friendship blossomed, and without realizing it, they fell in love. Their days were filled with laughter, dreams, and shared books. After class, they would often walk by the lake, reciting poetry and talking about the future. Rahel would often say, “Neera, one day we’ll have a little house. A bokul tree by the porch; you’ll write poems, and I’ll read them.” Neera would blush at his words but secretly start weaving dreams. But life doesn’t always unfold like a poem. After graduation, Rahel’s parents decided to send him abroad for higher studies. He didn’t want to go, but he couldn’t say no. On the day before leaving, he met Neera one last time. It was drizzling, just like today. He handed her a letter and said, “Read it only when your heart feels unbearably heavy. I promise I’ll come back.” At first, they kept in touch through emails, letters, and occasional calls. But over time, everything began to fade. Responsibilities, time zones, and distance pulled them apart. One day, the silence became permanent. Neera still waited. She checked the mailbox every day, stared at her phone, and hoped. Friends told her to move on. But her heart still held on to Rahel, like a poem that never ended. Four years passed. Then one day, a letter arrived. It wasn’t from Rahel — it was from his younger brother, Sayed. “Sister Neera, Rahel is no more. He died in a road accident. Our home is overwhelmed with grief. We found a letter on his desk, addressed to you. I thought you deserved to have it. — Sayed.” Neera fainted when she read the letter. A week later, late at night, she opened Rahel’s final words: “Neera, Are you doing well? I know I’ve wronged you. I couldn’t love you the way you deserved. I was far away, even while thinking of you every day. I read your poems repeatedly. I wished I could sit beside you, hold your hand, and look into your eyes. But life doesn’t always allow the heart to win. If you ever think of me, know this — I still love you. And I will, as long as my heart beats. Yours, Rahel.” Her world shattered. But she knew now — Rahel had never stopped loving her. Even in silence, even across oceans and time, his heart had remained true. Six years have passed since then. Neera never married. She runs a small bookshop in a quiet part of the city. She still writes poems but no longer shares them. Once a year, on the anniversary of Rahel’s death, she reads his last letter again. Today, she did the same. Outside, the rain poured gently — just as it did that day. Looking out the window, she whispered, “I’m still waiting for you, Rahel. But now I know… you won’t return.”
By Md Armanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Loved Roses
Many beautiful flowers grew in the park. There were lilies, carnations, violets, tulips and many more besides. The colours were amazing to look at and the smell of the flowers was very soothing.
By IRSHAD MUHAMMADabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Adventures of Kiwi and Penguin: A Journey of Friendship"
In the far southern reaches of the world, where icy winds blew across glistening snow and the sun rarely graced the land, there lived a penguin named Pip. Pip was a young emperor penguin, full of energy and curiosity. His days were spent waddling across the icy plains, sliding down snowbanks, and watching his fellow penguins as they huddled together for warmth. Though he had many friends, Pip often found himself wondering what lay beyond the snowy horizon. He dreamed of exploring the world outside the frozen land he called home.
By wilderabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Great Goat Escape of Maple Street"
It all started on an otherwise normal Saturday morning on Maple Street. Birds chirped, sprinklers hissed, and Mr. Jenkins, in his trademark Hawaiian shirt and unmatched socks, was out trimming his overgrown rosebush like he was Edward Scissorhands after five espressos. But then came the goat. No one knew where it came from. One moment, everything was quiet, and the next—BAAAAAA—a goat with one lazy eye and a mischievous grin came trotting down the street like it owned the neighborhood. Mrs. Carmichael screamed so loud her cat fainted. The goat stopped, blinked slowly, and then proceeded to eat the "For Sale" sign on the Thompson's lawn. Mr. Thompson came out, saw the goat, and muttered, "Not again," before walking back inside to retrieve a broom like he was about to duel the creature. Now, a sane goat might be scared off by a broom. Not this one. It took it as a challenge. The moment Mr. Thompson approached, the goat lowered its head and charged—not at him, but at the inflatable pool flamingo in their yard, launching it three feet into the air like it was the goat's lifelong enemy. By now, a crowd had gathered. Kids cheered. Adults gawked. Old man Murray pulled out his ancient camcorder and shouted, “This is going on YouTube!” even though no one had the heart to tell him it wasn’t 2008. Then came little Timmy. Timmy, age seven, believed he could talk to animals ever since he watched Dr. Dolittle twice in a row. He stepped forward, arms outstretched, and said, “I got this.” The crowd parted like he was Moses. He walked up to the goat, knelt, and whispered, “We come in peace.” The goat responded by licking his forehead and stealing his sandwich. Chaos followed. The goat took off like a rocket, sandwich still dangling from its mouth, and the entire neighborhood followed. Mr. Jenkins ran with garden shears. Mrs. Carmichael wielded a mop. The Thompson twins rode scooters like bounty hunters. The goat was fast. It weaved through backyards, knocked over a lemonade stand (the lemonades were fine, but the cookies didn’t make it), and somehow ended up inside the Wilsons’ garage, where it discovered rollerblades. Yes, rollerblades. No one is sure how it got them on, but by the time the neighborhood caught up, the goat was skating in circles, baa-ing in what could only be interpreted as mockery. One of the twins tried to record it, but he dropped his phone in a birdbath. Just when all hope seemed lost, Grandma Edna appeared. Edna was 92, wore a tracksuit with glittery flamingos, and had zero tolerance for nonsense. She came out with a banana and a firm stare. The goat stopped. Stared. And slowly rollerbladed over. She handed it the banana. It blinked. Sniffed it. Then sat. The crowd gasped. Edna simply said, “I raised seven children and two husbands. You think I can’t handle a goat?” And that was that. Animal control showed up an hour later, confused and slightly terrified. They took the goat away, who looked genuinely disappointed, like it had just started having fun. They said it had escaped from a petting zoo three towns over, apparently bored of eating hay and being hugged by toddlers. By the next day, the story made local news. The headline read: "Rollerblading Goat Causes Mayhem, Befriends Grandma." And on Monday, Mr. Jenkins started putting up signs: “Goat CrossingCrossing—You’ve Been Warned.”
By Love of momabout a year ago in Fiction
I forgive Him.
He used to study at my center. I first saw him in October 2022, and back then, I didn’t like him at all. But after some time, I started finding him good, and I began to feel attracted to him.
By A page from the Pastabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Letter
The rain had been falling for hours, soft and persistent, like the world itself was mourning something unseen. Mira stood beneath the old willow tree, her coat soaked and her fingers trembling around the edges of a yellowed letter. This tree had once been their place—hers and Arman’s. Now, it stood like a silent witness to a love that had come and gone, echoing only in memories and regrets.
By Lisa about a year ago in Fiction
The Melody of the Lost
In the shadow of the Great Mist, where the cliffs of Eldren met the endless sea, there was a village called Lyrsong. It was said that the air itself hummed with forgotten tunes, melodies that clung to the wind like memories too stubborn to fade. The villagers, simple folk who wove nets and carved driftwood, spoke of the Lost Ones—ancestors who vanished centuries ago, leaving behind only their songs. These songs were not mere music; they were fragments of a world that no longer existed, a world of starlit towers and rivers that glowed under moonlight.
By Aalyan Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Light in the Attic
It arrived on a Tuesday, folded once and slipped into an envelope with no return address. The paper was yellowed and smelled faintly of lavender and dust. My name was written in perfect cursive on the front: Eleanor Wren. No title. No address. Just my name, as if the sender knew I'd find it regardless of where it landed.
By Sen Sababout a year ago in Fiction
A Mother's Silent Prayers
A Mother’s Silent Prayers Love That Speaks Without Words Nida sat by the window, her eyes gazing out at the vast city skyline. The sun had begun to set, casting a soft orange glow over the buildings, but her thoughts were far away. She wasn’t looking at the sunset. Her mind was back home, miles away, in the small village where she grew up. A village where life moved slowly, where people spoke in whispers, and where a mother’s prayers were as constant as the wind.
By skkhanabout a year ago in Fiction
A Letter to Mother
A Letter to Mother Written with Tears, Sealed with Love The clock ticked slowly in the dimly lit room, but Aarif wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were fixed on a blank sheet of paper, the pen resting in his hand trembling slightly. The city outside roared with its usual noise—cars honking, people shouting, life rushing forward—but in that small apartment, time seemed to have paused.
By skkhanabout a year ago in Fiction