Psychological

I Found My Brother’s Diary — It Ends with My Name. Content Warning.
My brother died on a Thursday. At least, that’s what they told me. Sixteen years old. Suicide, they said. Slit wrists in the bathtub. No note. I was thirteen. Too young to be asked real questions. Old enough to hear the words no one said out loud. He was quiet. Lonely. Sensitive. What they meant was: we didn’t notice something was wrong until it was too late. --- I don’t remember much from that time. Only fragments. The smell of bleach. The hallway light blinking all night. The way my mother looked straight through me at dinner. After that, we didn’t talk about Evan. Not on his birthdays. Not during holidays. Not ever. --- This winter, I came back home to help my parents move. The house had that stale silence grief brings — untouched rooms, furniture kept in memorial. My old room was intact. So was Evan’s. Same blue walls. Same posters. Same lamp with the broken neck. Like he’d just stepped out and never returned. Cleaning out his closet, I found a shoebox taped shut beneath a pile of sweaters. Inside was a green notebook. Plain cover. Spiral spine. His handwriting on the first page. > Property of Evan Pierce. Do not read. Seriously, I’ll know. I read it anyway. --- The first few entries were harmless. Jokes. Class complaints. Dumb thoughts about girls. But about a third of the way through, something shifted. > March 3 He's doing it again. Wearing my clothes. Saying my name. Mom didn’t notice. But I did. He’s better at being me than I ever was. I don’t know what he wants. I stopped reading. Who was he talking about? --- > March 8 I told Dad that he took my hoodie. He said, “That’s your brother’s.” But I didn’t wear it. HE did. My own parents don’t recognize me anymore...... My stomach twisted. Was Evan… losing it? Paranoia. Hallucinations. Was this the evidence of a breakdown we missed? I kept reading. > March 11 He’s trying to erase me. I watched him smile in my place during dinner. Laugh with Mom. Tell my stories. He sleeps in my bed when I leave the room. I screamed. No one looked. > March 13 I saw my face in the mirror and it didn’t blink. He’s not just pretending to be me. He is me. Or becoming. --- There were more entries. Each one spiraling deeper into fear. Confusion. A sense of vanishing. > March 15 I don’t know who’s writing anymore. Is this me? Or is this him, pretending again? If you're reading this, check. CHECK. What’s your name? --- I flipped ahead. Toward the final page. I hesitated. It had a single sentence. > March 19 If this is still Evan reading — he won. Underneath, in a different pen: I didn’t want to be Evan. You made me. And then, just below that, in tiny, sharp letters that dug into the paper: My name. --- I dropped the diary. My ears were ringing. --- I remembered something then. The way everyone spoke to me after Evan died. Not with grief. With relief. He was struggling. He was troubled. He wasn’t like you. --- That summer, I had started getting better grades. Making more friends. Laughing louder. Mom said I was “coming out of my shell.” She stopped setting a plate for Evan at dinner. She let the world forget him. And I did, too. But now I wondered… Had Evan forgotten me first? Or had I… taken his place? --- I looked at the mirror across the room. My face stared back — calm. Familiar. But suddenly strange. The scar above my eyebrow… Wasn’t that Evan’s? --- I ran down to my mother, holding the diary. “Who found him?” I asked. “Who found Evan in the bathtub?” She blinked. “What?” “Who found him?” She looked down. “You did.” “Did I tell you that? Or did you see me?” She paused. Then: “I don’t know.” --- I went back to his room. The diary was gone. In its place — a single page, torn from the back. If you’re reading this now — then I never really left. You just needed me more than I needed to be real. --- I don’t know who I am anymore. I just know that when I say my name out loud… It feels like I’m stealing something. --- END
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found a Photo of Myself at a Crime Scene From 20 Years Ago . Content Warning.
