Love

A cup of Tea.
A familiar person, Buried in files, busy with his work. A little away, there’s a cup of tea placed. Steam is rising from it. The scene seems like that of an office. It appears he’s quite occupied.
By A page from the Pastabout a year ago in Fiction
Wings Over the Wild
The sun rose like a golden wound over the Andes, streaking the icy peaks with blood-orange light. Kira Thorn tightened her gloves and checked the instruments on her ultralight glider, The Peregrine. Altimeter steady. Wind to the northwest. Everything ready.
By muqaddas shuraabout a year ago in Fiction
Between Roses and Rainbows
Here’s an original short story titled "Between Roses and Rainbows", capturing emotional depth, transformation, and hope. Between Roses and Rainbows Where Hope Blossoms and Dreams Shine The air smelled faintly of roses and rain as Lila stepped out onto the porch of her grandmother’s cottage. The storm had just passed, leaving behind puddles on the cobblestone path and a sky dusted in soft, golden light. Somewhere in the distance, a rainbow arched shyly between two hills, painting the horizon in hues of quiet wonder. This was not just another summer visit. Lila had come to this cottage in the countryside to escape the storm inside her — the one that had been building since her mother passed away six months earlier. Her world had been full of noise and bustle, but since the funeral, everything felt like walking through fog. Her job felt meaningless, her friends distant, and her apartment — once a place of comfort — now echoed with emptiness. “Sometimes the heart needs silence to heal,” her grandmother had said over the phone, her voice as gentle as chamomile tea. “Come here. Let the flowers and sky remind you.” And so Lila came. The garden was her grandmother’s pride, a riot of colors and scents. Roses in every shade — blush, ivory, blood-red, sunshine yellow — danced in the morning breeze. But there was one rosebush that stood apart from the rest, planted years ago in the far corner of the garden, where the path disappeared under the wild overgrowth. Lila was drawn to it, day after day. It bore no flowers, only thorny branches. Her grandmother told her it had stopped blooming after Lila’s grandfather died, as if mourning him in silence. She related to that rosebush in a way she couldn’t put into words. Each day, she sat beside it with her journal, sometimes writing, sometimes just staring at the empty sky. One morning, as she traced her fingers along the thorns, she whispered, “When do we start to bloom again?” Her voice got lost in the wind. On the fifth day, she met Elias — a local artist who frequented the fields beyond the cottage to paint wildflowers and birds. He saw her one afternoon as she lingered by the broken fence. “You have the eyes of someone searching for color,” he said. Lila raised an eyebrow. “And you have the words of someone who talks too much.” But he laughed, and so did she. It was the first time in weeks that her lips stretched into something resembling a smile. They met again the next day, and the next. Elias carried with him a sketchbook filled with roses and rainbows, clouds and shadows, and the stories he imagined for each. With each passing day, he shared not just his art, but his quiet understanding. “My brother died three years ago,” he said one evening as they watched the sky go from peach to violet. “It took me a long time to see color again.” Lila looked down at her hands, resting on her lap. “I don’t know if I ever will.” “You will,” he said gently. “But you have to let the rain fall.” In the days that followed, Lila began to tend to the withered rosebush. She cleared the weeds, pruned the dry branches, watered it with care. She didn’t know why — maybe it was hope, or habit, or simply something to do while the silence around her softened. She wrote poems again. Short, trembling verses about grief and growth, about memory and sky. She read them aloud to Elias, who listened without judgment, just as the fields did, just as the flowers did. Then one morning, after nearly a month, Lila stepped outside and froze. A single rose — small, pale, and trembling — had bloomed on the once-barren bush. Tears welled in her eyes, and she knelt beside it, brushing its petal like a memory returning. That day, Elias painted a picture just for her — the rosebush with one blossom, and in the sky above it, a faint rainbow stretching between two clouds. He titled it: “Where Hope Blossoms.” As Lila held the canvas in her hands, she realized she wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was healing. Slowly. Quietly. Honestly. She stayed at the cottage for two more weeks. By the time she left, the once-lonely bush had three more roses. The rainbow, she realized, didn’t erase the storm — it came after, because of it. Back in the city, her apartment still echoed. But now, she placed Elias’s painting above her writing desk. She opened her windows more often. Wrote longer poems. And when it rained, she made tea and waited for the rainbow, not with certainty, but with hope. Because sometimes, life exists between roses and rainbows — in the spaces where things grow again, quietly, after the storm.
