nico

Joined April 2025

8 stories

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Reading, thinking, writing

Stories (8)

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moon-coloured glasses
People like to talk about rose-coloured glasses, as if that’s the only kind of distortion that matters. As if optimism is the most dangerous drug. The sweet little delusion, the blur of affection that makes everything look kinder. You love, so you overlook. You believe, so you don’t question. Red flags turn pastel. You’re naive, and you’re hopeful.
By nico8 months ago in Confessions
paradoxical desire paths
Every week, on Friday mornings, I walk to work. It’s the one day I am trusted with the keys of the cafe I work at, and I get to unlock the doors and do everything my own way for two hours. It’s a thirty-two minute walk if the sun is out, twenty-four if it’s a bit too windy for comfort, and a twenty minute bus ride if anything else. It’s a path so engraved in my mind, even if only taken once a week. I’m convinced I could walk it with my eyes closed.
By nico8 months ago in Writers
a reflection of the cosmos
I believe that the universe repeats itself in secret. That the stars weren’t content to stay in the sky, so they came down and scattered themselves across skin as freckles. That trees, not satisfied with growing up, decided to grow inward too-- curling into our lungs so we’d always remember how to breathe with the earth. That lightning got bored of striking from cloud to ground and now runs inside us, disguised as veins. I used to think I was spinning alone, a little planet unmoored-- but maybe I’ve just been turning the way everything else does.
By nico8 months ago in Humans
the cruelest paradox of all
There are hungers we don’t know how to name until a word finds us. Writing, for me, has always been one of them-- until I stumbled across the word scripturient: having a consuming passion to write.
By nico9 months ago in Writers
stained glass soul
I am blessed with the curse of attachment. Not the type where you can’t walk away, destructing everyone in the process; not the type where you keep going back, weak and hopeful. This kind runs quieter. I remember people the way others remember songs. I carry them in clothes, in habits, in phrases I never used until they did. My world is painted with the favorite colours of everyone I’ve ever loved: I flinch at lavender, smile at forest green. I cannot walk through a season, smell cologne, or hear a certain laugh without thinking, there you are again.
By nico9 months ago in Journal
the human impulse to assign meaning
Our lives are filled with moments so delicate, so impossibly small, they almost slip past unnoticed-- almost. But, they don’t. We don’t let them. Instead, they linger, stack up, and suddenly you have an exoskeleton of something that resembles an optical illusion. A flicker in someone’s expression. A sentence interrupted and forgotten. A streetlight with a dead bulb. You feel it. You assign it meaning. Surely, it means something. It must.
By nico9 months ago in Journal
even the sky weeps in secret
There exists a rare moment when nature contradicts itself: clear skies and falling rain. Sometimes it comes long after a storm, or sometimes before one even truly arrives. No rushing, no roaring, no warning. It is silent, silver, and strange. A whisper only the sky itself could understand.
By nico10 months ago in Journal
the pathos of things
I exist in a constant haze of nostalgia, deliberately enveloping myself in memories. My room is adorned with dried flowers -- some from old lovers, some from friends, and some from myself. Each book shows its wear: tattered covers from being shoved into my purse, pages imprinted with creases from dog-earing. I have movie tickets dating back years ago, hair dye stains on wooden floors, stickers on spots once too high to reach and now too low to notice.
By nico10 months ago in Writers