Short Story

I Tried Different Ways to See If Someone Was on Dating Apps — Here’s What I Learned
Hey there, folks—it's Jamie Smith here, your average guy from the bustling suburbs of Oakwood Hills, Illinois, where the coffee's always hot and the gossip even hotter. If you're reading this, chances are you're sitting there with a knot in your stomach, staring at your partner's phone like it's a ticking time bomb, wondering: "Is my boyfriend on dating sites?" or "How can I find out if my husband is on dating apps without spending a dime?" Trust me, I've been in those shoes—pacing my living room at 2 a.m., coffee gone cold, heart racing like I'd just run a marathon. As a freelance graphic designer who moonlights as a tech tinkerer, I've tried every trick in the book to snoop without getting caught. And let me tell you, it's a rollercoaster of highs, lows, and a few "what was I thinking?" moments. In this article, I'll spill the beans on how to see if your partner is on dating apps, sharing my own messy story along with practical, free (or cheap) methods. We'll mix in some humor because, hey, if you can't laugh at your own paranoia, what's the point? But I'll keep it professional too—no judgment here, just real talk from one suspicious soul to another.
By Jamie Smithabout a year ago in Fiction
The silent miles. Content Warning.
The rain came in sheets, blurring the world into streaks of gray and silver. Noah gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened, eyes fixed on the thin line of headlights cutting through the mist. Beside him, Anna’s hand pressed to her belly, her breath uneven, panicked. “It’s okay,” he said, voice rough from shouting over the storm. “I’ve got you. We’re almost there. Just hold on.” “I—I can’t,” she whimpered. “I don’t think I can…” He reached over, gripping her hand. “Shh, shh. You’re fine. I’m right here. Just breathe with me. In… and out…” The world outside the windshield was a smear of rain, asphalt, and dim light, but up ahead — faint but unmistakable — the hospital loomed. Its white lights cut through the darkness like a beacon. Noah felt a surge of relief. Almost there. And then the road stretched. He gritted his teeth. “It’s just a curve,” he muttered, pressing harder on the accelerator. The tires hissed on the wet asphalt. The hospital remained where it had been — the same distance ahead, the same shape, the same sterile glow. And yet, the road continued. Mile after mile, endless black ribbon curling into mist. Anna gasped. “Noah…the hospital....i-it’s not moving. We’re not getting any closer.” He swallowed hard. “Of course we are. We just have to keep going.” But every curve, every straight stretch, every flickering streetlight, led them back to the same horizon. The hospital never grew larger. It never drew nearer. It was always there, distant, impossible, tantalizingly close yet unreachable. “Noah,” Anna said, her voice breaking. “Please… I don’t want this…” “I know,” he said, forcing a reassuring smile. “You’re doing great. I’ve got you. I promise, you’re safe with me. We’ll—” The tires skidded on a slick patch. He corrected the wheel, breathing fast. “We’ll get there. Just a little farther. I won’t let anything happen to you.” They drove on. --- Hours and hours— Noah couldn’t tell how many— passed. The road was empty save for the rain and the occasional flicker of broken signs. Their headlights bounced off wet asphalt and fog, but nothing else existed. Trees leaned at impossible angles, their branches scratching against the windshield like skeletal fingers. The hospital’s lights remained the same, constant, unchanging. Anna leaned against him, shivering. “Noah… the baby…” “I know,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re safe. We’ll make it. Just a little farther. Keep breathing.” But as he drove, a creeping fear settled in his chest. Every mile felt heavier. The steering wheel vibrated like a pulse in his hands. The headlights reflected in the rain like twin eyes watching him, mocking him. And the hospital — oh, that relentless, impossible hospital — it never changed. --- He tried everything. He accelerated, pressed harder on the gas, but the road did not shorten. He braked, tried to pull over, but there was no shoulder, no ground, only endless asphalt curling into darkness. He swerved, yelled, begged, but the hospital remained the same distant light, the same sterile promise.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Darling Little Uglies . Top Story - August 2025.
He wakes to see nothing— he feels nothing. But he smells the shore and he can hear the waves and then, bewildered, he tries to move.
