Enric Milly
Bio
I write stories and reflections for the emotionally honest for those navigating healing, identity, and the quiet strength of being soft in a hard world. My work blends fiction, poetry.
Stories (8)
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Why I Secretly Love Rainy Mondays
Most people groan when they wake up on a Monday morning. Add gray skies and the steady tap of rain against the window, and it becomes the perfect excuse to complain. But me? I secretly love it. There’s something about a rainy Monday that feels like a reset button — as if the world has slowed down just enough for me to breathe while everyone else rushes past.
By Enric Milly5 months ago in Confessions
The Day I Quit My Job Without a Plan
I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even think about it for more than a few seconds. One moment I was staring at my computer screen, pretending to work, and the next, I was typing my resignation letter. No job offer waiting, no backup plan, no neat little safety net — just a sudden, unshakable certainty that I couldn’t stay another day. Some choices are made with careful strategy. This one was made with a pounding heart and sweaty palms.
By Enric Milly5 months ago in Horror
The Door Was Never Locked
Marla always cried during commercials—especially the ones with dogs in them. Her friends joked about it. Her brother used to nudge her at the movies when the sad scenes hit. “Sensitive,” they said, like it was a diagnosis. Like it was something she’d outgrow.
By Enric Milly6 months ago in Fiction
When the Fog Rolled In
I was prescribed Clonazepam for panic disorder when I was 25. At first, it helped. I could work, sleep, talk to people again. But what I didn’t realize was how fast things would spiral. My first dose? Four milligrams a day, extended-release. No buildup. No gradual start.
By Enric Milly6 months ago in Fiction
The Man Who Wrote His Goodby
The Man Who Wrote His Goodby Every morning since she turned thirty, Nina Alvarez followed the same quiet ritual — brewed coffee, gentle jazz, and the city paper spread across her small kitchen table, once owned by her mother. It was her way of feeling anchored in a world that often spun too fast.
By Enric Milly6 months ago in Fiction
A Glimpse of Grace
Mara always knew her son Eli was different. While other children laughed and ran around the courtyard playground, Eli often stood apart—lost in his own quiet world. The other kids didn’t understand him. They teased him, called him "four eyes" for the thick glasses strapped tightly around his head. Some mocked the hearing aids in both his ears, but Eli never seemed to notice—or care. His light brown hair curled at the edges, and his soft eyes rarely reflected hurt. He was only five, but Mara often thought he carried the weight of someone much older.
By Enric Milly6 months ago in Writers