The envelope had no return address. No stamp. Just my name, scrawled in block letters. Elvin Warren. Inside was a photograph — aged, its corners yellowed, the gloss frayed. The scene was unmistakably that of a crime: blood on white tile, overturned furniture, the telltale chalk outline of a body that had once been warm. But that wasn’t what made my stomach twist. What made me drop into the nearest chair, my breath trapped in my throat, was me. I was in the photo. Off to the side. Blurred, half-turned — but it was me. Same face. Same scar above the brow from when I fell off my bike at nine. The photo was dated: July 18th, 2005. I was ten. what? --- The murder occurred in New Hampshire. Back then, my family lived in Chicago. I had never been to New Hampshire in my life. I thought it was a prank. Some cruel, elaborate hoax. But it didn’t explain the photo’s age — its authenticity. The Kodak timestamp printed in faded red. Or the way my stomach remembered something I couldn’t name. I turned it over. In shaky, faded ink: "Don’t let me remember." --- The photo lab was old, tucked beside a dry cleaner in a street that reeked of mildew. I only went because I needed answers — needed someone to tell me this was a fake. The woman behind the counter frowned when I slid it across. “You again?” she said. My spine snapped straight. “Excuse me?” “You dropped this off last week. Said it was urgent. I told you it needed cleaning, and you said, ‘It’ll clean itself once I remember.’ Weirdest thing.” “I didn’t— That wasn’t me.” She peered closer. Her expression changed. “Are you all right, hon? You’re… pale.” --- I started digging. The murder was real — a woman named Marla Henley. Age thirty-three. Throat slit in her home. No forced entry. No suspect ever named. I found her brother, Jeremy, now living in Maine. I told him I was researching a true-crime book. It was a lie. When I showed him the photo, he froze. His hands trembled as he took it. “That boy…” he whispered. “That’s the kid. The one no one could find.” I felt cold. “What kid?” “He was seen by a neighbor that night. Standing at the edge of the driveway. Staring at the house like it was on fire.” He swallowed. “But when the cops came, there was no boy. They thought the neighbor hallucinated.” He looked up, horror blooming. “You’re him.” --- My parents swore we’d never lived anywhere else. Swore I’d never disappeared. But when I pushed — really pushed — they got nervous. Panicked. “Why are you asking this?” my mother snapped. “Why dig up that nonsense?” “Because I think I was involved in a murder,” I said. “Or at least I saw it.” She went quiet. Then whispered, “You promised not to remember.” --- I found the adoption papers in a locked drawer in my father’s study. Filed under a different name. Nathaniel Graves. Adopted August 2005. New Hampshire Foster System. A child with my face. The death certificate came next. Nathaniel Graves: Deceased, age 9. Drowned in a frozen lake. No remains recovered. Presumed accident. Except I never drowned. I became Elvin. --- The memories came in trickles. A woman humming. A knife flashing. A scream — my own. Blood on my hands. But they felt… fractured. Inserted. Every time I dreamed, I saw myself from outside my own body. Like I was watching a stranger wear my skin. --- I burned the photo. It came back the next morning, tucked beneath my pillow. Clean. Whole. I buried it in the woods. It reappeared in my fridge. Damp with frost. Now, the image has changed. There’s something behind me in the photo. A shadow. A hand on my shoulder that wasn’t there before. Each day, it moves closer. --- Last night, I woke up outside. Barefoot. Mud between my toes. Standing in front of an old white house. I looked down. The same chalk outline. The same cracked tile. The same blood, long dried. I wasn’t just there when Marla Henley died. I was the reason. But I wasn’t a killer. I was a witness to myself. --- Now, I understand. I was buried. Rewritten. Replaced. But the photo — it remembered. And the boy in the picture? He wants his life back. --- I don’t know how much longer I have before he wakes up fully. Before he becomes me again. So I’m leaving this here. My name was Elvin Warren. But I think I was someone else before. I'm going away, I don't know where. But I wish to never come across my memories again.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
You're My Favorite Murder (Chapter 15). Content Warning.
Chapter 15: 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘰𝘺 My hand instinctively reaches into the opposite pocket, hunting for my vape before a white-hot dread surge through me as I remember I quit a few months ago. Though with the way things are panning out for me right now, I could do well with a hit or two, probably more.
By 𝓗. 𝓒. 𝓡𝓾𝓫𝔂about a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror I Couldn’t Face
The Mirror I Couldn’t Face How a Drag Show in a Small Town Helped Me Embrace Who I Am In the fall of 2025, I stood backstage at a dive bar in my small town, clutching a secondhand sequined jacket and wondering what the hell I was doing. At 27, I’d spent years dodging mirrors—not just the physical ones, but the ones that forced me to confront who I was. I’d known I was queer since I was a teenager, but growing up in a place where “different” was whispered like a dirty word, I’d buried that truth deep. That night, at the town’s first-ever drag show, I was about to step into the spotlight as Ruby Star, my drag persona, and I was terrified.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Mirror That Refused to Reflect Me
It began on a Thursday. I remember because it was raining, and my socks were soaked from the puddles on the hallway floor of our damp old apartment.
By Muhammad Kaleemullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Digital Dust
The data morgue smelled like ozone and loneliness. Maya adjusted her luminescent hazmat suit’s hood, the hiss of filtered air her only companion. Before her stretched Server Vault 7—miles of abandoned user profiles, decaying chat logs, and forgotten memories scheduled for permanent deletion. Her job: scrub digital graves clean.
By Habibullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Episode 13: A Pet In The Garden
The first time they called her “it,” Marla said nothing. They were laughing, silver-mouthed and bright-eyed, lounging in the gardens of the fallen Capitol, dressed like gods from old paintings—if the gods had cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread and no shame about hunger. One of them—the girl with a voice like broken glass—tilted her head, smiled without warmth, and said, “Ant’s pet looks sad. Did he forget to feed it?”