By IRSHAD MUHAMMADabout a year ago in Fiction
Beneath the Jasmine Sky
Beneath the Jasmine Sky The sun had just begun to set, casting its golden hue over the horizon, and the soft evening breeze whispered through the trees. Beneath the vast expanse of the jasmine-scented sky, Laila and Zain stood at the edge of the garden, hand in hand. It had been months since they had last met, but the connection between them had remained untouched by time. Laila had never believed in love at first sight. Her life had always been grounded in logic, in practicality. She had learned early on that love was something one worked for, something that came after years of understanding, sacrifice, and compromise. Yet, when Zain had walked into her life, all her beliefs had been shattered in an instant. He was different. His presence was like a sudden storm, sweeping her off her feet, leaving her breathless and wondering if this was what love truly felt like. They had met during a summer festival, where the air was thick with the scent of jasmine. The night was young, and the sky was painted with a million stars. Laila had wandered away from the crowded stalls, seeking some solitude to escape the noise, when she found herself standing in a quiet corner of the garden, surrounded by blooming jasmine flowers. It was there that she had met Zain. His dark eyes, filled with curiosity, met hers as if they had known each other forever. He had smiled, and something in his expression made her heart skip a beat. He had a way of making her feel both seen and understood, as if they were the only two people in the world, standing beneath the same jasmine sky. They had talked for hours that night, the conversation flowing effortlessly between them, as if their souls were conversing in a language older than time. In the days that followed, they spent more and more time together, exploring the quiet corners of the city, sharing stories and dreams. Laila felt alive in a way she had never experienced before. Zain, with his gentle words and thoughtful gestures, had awakened a part of her that had been dormant for years. He made her believe in the beauty of spontaneous moments and the magic of simply being present. But as the seasons changed, so did their lives. Laila had to return to her studies, and Zain, with his own career ambitions, had to move to another city. The distance between them grew, and despite the promises to stay in touch, the silence began to stretch between their conversations. The calls became less frequent, the letters fewer. Laila had tried to focus on her life, to move forward, but every step she took felt like she was walking away from something precious. Months passed, and Laila found herself back in her hometown, visiting her parents. The jasmine trees were in full bloom again, their fragrance filling the air and reminding her of that summer night when everything had seemed so perfect. She had avoided coming to this garden since she returned, afraid of the memories it held. But today, for some reason, she had found herself drawn here again. The moment her feet touched the familiar path, she could almost feel the warmth of Zain's presence beside her. The soft rustling of the jasmine leaves seemed to whisper his name. And then, as if the universe had conspired to bring them together once more, she saw him. Zain stood at the far end of the garden, his back to her. He hadn’t noticed her yet, and for a moment, Laila hesitated. Her heart raced as she stood there, unsure of what to do. The years that had passed felt like a lifetime, and yet, in this moment, it felt like no time had passed at all. The connection between them was still there, waiting to be rekindled. He turned slowly, as though he had sensed her presence. Their eyes met, and for a second, the world seemed to stop. There was no need for words, no need for explanations. The years of silence melted away, leaving only the unspoken bond that had always existed between them. “Laila,” Zain whispered, his voice carrying the same warmth it had all those months ago. Her name on his lips was all it took for the walls she had built around her heart to crumble. She took a step forward, unable to resist the pull she felt toward him. As if guided by some invisible force, they met in the middle of the garden, surrounded by the fragrance of jasmine. Zain’s hands gently cupped her face, and for the first time in so long, Laila allowed herself to feel the comfort of his touch. “I missed you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. Laila closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she felt the tears welling up inside her. “I never stopped thinking about you,” she whispered. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, their hearts beating in unison beneath the jasmine sky. In that moment, the world outside the garden ceased to exist. It was just the two of them, reunited by the quiet beauty of the night, the jasmine flowers surrounding them like a protective embrace. Zain reached for her hand, leading her toward a bench beneath one of the jasmine trees. They sat there in silence, the soft hum of the night surrounding them. The stars above shimmered like diamonds, casting their light over the garden. “I’ve missed this,” Laila said, her voice barely above a whisper. “The quiet. The peace. The feeling that everything is right in the world when I’m with you.” Zain smiled, his eyes reflecting the same sense of contentment. “I think it’s the jasmine that does it,” he said softly. “The scent, the stars, and the sky—it makes everything seem possible.” As they sat beneath the jasmine sky, the weight of the past seemed to lift. The pain of separation was no longer there. What had once felt like an impossible distance between them now felt like a bridge waiting to be crossed. They were home again, where they had always belonged—in each other’s arms, beneath the jasmine sky.
