Jhon smith
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Welcome to my little corner of the internet, where words come alive
Stories (66)
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Golden-Hour Post-It
The first time it happened, no one believed the story. Not even me. I was walking to the bus stop just before sunrise, the air still holding that bluish quiet that belongs to people who wake up early. That’s when I saw it—a yellow sticky note pressed against the corner of a bakery window. The word warmth was written on it in a child’s handwriting, all uneven letters and soft pressure, as if the writer wasn’t sure they were allowed to write it.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Fiction
Ink-Spilled Secrets
I never meant to collect anyone’s secrets. I was just a street artist with a folding stool, a battered sketchbook, and a habit of watching people the way some people watch the weather—quietly, trying to understand what storms they carried.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Motivation
My Heart Exhaled
There are days in a life when nothing extraordinary happens, yet something quietly shifts inside you as if the universe reached out, pressed its hand to your chest, and whispered, “Now.” The day my heart exhaled began like that—soft, unannounced, and almost unbearably ordinary.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Poets
The Quiet That Finally Held Me Right
There are kinds of quiet that feel like endings, and kinds that feel like beginnings. For most of my life, I only knew the first kind. The kind that settles after an argument or lingers in a house where people love each other but don’t always know how to say it. The kind that follows me into rooms even when I’m smiling. I grew used to filling it with noise, with movement, with pretending I wasn’t afraid of it.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Poets
When Tomorrow Arrived Too Soon
I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing, a shrill interruption I hadn’t expected. It was too early, and the sunlight hadn’t yet spilled across my room. The message was from my brother: Call me. Now. My heart thumped, a hollow echo that ran down my spine. He never texted like that.
By Jhon smithabout a month ago in Fiction
Whispers in the Windmill
I never believed in village folklore. Not when I was a child running through the wheat fields, not when I left for the city at eighteen, and certainly not when I returned years later with more mistakes than belongings. But folklore has a strange way of waiting for you, especially in small places where stories cling to the air like dust.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
Neon-Lit Diary
The city at night was a restless creature—half neon, half heartbeat. It murmured in alleyways, whispered across rooftops, and sighed through the vents of old apartments. Most people hurried past these quiet places, but Luca didn’t. Street-artists rarely did. They listened for what others missed.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
Paper Wings
Elena Moreau had always believed that a courier saw more of a city than anyone else. Not the postcard version, but the real one—the quiet corners where people whispered their hopes into sealed envelopes, the stairwells that smelled of old wood and loneliness, the rooftops where freshly written dreams dried in the sun like pressed flowers.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Fiction
Caffeine-Stained Pages
The coffee was too hot when I spilled it, the first time, the second time—so many times, it seemed like the universe was sending me a message: slow down, stop rushing. But I never did, not really. There was always something else, some pressing need to fill the silence with words that didn’t always mean much. The coffee stains, dark and stubborn on my desk, became symbols of a process I couldn’t quite understand—writing, creating, living. It was all a mess, but I couldn’t find it in myself to care.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Writers
What the Moon Told My Brokenness
There was a night when I could no longer hold the weight of my own silence. It was the kind of stillness that presses against your chest, where even breathing feels like confession. I sat by my window, the world outside washed in silver, and the moon hung there — round, distant, and unbothered by all the things that had unraveled inside me.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Poets
What We Lost in Our Rush To Be Right
I didn’t notice when it started. Maybe none of us did. One small disagreement, one raised voice, one moment where being right felt more important than being kind. Then suddenly, it became the story of our days: people talking, but nobody listening. Everyone defending, but nobody understanding. It happened in my home too, long before I realized it.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Humans
Becoming a Person I Respect
I used to think that respect was something you earned from other people. Teachers, friends, coworkers, even strangers on the internet. I spent so many years chasing that version of respect, shaping myself into whatever I thought would impress someone else. But the older I got, the more I noticed a quiet truth: none of it mattered if I didn’t respect myself.
By Jhon smith2 months ago in Motivation
