Psychological
The Echoes of the Yellow Scarf
When Mira stepped off the subway at 14th Street, the crowd swept around her like waves. It was the same platform, same train, same morning routine—but today, something was different. Clutched in her hand was a yellow scarf. Not hers. She had found it on the park bench she always sat on before heading to work. It was soft, handmade, and slightly frayed at the edges, with initials stitched in the corner: S.H. She hesitated before picking it up earlier that morning. Normally, she'd ignore lost items, let someone else deal with them. But something about this scarf felt… personal. Like it was meant for her to find. By the time she reached her office on the 22nd floor of a glass-paneled building, she couldn’t stop thinking about the initials. Who was S.H.? Why did it feel like more than just a lost scarf? She Googled the initials with “yellow scarf” and “New York”—of course, nothing. A thousand meaningless results. But then came the dreams. That night, Mira dreamt of a girl in a yellow scarf standing under a streetlamp, eyes full of sorrow. She said nothing. Just stood. Watching. Silent. The next night, she returned. This time, Mira spoke. “Who are you?” The girl looked up. “Help me find home.” Mira jolted awake. The scarf was on the chair beside her bed—right where she’d left it. But it looked newer. Less worn. As if time had reversed. In the days that followed, the dreams grew more vivid. The girl—always in that yellow scarf—stood by a bench, her back to Mira, facing a lake Mira had never seen before. And every time, she'd whisper, “Almost there.” Mira started drawing the scenes. She was no artist, but the urge was uncontrollable. She filled pages with images of the girl, the lake, the scarf fluttering like a whisper caught in wind. Her friends thought she was spiraling. “You need sleep,” they said. “You’re obsessing over nothing.” But she couldn't stop. One rainy Sunday, Mira walked aimlessly through Central Park, the scarf wrapped around her neck, the dreams echoing in her thoughts. And then—she saw it. The bench. Not just any bench. The bench. The one from her dreams. It faced a small, quiet lake. Willow trees bowed along the edges. A streetlamp flickered nearby. It was all real. She sat. A soft breeze passed. Leaves rustled. The scarf lifted slightly. And then, across the lake, stood the girl. Real. Flesh and bone. Same yellow scarf. Same solemn eyes. Mira stood. “Who are you?” The girl smiled faintly. “You found me.” Mira stepped forward, breath caught in her throat. But before she could speak again, the girl turned and walked toward the trees—fading like mist in morning light. Gone. Mira looked down. The scarf had vanished. In its place, on the bench, was a note. “Thank you. I’m home now. – S.H.” That was three years ago. Since then, Mira walks the park every Sunday. She never saw the girl again, but sometimes, when the breeze picks up just right, she feels a soft warmth on her neck—as if a scarf, unseen, still lingers. She doesn’t tell many people the story. Who would believe her? But if you ever find a yellow scarf where it shouldn't be… Hold on to it. Someone might be waiting.
By Arshad khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Clock maker's Curse
Chapter 1: The Shop That Ticked Too Loud The bell above Holloway's Horology jingled weakly as Mrs. Pembroke stepped inside, her umbrella dripping onto the worn wooden floorboards. The air smelled of oil and aged mahogany, with a faint metallic tang that clung to the back of one's throat.
By Shehzad Ahmadabout a year ago in Fiction
The House That Remembers.
The old Victorian house on Chestnut Street was our dream, or at least the skeleton of it. It was a fixer-upper, with peeling paint and floors that groaned like a sleeping old man, but my husband, Ben, and I saw its potential. We were young, in love, and naively optimistic about how far a few coats of paint and a lot of hard work could go. We bought it for a steal, blissfully unaware that the house came with a feature not listed in the realtor’s description.
By MUHAMMAD FARHANabout a year ago in Fiction
Why Casually Eating Entire Cloves of Garlic During Meetings Earned Me a Fearsome Reputation. AI-Generated.
The meeting was supposed to last thirty minutes. In corporate time, that usually meant forty-five — but not today. Today, it would end precisely when I decided it should.
By Jesse L Shelleyabout a year ago in Fiction
Prewash. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
I found the blood in the sink again. Not fresh—never fresh. Thick, dark, clotted like guilt under fingernails. It didn’t alarm me this time. I just nudged the sponge aside and turned on the hot water. It’s easier when the steam blurs the reflection.
By Jesse L Shelleyabout a year ago in Fiction
Just Say It, Already. AI-Generated.
“I’m not impatient,” I said, already hearing her next six words stacking like loose teeth behind her lips. “I’m efficient. You people treat conversations like IKEA furniture—‘some assembly required’ but always missing the goddamn wrench.”
