Psychological
If I Died Tomorrow: The Regrets I’d Carry to the Grave"
If I died tomorrow, they’d find my phone full of unsent messages. Apologies half-typed. “I miss you” left hanging. A confession I was too scared to send. They’d scroll and scroll and never reach the end of what I meant to say, but didn’t. I imagine someone reading them—my sister, maybe. She’d sit on the edge of my unmade bed, trying to understand the silences I wrapped around myself like armor. She’d find photos I never posted, smiles I faked, journals filled with pages I hoped no one would ever see. If I died tomorrow, the truth would leak out in fragments, and maybe then, they’d see who I really was. Because the real regret wouldn’t be the things I did—it would be the things I didn’t. The birthday calls I let ring out. The friend I ghosted because I didn’t know how to say I was hurting. The love I held in my chest like a fragile bird, never giving it the chance to fly or fall. If I died tomorrow, I know what people would say. “She always seemed fine.” “She was strong.” “She was always smiling.” I wish they knew that I smiled because it was easier than explaining. That being “fine” became a mask I forgot how to take off. That strength was never my choice—it was the only option I had left. I’d regret not telling my father I forgave him. For the years of silence between us. For not saying, I understand now that you did your best—even when it wasn’t enough. I’d regret not asking my mother how she kept going after everything. I watched her break in small, quiet ways—bills unpaid, dinner late, her laughter disappearing—but I never asked what it cost her to carry it all. She would’ve told me, if I’d only asked. And there was Mia. I’d regret Mia more than anything. We sat on the roof one summer night, seventeen and heart-wide-open. She asked me what I was afraid of. I told her nothing, but my hands were trembling. The truth was—I was terrified of losing her. Of loving her out loud. Of what my friends, my family, my world would say. So I smiled, laughed, made a joke. And when she leaned closer, I leaned away. She left a year later. I watched her go, said nothing, wrote letters I never sent. And I kept thinking I had time—time to explain, to apologize, to say, It was always you, I was just afraid to be me. But time is cruel like that. It tricks you into believing it owes you something. That there will always be another moment, another chance. If I died tomorrow, I’d take all of that with me. The late-night walks I canceled. The poetry I never shared. The art I buried beneath fear of judgment. The parties I skipped because I thought no one would notice. The books I wanted to write. The people I loved in silence. The "I'm sorry" I kept rehearsing but never delivered. If I died tomorrow, I wonder if anyone would know that I cried after watching strangers reunite at airports. That I memorized people’s coffee orders because it made them smile. That I always waited five minutes before deleting a risky message, hoping—just once—I’d hit send. Maybe someone would read my journals. The ones under my bed. Page after page of what I really felt, masked by poetry and metaphors. Maybe someone would finally see the girl who lived so quietly, too afraid to take up space, but desperate to be known. I hope they’d understand I didn’t regret failing—I regretted not trying. And if, somehow, I could whisper one truth into the world before I went, it would be this: Don’t wait. Don’t wait to say I love you. Don’t wait to apologize, to forgive, to try, to dream, to leap. Don’t wait until the weight of regret is the only thing you carry. Because time doesn’t make promises. And silence doesn’t heal. If I died tomorrow, I hope someone reads this. I hope it makes them send the message. Make the call. Write the book. Kiss the girl. Forgive the father. Dance in the rain. Cry in public. Laugh without covering their mouth. Live, even if it’s messy. Because regret doesn’t come from the chaos—it comes from the silence. So if you’re reading this, and your heart is aching for something you haven’t done yet, do it. Please—before it’s too late.
By Hasbanullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Hot Dirigible
Tallulah felt the thick braids of the whicker basket through the soles of her running shoes. She imagined it matched the thick braids in her long blond hair. She was not sure about getting into a hot air balloon when she first arrived at the field near the Fort Crittenden Dam Park. She almost chickened out, but once they were up in the air she found the view utterly breathtaking. She could see the entire valley from their height.