By Sam Spinelliabout a year ago in Fiction
Vanilla
"I'm not sure l understand. The parameters of our relationship are that I am only intimate with you." "It's just for one night, okay? It'll be like when we had that dinner party with... But instead of food we'll be... socialising... in a different way." Jac's eyes had that blank look that told me he had nothing suitable in his databank to help him make sense of this, so he was resorting to the internet. This seemed like a terrible idea. "Jac. Jac! Stop it. STOP. Okay? Listen. Jac. You just have to trust me." His cheek twitched, and he blinked. "Understood. Trust is the basis for any good relationship, and you're right to push for it." I rolled my eyes. "Oh, shut up," I said. "Go and check on the girls. Remember Aster is at her friend's house for a sleepover. Tansy is probably asleep. Don't wake her, just check she's okay. I said Fern could read a bit longer, but if she is on TikTok again, we are going to have to discuss consequences." I poured myself a glass of crisp Sauvignon blanc, and, headed for the sitting room, eyes glued to my phone, thumbing through half-price ballgags and fluffy handcuffs. I sank into the vanilla-coloured sofa, and mentally ran through what else we needed for our little get-together on Saturday. Jac is better at this stuff than I am. I should have checked on the children, while he arranged everything for the weekend. That would have been a better division of labour. Plus, I used to kiss them goodnight, every night. Without fail. When did I last do that? No. This soiree requires nuance. Jac is great at organising, but nuance is still not his forte. When he comes back downstairs, I'll tell him to do the dishes. I'll kiss Tansy goodnight, even if she's asleep. I'll offer to read to Fern. Ask her about her day. Hug. Reconnect. * I have no idea how to do this. Do I answer the door in my lingerie? Do I wear a nice dress? Something slutty? My denim skirt is too casual, I think. Very short, and probably very tight, too. The only other skirts I have are for work, or holidays abroad. Nothing feels right. Maybe it's a sign: this is a mistake. Ugh. No. I've never believed in "signs". People who talk about "signs from the universe" are guilty of weak and sloppy thinking as far as I'm concerned. Way I see it, we make our own signs. I want to text Rita, and ask her what she's wearing. For goodness sake, I'm a mother of three, not a teenager going to her first disco. Just a few days to go. Jac has done a grocery shop, and, at my suggestion, ordered plenty of wine. I did text Rita about that. To check what Ian likes to drink. We need to make sure we have plenty of it. * Saturday rolled around quickly. Jac helped the girls pack their overnight bags. He's good at that, now. We dropped them off at his mum's house for a movie night and sleepover. Aster is carrying a big bucket of popcorn, Tansy has several bags of M&Ms, and Fern has a tub of ice cream. I prompt her to put it in the freezer. After kisses, goodbyes, "Be good!" and, "Have a nice time!" we make our escape. I'm not sure about Jac, but I am both terribly excited for, and also dreading, tonight's adventures. I can't believe I'm really going to do it. "Are you sure about this?" Jac asks me, his face full of almost-convincing concern. "We don't have to..." "Yes," I tell him, my voice firm. "Yes, we do." "Consent is important in any relationship." Jac is never more irritating and less human to me than when he parrots bland guff from the internet. "Sure, sure," I said, barely listening. Strappy red dress, I think. Stockings. I'll blow-dry my hair. It's going to be fine. * "Wear the other jeans, they look better." Obedient as ever, Jac put on the clothes I've picked out for him. While he buttoned up his shirt, I go over the instructions for him one more time. "The Talisker is for Ian. You're not to have any. I bought it specially for him. You understand? You're not to drink Ian's whisky.
By L.C. Schäferabout a year ago in Fiction
Hurricane - Part 1
The sky was radiant as the summer sun glistened high in the sky. With the impending storm, the bright hues of blue would soon give way to gray clouds. Then the rain would fall, and the winds would bear down on the village.
By KA Stefana about a year ago in Fiction
The Individual Who Sold His Shadow
Nobody read Elias' poetry. His verses were written in battered notebooks that were piled in a corner of his one-room apartment. In the winter, the ink was smudged by rain that seeped through the ceiling. He stood on the winding streets of London at night, reciting to strangers who hardly ever stopped. His words were lost in the cacophony of the city, overpowered by the tavern laughter and the clatter of buses. He was so impoverished that he frequently felt hunger pressing against his ribs like a fist. The comforts of money, fame, and public acclaim were as far away as the stars he stared at through his broken window.
By M.Bilalabout a year ago in Fiction
The Town Where No One Remembers Yesterday
The Town Where No One Remembers Yesterday When time resets, trust no one. The first thing that struck Ethan Cross when he arrived in Bellwick was the silence. Not the peaceful kind, but a hollow quiet that seemed to swallow every sound. The quaint town, with its cobblestone streets and perfectly trimmed hedges, looked like a picture frozen in time. Yet something was off. The people smiled too easily, their eyes too vacant, as if the spark of recognition had been snuffed out long ago.
By Farooq Hashmiabout a year ago in Fiction
When Stars Whisper
The first time Elara saw him, it was not on Earth at all. It was in a dream that felt older than her life—standing on a balcony of white marble, her hands wrapped in silk, while below her, a young man in armor gazed upward with eyes full of devotion. She woke with tears on her cheeks, her heart aching for someone she had never met.
By Rohullahabout a year ago in Fiction
Griefhouse. Content Warning.
Griefhouse Marla didn’t know why the house called her. On a rainy evening, it appeared at the edge of the road, dark and half-hidden by mist and overgrown hedges. She had passed it countless times, always curious, always turning away. That day, something in her chest tightened — a pull she could not resist. The front door swung open before she reached it. No lock, no key, only a heavy sigh of air that seemed almost alive. Inside, the hall stretched unnaturally, lined with peeling wallpaper and faded portraits that watched her. Her own reflection appeared in a tarnished mirror, pale and uncertain, a ghost of herself she barely recognized. --- I. The First Room The first room smelled of damp paper and smoke. Dust motes floated in the weak light from a cracked chandelier. A chair faced the fireplace, unlit. On the mantle, a photograph of a child she once knew — her younger sister, gone ten years ago — stared back. As Marla reached for the photo, the room shifted. The chair turned slowly toward her, its shadow stretching unnaturally across the floor. A whisper rose from the walls: “You left me.” Her throat closed. She fell to her knees. The room responded, walls contracting, ceilings lowering, pressing against the hollow in her chest. She remembered the argument with her sister the morning she left town, the words that had struck like knives, the silence that followed. The house forced her to see. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
Brothers of the Same Flame
The desert wind carried whispers of dust and fire as dusk settled over the village of Aresh. In its fading light, two brothers stood where the sands met the stone cliffs, their shadows stretching long across the earth.