By IRSHAD MUHAMMADabout a year ago in Fiction
The guardian of forgotten skies
No one remembers when the skies first fell silent. There was a time when they roared with thunder, whispered with clouds, and wept with rain. A time when stars blinked through the velvet dark and comets painted trails of wonder. But now, the skies are quiet. Not dead—just forgotten. They called me mad when I told them I could still hear the skies. That in the hush between heartbeats, I felt the breath of old winds, heavy with memory. They said I lived in the past. Maybe I did. But someone had to remember. I live atop an old weather tower, long abandoned by the people below. Rust gnaws at its skeleton, but it still stands tall, like a sentinel waiting for a war that never came. I fixed the solar panels myself. Cleaned the glass of the observation dome. Built a nest out of books, old flight charts, and hand-written journals. Up here, I'm close to the sky—what's left of it. Each morning, I rise before the sun. Not because I’m hopeful it will shine again, but because it feels like an act of faith. I log the clouds—if any. I record the wind, the pressure, the temperature. I do this even though no one reads my logs. Even though the weather is no longer part of anyone’s life. They've built their world underground now, where artificial lights replace sunlight, and virtual rain falls from indoor domes. They say it’s safer down there. Maybe it is. But safe doesn't mean alive. Sometimes, I climb out onto the topmost platform, strap myself in, and scream. Not words—just sound. Just something to stir the silence. And sometimes, on rare nights when the clouds break and a sliver of moon cuts through the gray, I swear the sky screams back. I wasn't always alone. There was a girl once. Her name was Lira. She had hair the color of wildfire and a laugh that could scatter crows. She believed in the skies too. We’d sit on the tower edge, legs dangling into nothing, and she'd read aloud from old weather books or whisper tales of gods who once rode lightning. We made a pact: if the skies ever returned, we’d be the first to greet them. But time is a thief with no conscience. One day, she stopped coming. Left me a note. Said she was tired of waiting for something that might never come. Said she needed to live, even if it meant going underground. I didn’t blame her. I still don’t. Not everyone is built to love ghosts. It’s been six years since she left. Or maybe seven. Up here, time doesn’t follow rules. Days stretch and snap, seasons blur. But I keep watch. I remember. I guard the sky not because I think it will reward me, but because some things deserve to be honored, even if they're fading. Last night, something changed. It started with a flicker—a shimmer across the horizon like heat on asphalt. Then came the sound. Not thunder, exactly. More like a hum, deep and ancient, like the earth trying to remember how to sing. I stood still, every hair on my body lifted, every bone ringing like a bell. And then, light. A beam pierced the cloud crust, thin and trembling, but real. It touched the tower, warmed my face. I cried then—not from joy, but from the sheer pain of remembering how much I’d missed it. The sky had spoken. After all this time, it still had a voice. This morning, I climbed to the very top and sent out a signal. An old, coded frequency, long abandoned by weather stations. Just three words: The sky remembers. I don’t know who heard it. Maybe no one. Maybe Lira. Maybe the wind itself. But it doesn’t matter. Because I heard it too. The skies are waking up. And I’m still here. Still watching. Still believing. I am the Guardian of Forgotten Skies—not because I was chosen, but because I refused to forget. In a world that turned its back on the heavens, I turned my face to them. And now, for the first time in forever, they are looking back. So I’ll wait. I’ll keep my logs. I’ll climb, and scream, and sing. I’ll be the voice they hear when they return. Because the skies deserve a witness. And I am here.
By Wilfredabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Heart
The first time Arman saw her, the world didn’t pause — it exhaled. A quiet sigh, like the wind brushing through autumn leaves. It was in a small coastal town where the sea sang to the shore, and the sunsets painted poetry across the sky.
By Lisa about a year ago in Fiction
When We Finally Knew
They had been inseparable since the third grade—Anna with her cautious heart and mischievous grin, and Theo with his quiet strength and wild curiosity. Through school dances, failed romances, and late-night study sessions, they were constants in each other’s lives. Their families treated them as siblings. Their friends assumed they were secretly in love. But Anna and Theo always laughed off the idea, insisting their bond was purely platonic.
By Lucianabout a year ago in Fiction
A widowed father steps back into the world of dating—with his daughter as his greatest compass
The first time Mark Jensen downloaded a dating app, it was mostly a dare from his younger sister. “You need to meet someone,” she had insisted, placing her hand on his shoulder in that overly supportive way she always had. “You can’t live in a time capsule forever.”
By Lucianabout a year ago in Fiction
Died 17 Times—But That Wasn’t the Shocking Part: Inside "Mickey 17", the Sci-Fi Thriller That Warps Reality
When you hear the words sci-fi clone thriller, your mind might dart to familiar dystopian or futuristic tech-tangled messes. But Bong Joon-ho’s Mickey 17 doesn’t just dabble in science fiction—it mutates it, tears it open, and asks: What makes you YOU… if someone else remembers being you too?
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Great Umbrella Uprising
It started, as most strange things do, on a perfectly normal Thursday. Ten-year-old Theo Blinker was walking to school under the bright blue sky, swinging his closed umbrella like a sword, even though there wasn’t a cloud in sight.
By Ashikur Rahman Bipulabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror of Truth
In a forgotten village nestled between two mountains, there lived an old toymaker named Elias. His workshop was unlike any other—for he crafted toys that whispered secrets, played ancient songs, and wept in the night when children were sad. Elias was a mystery to the villagers. He never aged, never fell ill, and never left his workshop. They said he came from a place where time bent backward, and truth could be held like fire in your palm. He lived alone, with one rule: “Do not enter the room with the black door.” But of course, rules invite curiosity. One day, a boy named Niko arrived at Elias’s doorstep. His mother had passed away, and his father had vanished in the mines. He was quiet, smart, and carried sadness in his eyes like a backpack of bricks. “I want to be your apprentice,” Niko said. Elias studied him for a long moment. “Can you listen more than you speak?” “Yes.” “Can you build something that does not belong to you?” “I think so.” “Then enter.” From that day, Niko learned the art of building living toys—birds that could carry messages, dolls that remembered dreams, puzzles that revealed hidden truths. He grew older, wiser. But the black door haunted him. Every night, he heard soft weeping behind it. Sometimes whispers. Sometimes laughter that didn’t sound human. One winter night, when snow blanketed the village and Elias had gone to the market, Niko could no longer resist. The door was not locked—only waiting. Inside, the room was cold and circular. In its center stood a massive, cracked mirror. Dust spiraled like snowflakes. On the mirror’s frame, one sentence was etched in metal: “Only those who are ready to lose themselves may find the truth.” Niko stared at his reflection. But it wasn’t his. The boy in the mirror was older. Sadder. His eyes glowed faintly, and behind him stood a graveyard of mirrors, all cracked. Suddenly, the mirror rippled. “You seek your father?” the reflection said. Niko nodded. The mirror began to whisper: memories, lies, possibilities. Visions of his father’s last moments in the mines. A betrayal. A hidden door. A truth buried not by stone, but by silence. Then a voice thundered: “DO NOT BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU SEE.” Elias stood at the door. His eyes were filled with fear—not anger. “This mirror shows truth—but not always your truth. It shows what you believe deep inside. And belief can be more dangerous than lies.” “I saw my father,” Niko whispered. “He was trapped. He needs me.” Elias closed his eyes. “So you’ve made your choice.” He walked forward and touched the mirror gently. The crack in the glass pulsed like a heartbeat. “To