Love
Why?
“Trina! Over here!” Trina turned her head, and her heart threatened to leap out of her chest when she saw Steven waving his arm in a big, exaggerated motion, with a giant smile on his face. Trina fell in love with her boyfriend all over again as she navigated past the clusters of tables towards him. It had only been a few months since they started dating, but Trina was still very much in the honeymoon phase of courtship. The phase where everything that Steven did for her made her feel like she could fly if she just jumped off a chair. The phase where everything Steven said with that bright smile of his made her feel like she was made out of rainbows and sugar.
By Rebecca Patton8 months ago in Fiction
I Learned Too Late That Love Needs Translation
Not the kind you can fix with dictionaries or subtitles. Ours was deeper than that. It lived in tone, timing, and the spaces between words. I didn’t realize it at first. Love, in the beginning, feels universal. You assume feeling is enough.
By Salman Writes8 months ago in Fiction
The Rally Between Waking and Dream
The Court at Dusk The court appeared where evening usually hides its quiet miracles—behind the old park, past the trees that whispered to each other like elders. The young man arrived with a single tennis ball in his pocket, not even a racket, as if he already knew this would not be a game governed by rules. The sky was bruised purple and gold, and the net sagged like a tired smile. He had come to think, to escape the noise of days that asked too much and gave too little.
By LUNA EDITH8 months ago in Fiction
I met Her 4 Coffee
The Seattle skies gave some overcast as the day could not make its mind up with regard to the season! Gem slipped into a one piece jean full button that did not hide the curves. “Got to look good for my baby!” Gemma came out the room smiling and flipping her jet black hair.
By Jay LeTron Dobbins8 months ago in Fiction
The Keeping Hour
The Keeping Hour Every evening at 8:17, Miriam set the table for two. The time was not arbitrary. She had tried, once, to move it—8:15, then 8:20—but something in the apartment resisted. The kettle took longer to boil. The light above the sink flickered. Her own hands shook, as if she were attempting to write with the wrong name. At 8:17, everything settled. The air found its balance.
By Muhammad Irfan Afzal8 months ago in Fiction