By Jesse L Shelleyabout a year ago in Fiction
Between Our Cups of Tea
She placed the teacup in front of me, just like she always did — handle turned exactly to the right, the way I liked it. No sugar. No milk. Just like our mornings now. Bland. Quiet. Ritualistic. “Thanks,” I said, my voice low but audible. She didn’t answer. She never really did these days. She took her seat across from me, the chair creaking slightly under her, and lifted her own cup without a glance. The steam rose between us like a ghost — thin, silent, vanishing quickly. We sipped. Two strangers in a house we once called home. --- There was a time when mornings meant laughter. When she’d lean over the table, teasing me about my uncombed hair. When I’d kiss her forehead while the kettle boiled. When we’d talk — really talk — about dreams, books, movies, and silly ideas that only mattered to us. Now, we sip in silence. --- “What time are you heading out?” she finally asked, eyes still on her tea. “Around ten,” I replied. “You?” “Maybe earlier. I have to stop by the pharmacy.” I nodded. Another ordinary exchange. Another moment with nothing in it. --- It wasn't always like this. We used to touch each other without thinking — fingers brushing while reaching for the same spoon. We used to giggle like teenagers, even after five years of marriage. We used to sit on the floor instead of the couch, just because it felt cozier. We used to say “I love you” before falling asleep — even when tired, even when angry. I can't remember the last time we said that. I can't remember the last time I looked at her and saw her — the girl I fell in love with. Now, I just see a quiet woman in a bathrobe, pouring tea. And maybe she sees just a man behind a newspaper — not the boy who once chased her in the rain. --- “I’ve been thinking,” she said, suddenly. I looked up. “About?” She hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s nothing.” Say it, I wanted to tell her. Scream it if you have to. Tell me you’re unhappy. Tell me you miss me. Tell me you want to leave. Anything. Just don’t sip tea and pretend this is normal. --- I remember the night I first met her. She was at a bookstore, reading the back cover of a poetry collection. She had no makeup on. Just jeans, a plain blue shirt, and hair tied in a messy bun. She looked up, caught me staring, and smiled like I was already forgiven. We spoke for two hours that night. We didn’t even buy the book. Now, the same woman won’t speak to me for more than two minutes unless it’s about bills or groceries. --- I reached across the table and touched her hand. She didn’t pull away. But she didn’t hold it either. Just let it sit there — like my touch was something to tolerate, not treasure. “I miss us,” I said. She blinked. Once. Twice. And then quietly replied, “I know.” --- Silence again. Not heavy. Not angry. Just... empty. --- She stood, collected her cup, rinsed it in the sink. I watched her movements. Precise. Mechanical. Distant. I wanted to say so many things. Like how I still remember the way she laughed with her eyes. Like how I still sleep on the edge of the bed because that’s how she likes it. Like how I don’t want to lose her but don’t know how to keep her. But I said nothing. Because we both had gotten used to saying nothing. --- As she dried her hands on a towel, I asked: “Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” She didn’t turn around. After a pause, she said: > “I think... we’ve been trying not to break. But maybe we already did. Quietly. Without noticing.” --- I stood up. Walked to the door. Picked up my coat. “I’m going for a walk,” I said. She only nodded. No “be careful.” No “come back soon.” Just a nod — like I was a neighbor borrowing sugar, not her husband. --- Outside, the air was colder than I expected. I shoved my hands into my pockets, thinking about how two people can share a house, a bed, a life — and still feel miles apart. --- When I returned an hour later, she was gone. But on the table, next to my empty teacup, was a note. > I made you a fresh cup. I don’t know if it changes anything, but… it still matters to me that you drink it warm. —M ---
By Muhammad Usamaabout a year ago in Fiction
The Quiet Theft
It started, as these things always do, with a perfect mistake. He found her through a friend’s story — not tagged, just visible in the background. A flash of her face, caught mid-laugh, her hands covering her mouth like she was trying to keep something beautiful from escaping. She wore a threadbare sweatshirt and no jewelry, and something about her made him sit up straighter.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Wellness Check
Michael decided it was the right time to visit. “Mr. Richards?” He knocked on the screen door and waited. This was not a bad sign. Michael had known Mr. Richards since he was a young boy and they first moved next door to the very old home that reminded him of something from a monster movie. As they were unpacking, he noticed the man sitting on his front porch, happily rocking away in his chair with a drink in his hand and sunglasses on to block out the light of that very bright afternoon. He had waved at the family and they all smiled and waved back. Michael wondered about his life from that moment on and would find out what he could.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
A Nonsense Story
The other day I was thinking of a story, and I saw one of my old writing textbooks and was looking through it for some ideas I read again some of the exercises. That is when I was thinking about a nonsense story of just a collection of sentences. Who knows it just might make sense in a way. Please comment.
By Mark Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
The Silence Between Songs
The apartment was quiet. Not the kind of quiet you notice immediately — not an absence, but a stillness. The kind that lingers in doorways and clings to the corners of ceilings. I hadn’t played music in two days. Not even a podcast. Not even the soft hum of a lo-fi playlist on repeat.
By Shafi ulhaqabout a year ago in Fiction