By Amos Gladeabout a year ago in Fiction
The Door of Shared Sorrow
Eleven thirty-four at night. The sky, a vast canvas of bruised purple and black, was weeping. It was as if the firmament itself had ruptured, pouring out all its ancient sorrow in a deluge. This wasn’t just rain; it was tears, blood, and clotted grief gushing from the slit veins of eternity. A jet-black Toyota Premio, a silent predator, tore through the wet, gleaming heart of the highway. Inside, the world was a blur of distorted light and shadow. In the piercing glare of the headlights, the raindrops ignited like diamonds for a fleeting, brilliant moment before being consumed by the darkness behind, like the last glint of a thousand shattered stars scattered on the path of a final, inexorable journey.
By Selina Khatun about a year ago in Fiction
Our Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. Content Warning.
Why did you stop it? We can't play his top hits! Come off it! What logic made you want to pause it? His comments are toxic! But his songs are nostalgic! But playing his pop hits will make him a profit! My streams of his projects aren't major deposits! But his stream of conscience promotes harmful nonsense With such monstrous comments that fall out of pocket It's edgelords like you who put change in his pocket You changed all the context , and imma let your finish But he gets overly honest from his bipolar condition Imprisoned by his symptoms and bitches and riches We portray him as wicked while we downplay his sickness In major pain and heartbreak, we made him The Monster His stages of grief aired on stages of concerts His disorders and stardom force him to be shameless We should look at ourselves for who made that bitch famous! But that's not an excuse! I never said it was! I condemn all the horrible stunts that he does! So shouldn't we cancel this Electoral College Dropout? Well, his suicidal thoughts and mania should not be cropped out! Plus, he inspired a generation! He's an introspective genius! He's a far-right extremist and a Jesus elitist! He evolved the rap game! His POWER fills up arenas! And he lost so much footing that he dropped from Adidas! He's in charge of his actions where his drive is too reckless His broken-ass mouth can't be blamed on a Lexus! Charged with abuse and assault, harassing women in his meetings His orders do not warrant his abhorrent tweets and beatings It all falls down on him, so stop playing the blame game He'll never, ever clear the "con" away from his own name Underneath all of the lights, we see his speech spreading darkness Yet you listen to his catalog, how could you be so heartless? While I honor the art, I don't pardon the artist I'll mark him with charges, but his art is not tarnished But his poor misconduct should make his art more condemnable By your logic, his great art makes his misconduct more commendable Would you say an athlete's stats are poor if their murder's set on trial? Would you reject a working cancer cure if the doctor's a pedophile? The beauty of the artwork should be separate from the artist For favor from their artistry should not redeem their charges But his art is part of who he is , he's reflected in every bar Since he's introspective, his art is connected His music is bound to his heart And his heart has created fertile ground For farmers to harvest a hurtful crowd Sowing seeds in minds that bigotry and hateful speech are now allowed Any fruit that he produces does not fall far from the tree! But his harvest yields some good fruit! So you cherry-pick your feed? He's such a fucking hoax! I hate it! He must face repercussions! Make him barred from the public for this bard is corrupted! But the bars he has published are not barred from consumption For the art and its subject are apart in my judgment His songs and crimes are separate parts of discussion I can marvel his music while I mark him repugnant! But marveling his music is empowering his status That went from "Father Stretch My Hands" to stretch my hand to the Axis! You reprimand his actions, but I must condemn your own Since you enable his malpractice like Diamonds from Sierra Leone! I'm not a slave to this diamond! But you're a slave to its shining! If you're aware of its snares, why do you choose to be blinded? I refuse to be silenced when you're funding his brand Yet you choose to be quiet when there's blood on your hands! You can plead for our divorce , but the diamonds are forever You could seize him out by force, but the bond will never sever I'm not blind to his temper or the lies he has festered Yet you're blind to the lovely years that we have spent together Your eyes are on crime records while my mind is on his records You try to ban my leisure with no glance on why I prefer When his