Young Adult

The other me woke up first . Content Warning.
The first thing I remember was the light — sharp, unnatural. My eyelids refused to cooperate. My limbs were limp, soaked in sweat, tingling like I’d just returned to them after years. There was a hum in the ceiling. A coldness in the floor. And someone breathing.
By E. hasanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Message
The café was almost empty. Rain tapped gently against the windows, and a low jazz tune played in the background. Sarah leaned over her cup of coffee, lost in thought. She had just ended a long day at the hospital, her mind still buzzing from the chaos of the ER. She needed quiet — not a mystery.
By NIAZ Muhammadabout a year ago in Fiction
Touch Grass
He is lying on his back, his posture defying his backbone. His left arm is tucked under his back, and he is clutching his new phone with his right, keeping it suspended in mid-air. The screen is tilted downwards, and he cranes his neck unnaturally to keep his eyes at level with it. His legs are askew, propped against the wall. The back of his head rests on a jumble of sheets. There is a pillow on his belly and two others on the floor.
By Shrean Rafiqabout a year ago in Fiction
Or Else
“Do you need my name for the drink?” I asked the barista behind the counter as she took my iced peach green tea order. “No, it’s okay. You’re the only one in here right now,” she giggled.
By Mikayla Roseabout a year ago in Fiction
Toby
Everyone should have a best friend; it is just wrong not to have one. It was Halloween when we met, and I have to say that it was perfect timing. My mom had made me a costume and I was lucky enough to go out as Batman, with the belt, the weapons and other stuff that made it look like I really was a superhero (I always wanted to be a superhero). My friends were already out there, and I would meet them on the corner to head out, just like we always did. I brought out two bags with me – just pillowcases, but the best – and came home straining with them both. My mom had me take a bath after I got home and then I just had to go to bed (a school night, she said). Only had one or two candies (some caramels and Rockets, always my favorites), and then I put the bags under the bed.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
May All Your Irises Be White. Content Warning.
I pissed off Amanda again. What’s new? I could never satisfy her. To be honest, I don’t even think I ever tried to. As the first child, she had to look up to me. I never had to request validation from her. But this argument was different. She wanted to partner up and move forward with the I Hate Rachel Herrmann Company. I simply could not. While the company promotes trauma recovery through the use of dark humor, I’d rather leave the more serious tasks to the professionals. Amanda believes the standard mental health treatments are corrupt and that this company will start a reform movement. She acts like Rachel Herrmann is the next Dorothea Dix. I could never have so much faith in just one person alone.
By Rachie Iris about a year ago in Fiction
So Long
Let’s be honest — we both saw this coming, didn’t we? We just never really clicked. At first, we shared looks and touches, but over time, that faded into occasional flirty moments, even though we seemed like a perfect match in the beginning.
By Kamran Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Who's the real monster?. Content Warning.
It's been the same nightmare for over 10 years now. Reliving the night I lost every thing that ever mattered to me. When I jumped off the roof of the hospital I thought it would lead to my death instead of entering the shadows of the world.
By Lucy Torralbaabout a year ago in Fiction
I Am The Gift
They never ask where I came from. They only ask if I come with batteries. I don’t. There was a time when I was ash, scattered beneath a black tree struck by lightning. Before that, I was a name spoken in a language no one remembers. Before that, I was just... waiting.
By Paper Lanternabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes in the Living Room
The clock in the living room still ticks like it always did—slow, deliberate, every second marked with a kind of polite finality. That same floral ticking that used to lull me to sleep as a child, back when I’d stretch out on this rug with my colouring books while she hummed something soft in the kitchen. It still ticks. Still keeps time. But somehow, time isn’t happening.
By Ted Ryanabout a year ago in Fiction
Were You Ever Really There?
You were not my friend. I was 12, you were 16. At that age, a four-year gap seems enormous. But I always looked up to you and longed to be your friend. It's just that you had so many other friends closer to your age that I felt shy around you all. Not sure half of them even liked me.
By Lana V Lynxabout a year ago in Fiction
The Bench on Sixth Street
I saw her again today. Not her, exactly. Just someone who looked like her — same dark curls tied in a loose knot, same way she tucked her coat around herself like the world was colder than it actually was. She sat down on the bench across from the bookstore on Sixth Street.Our bench. I hadn’t walked this way in months. Not since last November, when I left her standing there with tears she wouldn’t let fall. She had that look — the one that screamed, “Don’t let me go,” even while she stayed silent. And I had that arrogance — the kind that thinks walking away is strength when it's actually fear. But today, I stopped. The woman who looked like her had a red scarf. Ella never wore red. Said it made her feel like she was shouting in a room full of whispers. She liked soft things. Lavender tea, poetry books with cracked spines, and music that sounded like rain. God, she loved the rain. Used to say it washed everything except memory. I watched from across the street. The fake-Ella checked her phone, sighed, and eventually walked off. I stood frozen, my hands deep in my coat pockets, heart punching through years of pride and regret. That bench was still hers. Still ours. I remember the first time we sat there. Summer, sticky heat, iced coffee in hand. She had just found out her mother was sick, and instead of crying, she talked about constellations and how stars die slowly, beautifully. I didn't understand it then — how people grieve sideways, avoiding the heart of the thing. But I understand now. We sat there on birthdays, after fights, between classes. Sometimes in silence, sometimes with laughter. Sometimes pretending we were fine when we were anything but. It became the only place where honesty didn’t feel dangerous. One evening, she asked, “If we ever lose this… promise me you’ll come back here someday.” “Why?” I laughed. “So I can haunt you, obviously,” she smirked, nudging my arm. “Also… so you’ll remember.” I didn’t ask what she meant. Maybe I didn’t want to know. It’s been 412 days. I counted. I’ve replayed that last conversation like a song with lyrics I keep trying to change. We both made mistakes — sharp ones, stupid ones. But mine was worse. Mine was final. She texted me once after. Just one line. “Do benches remember the people who break promises on them?” I never replied. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did. Too much. I didn’t know how to answer a question like that with a yes. But now, standing here, hands trembling slightly in the cold, I realize what she really meant. The bench isn’t wood and metal. It’s a museum of moments. A witness. A monument to what was — and maybe what could’ve been. And the truth is… I came back because part of me hoped she would too. I sit down slowly, like I’m afraid it might reject me. The air still smells like city dust and faint espresso. I close my eyes. For a second, I pretend she’s sitting beside me again. That her laugh still echoes here. That I can turn to her and say all the words I never found in time. I whisper them anyway, to no one. “I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve listened.” And then… I feel it. A tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes. She's standing there. Different scarf. Same eyes. "Hey," she says, softly. I don’t speak. I can’t. She sits down beside me. We don’t hug. We don’t cry. We just sit — like we used to. Like nothing’s broken, even though we both know it is. And maybe… that’s enough. Maybe some places don’t just remember us. Maybe they forgive us, too.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Fiction