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
I Found A Room That Shouldn't Exist
They’re going to say I hallucinated it. That it was a dream. That I misremembered or made it up, or that grief does things to a person.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Hidden Fear
To everyone else, Ali was fearless. He cracked jokes in crowds. Led presentations at work like a pro. Took risks, smiled big, and said things like “Life’s too short to be scared.” But there was one thing no one knew — Ali was living with a fear that he had never spoken out loud. Not because it was silly. Not because it was rare. But because it was the kind of fear you carry in your chest quietly, every single day — the kind that people can’t see, but you never stop feeling. --- The Fear of Not Being Enough Ali’s hidden fear wasn’t about heights, spiders, or the dark. It wasn’t about losing a job or failing a test. It was this: > “What if I’m not enough for the people who love me?” What if, one day, they all realize he’s not as smart, not as funny, not as kind as they think? What if they only like the version of him that performs well — not the one who struggles at 2 a.m. with anxiety and self-doubt? --- The Perfect Son Who Felt Like a Fraud Growing up, Ali had always been “the responsible one.” He got good grades. Helped at home. Never got into trouble. His parents called him “their pride.” His younger siblings looked up to him. Teachers loved him. Friends trusted him. But as the praise piled up, so did the pressure. He felt like he had to keep performing, or he’d disappoint everyone. Even when he was exhausted, he smiled. Even when he was confused, he acted confident. Even when he was falling apart, he kept saying, “I’m good.” He wore his success like armor. But inside, he was terrified someone would see the cracks. --- Anxiety in Disguise You’d never know Ali had anxiety. He went to the gym. Went out with friends. Posted Instagram stories with filters and laughter. But late at night, lying in bed with the lights off, the fear came creeping in like smoke. What if I fail them? What if I can’t keep it together forever? What if they love a version of me that isn’t even real? These thoughts didn’t scream — they whispered. But they never stopped. --- The Moment Everything Broke One night, Ali forgot to mute his phone and a voice note from his boss played out loud in front of his family. “Great job on that project, Ali. You’ve outdone yourself again — honestly, I don’t know how you manage it all.” Everyone smiled. His mother said proudly, “That’s my son.” Ali smiled too — but his hands were shaking under the table. Because the truth was, that project had drained him. He’d worked three nights with barely any sleep. He wasn’t proud — he was exhausted. And he didn’t even like his job anymore. That night, after everyone went to bed, Ali sat on his balcony with tears in his eyes. For the first time, he admitted the truth to himself: > “I’m scared they only love the version of me who keeps winning.” And admitting that felt like taking off a mask he didn’t know he’d been wearing for years. --- The Beginning of Courage The next day, Ali did something he’d never done before. He called his closest friend and said: > “Can I tell you something without you trying to fix it?” The friend said yes. And for twenty minutes, Ali talked. Not like the confident guy everyone knew, but like a human being — tired, overwhelmed, and afraid. His friend didn’t interrupt. He just listened. At the end, he said, > “You know what? I don’t care how ‘perfect’ you are. I love you for being real.” Ali didn’t cry often. But he cried then. --- The Truth About Hidden Fears Everyone has a hidden fear. Some fear rejection. Some fear loneliness. Some fear failure. Some, like Ali, fear not being enough. And the scariest thing about hidden fears isn’t that they exist — it’s that we keep them hidden for so long, they begin to define us. But the moment you speak them out loud… they start to lose power. Because fear thrives in silence — But it shrinks in the light of truth and connection. --- So If You’re Hiding a Fear Right Now… Let this be your reminder: You don’t have to carry it alone. You don’t have to wear a mask just to be loved. You don’t have to pretend to be okay every single day. Speak. Share. Be honest — even just with one person. Because there is strength in admitting fear. And healing doesn’t begin with pretending. It begins with saying: > “This is what I’m afraid of. But I’m ready to face it.” And that — is where courage lives.
By Hazrat Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Night at the Library
The night at the library started out just like any other night with me in the stacks reshelving books from the day before. For some reason this night was beginning to feel a different. At the moment I am not quite sure how, but I am having a feeling I will be finding out. Just not sure when.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Red Masque
SYNOPSIS Ethan and Lyra Rivera were once a loving couple. Lyra is a celebrated soprano and Ethan a musician in her band. These young lovers who were only recently married have been hit by the worst tragedy they can imagine, the death of their beloved three-year-old son Mateo.
By Angela Goldsmith Author @Waterstonesabout a year ago in Fiction
The Red Casket
Synopsis Gabriel Enys is a junior solicitor from London. Still grieving from the death of his beloved mother he is sent by his employer to Bodmin Moor on a fateful assignment to recover the final will and testament of the newly deceased, eccentric and reclusive former occupant.
By Angela Goldsmith Author @Waterstonesabout a year ago in Fiction