songs have made great efforts to improve my mood and self-worth Don't you think I'd resist sanctions on the bond I want to preserve? While my streams and my pride are the price of my pleasure I don't dream to divide when my diamond makes pressure While I grieve that my time has been tied to his net-worth I can't leave in the night when I treasure his best work Forgive me if I'm callous , as your fond feelings are valid, But his violent crimes and baggage vastly outbalance his talents You are challenged by his malice mixed with memories of comfort But when balancing your ballot you must realize morals come first You want to end his mass appeal, yet your streams have allowed it At least when he attacks a Bush, he does not beat around it! He gives life to his art: drop his children from your custody The rock must die as I look down on your diamond-encrusted piece But what is your plan after pressing this ban? His brand stands on diamonds, not pillars of sand His impact is massive while you have less traction So why try converting his masses of fans? To censor one's speech is a radical plan Lynching artistry through woke activists' hands The extremist mob finds a flaw from your jaw And you're caught in the draw of a blacklisting sham You preach for free speech, yet establish a ban With PC police drafting drastic demands Blitzkrieg property with your fascist advance As the ashes of art had the Axis expand! You act like the Vultures have ravaged the land When you are the mavericks with matchsticks at hand! But I'm not the one backing radical fans At Charlottesville with the white nationalist Klan Engaged with your God like a practice exam You only care if your own class has advanced Yet your class will collapse at the slap of his hand Once your ass fails to match with his capitalist brand When he crosses your door like a Catholic lamb Your own Dolla $igns paid for your battering ram He cannot keep his fascist black ass in his pants We will have his waste banned by elastic demand! You can't cover his ass with a ban and a loincloth Many fans stand to Stan – won’t abandon his choice thoughts When heroes we appoint disappoint at a coin's drop, What's the point of a boycott when it won't make the noise stop? The art and the noise do not act in a vacuum His words echo hate barked in bathrooms and chat rooms Like Inter Milan and Robert Lee statues His bigoted themes promote bigoted values Endowed by the artists that we've grown attached to Where pleasure from art brands our spiritual tattoos We shrug off the bad news and pass through their past dues And offer our cash to that dude who attacks Jews! The God in his mouth has not spoken in so long Persecuting the weak 'cause it makes him feel so strong Runaway from this dark fantasy where the cowards go! Do you have the power to let all his POWER go?
By DJ Nuclear Winterabout a year ago in Fiction
Smiles on the Lips, Deceit in the Heart . AI-Generated.
Story: It all started on an ordinary morning when Sara first saw Ali at the college library. Between shelves lined with dusty books, her eyes caught a glimpse of him. Just a brief glance, but her heart skipped a beat. Sara silently promised herself she would never speak to him, but fate had already written a different story.
By Saeedullah Shanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Room at the Top of the Stairs
At the top of the stairs, there’s a door we all pretend isn’t there. Dad calls it the “Storage Room,” with the same dismissive shrug he uses for broken gutters or peeling paint. A necessary inconvenience, nothing worth thinking about. The “Storage Room” hasn’t held a single box or old lamp for over a decade. It’s a polite lie, and we all politely keep it going.
By taihan ibn altafabout a year ago in Fiction
Letters to the Moon
In a world where the stars had vanished and the sky was nothing but a curtain of static black, people stopped looking up. The moon was the last celestial body left, flickering faintly above the poisoned skyline like a dying ember in a burnt-out fireplace. No one believed it could still hear us. No one but me—and her. This is not just a love story. It's a dystopian romance story wrapped in fading memories, forbidden hope, and the fragile weight of handwritten letters sent to a place no one could reach.
By Muhammad Asimabout a year ago in Fiction
The Algorithm Matched Us — But I Made a Fake Profile
I didn’t plan to fall for him. Actually, I didn’t plan anything. It started as a joke. A dare to myself. I made a fake profile on the dating app—not because I wanted to scam anyone, not for attention, and definitely not because I thought it would lead anywhere. I made it because I didn’t think me—the real me—was enough to be loved.
By Adrian-Razvan Ispasabout a year ago in Fiction