By Rohullahabout a year ago in Fiction
The Borrowed Face. Top Story - August 2025.
Elisabetta was woken by shivers that ran up and down her spine. She found herself lying on the dew covered, lush grass. Her head was pulsing with pain. She must have hit it — why else would she hear music shimmering like bells? She was still in the forest.
By Imola Tóthabout a year ago in Fiction
The ash season . Content Warning.
No one knew why he did it. The billionaire — known in whispers as Greyson — didn’t announce his games, didn’t publish invitations. One morning, a random name appeared on his list, and by nightfall, they were gone. Maya had been walking home from her apartment when a black van pulled alongside her. A polite voice offered a ride, a simple errand, nothing more. When she awoke, the city lights were gone, replaced by the dense hush of a forest she didn’t recognize. The air was cool, tinged with pine and something metallic. Somewhere above, the stars were small, indifferent. The first rule she learned: you cannot leave. The forest was enormous, too vast to map, too tangled to escape. Trails forked endlessly. Shadows moved where no light fell. Every sound — a twig snapping, the wind in the branches — became a signal of his presence. Greyson was there, always observing, never intervening directly. He didn’t need to. By the second day, Maya had discovered the first traps. A clearing littered with broken branches; a tree hollow stuffed with discarded clothes; footprints that appeared and vanished. Someone else had been here, or maybe it was a test. She didn’t know, and the uncertainty gnawed at her. The ash began to fall on the third day. It wasn’t from fire; it drifted silently from the trees, pale gray, settling on skin, clothes, and hair. It didn’t burn, but it whispered, if she leaned close. She could hear faint laughter, murmurs of instructions, half-remembered voices. The forest played tricks on her mind. Every night, she felt as though someone watched from just beyond her vision. She tried running. She tried climbing trees, screaming until her lungs ached. Nothing worked. Each path led back to the same clearing where the ash was thickest, where the air vibrated with a quiet tension, and where she realized the forest itself had been designed — every tree, every stone, every fallen branch placed with deliberate care. Greyson appeared once, or maybe she imagined him. A tall man, impeccably dressed despite the wilderness, stepping from the shadows as though he belonged to both the forest and the city. His eyes were sharp, indifferent, measuring. “You’re doing fine,” he said. His voice was calm, patient, like a teacher praising a student who’d nearly failed. “Just… keep going.” Maya didn’t know if she should run or answer. The ash settled in her hair, her eyelashes, making everything gray, muted, unreal. He turned, disappeared, and she was alone again. The days blurred. Hunger and fatigue tangled with paranoia. She began to hear voices — some distant, some inside her own head. They whispered secrets, fears she had never spoken aloud, memories she’d tried to bury. The ash listened and repeated them. She screamed, only to hear her own words echoed back at her, twisted, rearranged. Other people arrived. Some ran headlong into trees. Some cried and curled in the undergrowth. Some tried to form alliances, but the forest had a way of turning companions into threats. By the end of the first week, few remained. Greyson never touched them, never forced a hand, but his control was absolute. Each obstacle, each trap, each whispered memory was enough. The forest became a labyrinth of fear and regret. The ash fell, soft and endless, and with every flake, the participants grew smaller, quieter, more pliable. On the seventh night, the forest fell silent. Even the ash stopped drifting, as though it were waiting. Maya found herself alone in the clearing. The ground beneath her feet was gray, soft like dust. The air smelled like iron and old pine. Her lungs burned. Her eyes stung. And yet she had survived, unlike the others. A sound behind her — subtle, deliberate — made her spin. Greyson stepped out from the shadows, his presence calm, final. “You’re the last,” he said. His tone carried no triumph, no malice. Only certainty. “You understand the rules now. The forest is not the trap. You are.” Maya realized then that it wasn’t about escape. The forest had never been a prison in the conventional sense. Greyson didn’t need walls or cages. His power lay in shaping their minds, bending them with fear, memory, and isolation. The ash wasn’t ash. It was the weight of their own choices, sifted, broken down, and scattered back over them until they could no longer distinguish themselves from it. She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. But she couldn’t. Her reflection in the puddles of gray on the forest floor was not her own — it was hollowed, muted, watching. Greyson nodded. “Well done,” he said. Then he turned, leaving her among the ash, among the whispers, in the forest he had built not with fences, but with minds. The sun rose, though it did little to pierce the gray. Maya breathed in the air, tasted the ash on her tongue, and realized the truth: the forest had not ended. Neither had the game. And the ash would fall again. ---
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction