Short Story
Can I Get You Another?
“Can I get you another?” In a dimly lit bar, where the air seems to sit still, and the wood seems to carry the invisible stains of thousands of years of service, a man of 58 years, wearing a suit and tie, sits with an empty glass in front of him. He lifts the glass, curious, then sets it back down. The noise of a door opening at the front of the bar is heard, but when the man wheels around he sees the large wooden door at the entrance closed tight. A faint laughter drifts overhead. He looks behind him but finds only a line of empty booths. The stools beside him are empty as well. He tilts his head back towards the ceiling and can barely make out the light fixtures, as though they’re hidden behind a layer of fog. A wave of uneasiness flows over the lone man at the bar. But he’s not alone, is he? “Didn’t I just hear someone”, he thinks.
By Tyler Tomson10 months ago in Fiction
You Loved Me at the Wrong Time, and I Loved You When It Was Too Late
There are moments in life when timing feels like the most powerful—and the most ruthless—force in the universe. People talk about love as if it’s all about emotions: how deeply you feel, how much you care, how strongly your heart pulls you toward someone. But no one warns you about timing. No one tells you that two people can love each other with the same intensity, the same sincerity, the same ache… and still end up losing one another simply because they didn’t love each other at the same time. Ours was that kind of love. You loved me when I was too blind to see it—when your heart was open and mine was barricaded behind years of fear, pride, and confusion. You tried to show it in a dozen small ways: the way you waited for me after school, the messages you sent just to check if I’d eaten, the way you remembered every small thing I said, even the throwaway details I had long forgotten. You weren’t dramatic about it. You loved quietly, softly, the kind of love that stays even when the world grows loud. But I wasn’t ready. I was selfish with my vulnerability. I mistook your consistency for something that would always be there. I thought I had time—time to understand myself, time to choose you, time to be brave. And because you never pushed, I never moved. So you waited. And waited. And I pretended not to notice the way your eyes dimmed a little every time I acted cold or distant. I pretended I didn’t hear the sadness in your voice when you asked if everything was okay. I pretended you were fine—until one day, you weren’t. People don’t fall out of love all at once. They fade slowly, like sunset leaking into night. And the first time I realized you were slipping away was the day you stopped trying. The day your good morning message didn’t arrive. The day you didn’t look for me in the crowd. The day you smiled at me like I was a stranger. Suddenly, I was the one waiting. I was the one checking my phone. I was the one replaying memories. I was the one trying to catch your eye, only to find your gaze drifting somewhere else—somewhere I no longer lived. And that’s when it hit me: You loved me at the wrong time, and I loved you when it was too late. It’s strange, isn’t it? How the heart works. When you wanted me, I was busy protecting myself. And when I wanted you, you were busy healing yourself from me. I used to tell myself that if love was real, it would survive anything. But now I know that love is not always enough—not if the timing is wrong. There is a version of us that could’ve worked. A version where I said “yes” instead of “maybe.” A version where I held your hand instead of hesitating. A version where I chose you the moment you chose me. But that version exists only in my imagination, not in our reality. You found someone eventually—someone who met you at the right time, someone whose heart was open when yours was still willing. I’ve seen the way you look at her, and it’s the same way you once looked at me. But this time, I’m not the one beside you. And honestly, you deserve that. You deserve a love that doesn’t make you wait. You deserve someone who doesn’t need to lose you to realize your worth. As for me… I’m still learning. Learning that love isn’t just about feeling. It’s about courage. It’s about timing. It’s about choosing someone while they are still reaching for you. Sometimes, timing is the villain in our stories. But sometimes, timing is the lesson. And my lesson was you. I learned what it means to hesitate too long. I learned the cost of silence. I learned that love is not a door you can keep half-open forever—eventually, someone walks away. But here’s the strange part: Even though I lost you, I’m grateful I knew you. You taught me how to love fully, how to be vulnerable, how to recognize the feeling when it finally came. Someone else will benefit from all the things I learned too late. Someone new will meet a version of me shaped by losing you. And maybe that’s the quiet, bittersweet beauty of our story. You were the right person at the wrong time. I was the right person at the wrong time. And in another life, another timeline, another version of us—maybe we got it right. But in this life, I will always remember you as the love I wasn’t brave enough to choose… until choosing you didn’t matter anymore. Because sometimes, the most painful kind of love is not unrequited love. It’s mistimed love. You loved me when my heart was closed. I loved you when yours had finally healed. And in between those two moments, we lost each other.
By Muhammad Reyaz10 months ago in Fiction
The Remember Room
I sat in the car for a long time before going in. I thought that the drive out in the countryside would give me enough time. The fall colours had consumed the towering pine trees in waves of dark orange and yellow and any other time I would have marvelled at their beauty, but not today. Today I acknowledged their presence as if it was a dull rainy day. As if grey was the only color. Vaguely, I was self aware enough to acknowledge that emotions were stirring that had not been dealt with. In fact, it occurred to me that that day so long ago had also been a fall day.
By Adam Kolozetti10 months ago in Fiction
Corridors Of Innocence Aborted. Content Warning.
When life deals you heartache, treachery, and brokenness all at once and at the hands of a loved one. There has to be some tough anecdotes, where the wounded person has to give themselves permission to bounce back. Don’t just stay in a wounded fetal position; comeback better and stronger.
By Jacqueline Elaine Hudson10 months ago in Fiction
Symbiotic: Chapter 26
Chapter 26 The tavern was alive with laughter and clinking mugs. Sara sat among the villagers, a frothy ale in hand, listening to the cheers and toasts in her honor. Humans filled most of the room, but she couldn’t help admiring the variety of animalfolk scattered among them. Fox eared hunters, molefolk miners, a wolfish shepherd couple with shaggy fur and sharp grins, and others. Their presence gave the place a warmth and diversity she hadn’t expected, and for a moment she allowed herself to bask in it.
By Canyon Cappola (TheNomad)10 months ago in Fiction
T Comics Presents #1
Scarlet Nemesis “The Other Door” The apartment door swung open and a young woman ran inside and shut it as fast as she could. Her hands shook as she fidgeted with the many locks on the door. After she placed the last lock on the door, she fell to her knees, huffing and puffing for breath. As her breathing began to slow down, a loud pounding hit repeatedly at the door.
By Derrick Billups 10 months ago in Fiction
Silent Room. Honorable Mention in The Forgotten Room Challenge.
All at once, the floorboards groaned their last. At first, this came as a relief, the scraping and scuffing of a cacophony of shoes and voices had been unrelenting. Peace, at last. No longer abused by the snotty-fingered child, or the slopping of tea and scrape of chair-legs. No longer marred and stained and used. Bones creaking, walls sighing, skirting boards never wiped. The occupants had been reckless, aging the room with crumbs, crayons and loud garish laughter. They had left dust and grime to congeal in hidden corners. Allowed a thin-armed spider to make a home in another. And the dog. It was perhaps the worst offender. Hair everywhere, nails scratching on oiled-wood, the drool, the dander, the wanton muck brought from outside.
By Rebecca Sunberry10 months ago in Fiction
Forgotten
I sit alone, as I always do. In a corner where everything is seen and I am seen by everything. Fear rushes through me as someone enters the room. I cannot see their face and I tremble at the thought of what they want. Words, sounds, speech, a question... a conversation. I thought I had forgotten how to have a conversation but it seems, as the draftiness in this room persists, so do old habits.
By Silver Holly Hope10 months ago in Fiction
The Door I Swore I’d Never Open Again—Opened Itself Tonight
Some doors stay in our memories long after they stop being used. Some doors rot, some fade, and some… wait. The one at the end of my childhood hallway did all three. For twelve years, I avoided it like a curse—because I knew what was behind it. Or rather, what had been behind it. I locked it myself the night everything fell apart. I vowed I would never touch that handle, never breathe the dust of that room, never let the past slip its cold fingers around my throat again. But tonight, the door made the first move. It opened on its own. --- The Night It Happened It was close to midnight when I heard the sound. A soft metallic click—the unmistakable voice of a door unlatching. I froze on the couch. My phone screen dimmed, leaving me with nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the pulse in my throat. Another sound followed. A low creak, slow and deliberate. I didn’t need to check. I already knew which door it was. I could feel it—like an old scar tugging at skin. For a moment, the air in the house shifted, as if it inhaled sharply. Shadows stretched a little longer. The house suddenly felt too awake, too alert. I stood up, every bone heavy, and walked toward the hallway. The door was open. Wide open. A cold wave crawled across the floor, brushing my ankles. The darkness inside the room looked too deep, as though the space had grown, as if the walls had been pushed outward into someplace that wasn’t part of my home anymore. --- The Room I Left Behind My childhood room hadn’t always felt haunted. It was once a place of drawings taped crookedly to the walls, blankets tossed everywhere, and the constant buzzing sound of my little desk fan. Before the night of the incident. Before I learned that even living houses can hold secrets. I hadn’t told anyone why I locked the room. The story sounded unbelievable even to me. Who would accept that I once woke up to a voice whispering my name from inside my closet? Or that something moved under my bed when nothing living was there? Or that the mirror fogged up even when I wasn’t breathing near it? I kept those memories boxed, sealed, and buried. But tonight, something unburied them. --- What Changed Tonight I should have slammed the door shut. I should have walked away and pretended it never happened. Instead, I took a slow step forward. The floorboards groaned beneath me—groans I had memorized as a child because I used to avoid the noisy planks to sneak out at night. The smell of the room drifted out: old paper, wood, and something metallic beneath it. Inside, the air looked thick, like a place where time had stopped moving. Then I noticed something impossible. The dust wasn’t untouched. Footprints—fresh ones—tracked across the floor. But they didn’t lead into the room. They led out. My stomach tightened. I stepped back. The hallway felt different now, like someone else was standing in it with me. I whispered into the darkness, “Who’s there?” No answer. Just the lingering cold. --- Then I Heard It From the far end of the hallway came a soft, dragging sound. Not a footstep. More like fabric being pulled along the floor. My skin prickled. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to lock myself in my room, to call someone—anyone. But I couldn’t move. The dragging stopped. A silhouette formed near the wall, tall and slow-moving. It didn’t step into the light. It hovered just where the darkness began, as if afraid of being fully seen. But I recognized the shape anyway. It was familiar. Too familiar. It moved like me. No—not exactly like me. Like a stretch of me. Like a shadow pulled off the wall and given weight. Its voice was barely more than a breath: “You left me.” My legs nearly collapsed. It stepped forward—and the light confirmed what I feared. It was my shadow. Taller, darker, and standing independent from my feet… like it had grown in my absence. I whispered, “You’re not real.” It tilted its head—my head—just slightly. “I waited. You never came back.” Something inside me cracked. All these years, I had tried to forget the room. Forget the strange nights, the whispers, the feeling that the darkness inside that space wasn’t empty. But shadows don’t disappear. They simply wait where you left them. Tonight, mine returned. --- The Final Step Toward Me The shadow took a step, and the hallway lights flickered violently. The air thickened, as if the house swallowed a breath and held it. I stumbled backward, gripping the wall. My shadow extended a hand—long, dark, trembling. “You owe me,” it whispered. As its fingers reached for my arm, a surge of icy numbness spread across my skin. I gasped. Then— The door slammed shut behind us with a deafening crack. The hallway went completely dark. And the last thing I heard was my shadow’s voice, close enough that it felt like it was speaking directly against my ear: “It’s time to finish what we started.”
By Muhammad Reyaz10 months ago in Fiction
Cleansed Now . Runner-Up in The Forgotten Room Challenge. Content Warning.
CONTENT WARNING: Some portions of this story may upset sensitive people or trigger bad memories. Liza occasionally took a glance out the window, giving her hands and eyes a quick rest from clothes ironing. Her hand ached from holding the heavy iron, and she wiped her brow with her apron. White round tufts on branches spread for acres, and she knew her children's hands would need loving care tonight from picking crops.
By Andrea Corwin 10 months ago in Fiction