enter is to leave behind all that you are. You will walk through your own reflection, and what comes out on the other side may not be... you.” “I’m ready.” The mirror swallowed him whole. --- Niko opened his eyes to darkness. He stood in a world made of mirrors, each reflecting a version of himself: angry, frightened, cruel, kind. One mirror showed him as a king. Another as a beggar. Another still, as a boy who never left home. He wandered, lost, until he found the graveyard he had seen earlier. There, beneath a weeping willow made of glass, was a figure. His father. But not quite. “Are you real?” Niko asked. “I am what you came to find,” the man replied. “But I cannot leave this place. Not without cost.” “What cost?” The man pointed to a mirror behind him. It showed Elias—older now, alone, his workshop empty. “He traded his truth to bring you peace. Now you must choose.” Niko understood. One could not take truth without leaving a part behind. He knelt beside his father. “Then let me stay.” The man smiled. “Then you will become a keeper, like Elias.” In the village, Elias sat before the cold mirror. His hands trembled, his eyes glistened. Behind the glass, a new reflection formed—Niko, older now, watching from the other side. He placed a hand on the mirror. So did Elias. And then, the mirror cracked once more. --- Moral of the Story: Truth is powerful, but it comes with a price. Often, what we seek is not out there—but inside us, shaped by what we believe. To truly see, one must be ready to lose who they think they are.
By FKGabout a year ago in Fiction
Faceless Night [Part 1].. Content Warning.
The color was a gleaming black, as dark as the night. He walked among the wet branches of the trees that had been soaked by the rain. He could only carry two pearl-like orbs with him, the pearls that had grown on his face since birth, his eyeballs. Among the bushes, his body emerged once again, looking up at the cloudy sky, hoping that the full moon would never appear. Hoping that this time, the rain would truly be on his side, on the side of the curse that had befallen him. Hoping that he could continue to watch over his lover's body in the form of a black cat... *** The two children ran to the front porch, looking at the grumbling rain. Their mother had left them to hang the laundry that had been left unattended since the afternoon. Rows of clothes hung on ropes. With a little tiptoeing, the twins, Gadis and Gilang, reached for some of the clothes that had already dried, though dampened by the night dew. The twin children knew exactly which clothes to take down and which ones to leave on the clothesline, without being allowed to be taken down. Left there until late at night, then late at night it was replaced by morning, morning turned into noon, and the clothes were left to dry and torn by the afternoon wind. Until the sky was fed up, and the rain came back to fulfill its promise to the earth. The rain continued until the night, and the clothes were wet again, but still left unattended. If not, their mother would punish the twin children by making them sleep on the front porch until morning, using the clothes they were not allowed to take down as their pillows. A pair of clothes with black cotton pants and a white t-shirt with a crescent moon painting motif. The crescent moon drawing occupied by two lovers making love. Once upon a time, on a rainy season night, when not a single star could be seen in the sky, leaving only the full moon peeking through the gaps of the cloudy sky. Gadis and Gilang couldn't sleep that night. The dew slowly crept on the glass walls, entered through the gaps of the bedroom window, and reached their backs. It was cold, they said. Gadis opened the bedroom window, and the raindrops tapped her small cheeks like the fingers of an angel, while Gilang curled up even more under the blanket. "Sis, why did you open the window, aren't you cold? And aren't you afraid, Mom hasn't come home yet?!" (it was already past quarter past midnight) "Broth, do you miss Dad?" Gadis stared straight ahead at the front yard of her house, filled with clotheslines and neon lights that illuminated the gate, occasionally overshadowed by lightning flashes, then silence. Again, the girl stared at the clothes swaying in the rain. "Miss him? How can I miss him, we never even knew who he was?" The wind was too strong, making the rainwater even more torrential, tearing apart the clothes there. The girl reflexively closed the window and hurriedly ran out of the room. "Where are you going?" "The clothes fell, I want to pick them up, wait a minute..." "But...hey...don't...Mom will..."
By Shafa Ichwanusabout a year ago in Fiction