Love

Two Hearts, One Promise: A True Love Story That Survived Time. AI-Generated.
True love does not always arrive with fireworks, dramatic music, or perfect timing. Sometimes, it enters quietly, disguised as a simple conversation, a shared silence, or a moment you don’t recognize as life-changing until years later. This is one such story — real, imperfect, and deeply human.
By shakir hamid22 days ago in Fiction
A Little Girl-Talk
“I know what will cheer you up, Abbie... a story about the palace!” “What!?” “Oh, yeah, Frannie showed up at Temple this morning in a royal carriage. Eee he he he.”
By K.B. Silver 22 days ago in Fiction
The Christmas We Forgot to End. Content Warning.
December descended like a thief in snow, wrapping the small town of Ashwood in a cloak of white. For Emma, it was the kind of winter that smelled like fresh cookies and forgotten dreams. She’d spent the morning baking with her grandmother, the same rituals they’d performed every year since she was a child – sugar cookies cut into stars, hot cocoa laced with nutmeg, the scent of orange and clove wafting from the simmering potpourri.
By LUNA EDITH22 days ago in Fiction
Falling Awake
The city breathes differently after midnight. Not quieter, just more honest. Car horns stop pretending to be impatient and become lonely. Laughter spills out of bars like secrets that were never meant to survive daylight. The air feels thick, as if every memory ever made here is still hanging between the buildings.
By Salman Writes22 days ago in Fiction
The Island That Refused to Stay
Lately, she has been trying to look at her life the way a stranger might. Not kindly, not cruelly. Just honestly. As if objectivity could soften the sharp edges of memory. As if stepping outside herself might make the weight easier to carry.
By Salman Writes22 days ago in Fiction
The Woods
“I warned her over and over again, don’t go into the woods alone. There are creatures living in those woods that will kill you or worse, but did she listen? Of course not. She would laugh at my warnings and, in a mocking tone, reply, What’s worse than being dead?” “If only I had a way to show her the horrors I have witnessed in those woods actually exist, she might still be with us now. All that is left for me to do now is go into the woods and search for her. My friends, neighbors, fellow villagers, who among you will join me?”
By Mark Gagnon23 days ago in Fiction
Morning And Night
Each morning when he wakes, the first thing on his mind is her, his soulmate and friend. When he goes to sleep at night, he sends her a message saying he is there for her, but needs to sleep. We all need to sleep.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 23 days ago in Fiction
A Hoard Between Us
This was the most beautiful wedding that anyone had ever seen. A beautiful chapel that was decorated with perfect traditional themes. Things that were perfect for the traditional man and woman. Just like Mary and Joseph. The pair had been dating ever since they were fifteen years old. Neither had a fight or anything of that sort throughout their picture-perfect relationship.
By Raphael Fontenelle23 days ago in Fiction
Under the Same Sky, Forever
They say love arrives quietly, without warning—but when it comes, it changes the sound of your heartbeat forever. I first saw her on a rainy evening, the kind of rain that blurs city lights and makes the world feel smaller. The air smelled of wet roads and unfinished conversations. She was standing at the bus stop, holding a book against her chest as if it were protecting her from the storm. Her hair was damp, a few strands clinging to her face, and yet she smiled—not at anyone, just at the rain itself, like it was an old friend she had missed. That smile stayed with me. I didn’t speak to her that day. I just watched as she boarded the bus and disappeared into the moving crowd, carrying something with her that I couldn’t name but already felt missing. The bus lights faded, and the rain kept falling, but the city never felt the same again. But fate, as it often does, wasn’t finished with us yet. A week later, I found her again—this time in a small café near the old library, a place where time moved slower and voices were softer. She sat by the window, the same book in her hands, her fingers tracing the edges of the pages like they held secrets. I gathered courage borrowed from sleepless nights and half-finished thoughts and said the simplest thing I could think of. “Is it a good book?” She looked up, surprised, then smiled—the same smile. “It is… if you like stories that hurt a little.” That was the beginning. We talked for hours, unaware of the world outside the glass windows. About books that left us broken, dreams we were afraid to chase, childhood fears we never fully outgrew, and the quiet loneliness we both carried like invisible luggage. She told me she believed in love, but only the kind that grows slowly, like roots beneath the ground. I told her I was afraid of losing people, afraid of getting attached to things that could leave. She listened—really listened—and for the first time, my fears felt lighter, as if saying them out loud took away their power. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into memories. We walked under streetlights, sharing one umbrella, pretending the rain couldn’t touch us. We argued about music, laughed at stupid jokes that made no sense later, and watched sunsets like they were private shows made just for us. She loved the sky—its endlessness, its promise. I loved how her eyes lit up when she talked about it, like she saw hope written between the clouds. She taught me how to notice small things—the way mornings sound different when you’re happy, how silence isn’t always empty, how holding someone’s hand can feel like coming home. One night, lying on the rooftop, the city breathing beneath us, she whispered, “Promise me something.” “What?” I asked. “Promise me that if one day we’re no longer together, you’ll still look at the sky and remember me.” I laughed it off then. Love felt eternal. Unbreakable. Like something the world couldn’t touch. But life has its own plans. Her father fell ill. Suddenly, priorities shifted, dreams paused, and reality demanded attention. She had to move to another city—far away. The last day we met, the sky was cruelly clear. No rain. No clouds. Just blue silence, as if the world refused to mourn with us. We didn’t say much. Words felt too small, too weak to carry everything we were losing. At the station, she hugged me tightly, her voice shaking against my shoulder. “Some people are chapters,” she said. “Some are the whole book. You were… my favorite part.” The train arrived. Doors closed. The train left. She didn’t look back. Months passed. Messages became shorter. Calls became rare. Eventually, silence took over. I learned how loud silence can be—how it echoes in empty rooms and sleepless nights. I learned how memories can hurt more than absence. Yet every night, I looked at the sky. Years later, on another rainy evening, I found myself back at the same café. Older. Tired. Carrying stories I never planned to have and scars no one could see. And then—I saw her. She stood near the counter, holding a familiar book, rain on her coat. Time slowed. Our eyes met, and the world paused. No dramatic music. No rushing emotions. Just recognition—deep, quiet, undeniable. We sat together again, like time had folded itself, like life had gently returned something it once borrowed. “I still look at the sky,” she said softly. “So do I,” I replied. We smiled—not with regret, but with understanding. Some love stories don’t end with forever. Some end with gratitude. With peace. With a quiet smile under the same sky. And maybe that’s still love—just in a different form.
By Mustafa24 days ago in Fiction
If Love Had a Voice
If love had a voice, it wouldn’t scream. It would whisper—softly, patiently—waiting for the right heart to listen. I met Aaira on a night when I had stopped believing in coincidences. The city was loud, restless, alive with strangers rushing past one another, each carrying their own unfinished stories. I was standing on a bridge, staring at the river below, wondering how something could keep moving even when it carried so much weight. She stood beside me without asking permission. “You look like someone who talks to the dark,” she said. I smiled, surprised. “And you look like someone who listens.” That night, we talked until the city fell quiet. She told me she recorded voices—random people, random moments—because she believed every voice carried a hidden truth. I told her I wrote letters I never sent. She laughed at that, the kind of laugh that stays with you longer than words. From that night on, she became my habit. We met on rooftops, cafés, bus stops, anywhere the world slowed down enough for us to breathe. She would press the record button on her old audio recorder and ask, “Say something you’ve never said out loud.” Sometimes I spoke about fear. Sometimes about dreams. Once, without thinking, I said, “I think I’m falling in love.” She didn’t respond immediately. She just kept recording. Love with Aaira wasn’t dramatic. It was gentle. It arrived in shared silences, in half-finished sentences, in the way she remembered the smallest details—how I liked my tea, which songs made me quiet, how my voice changed when I was lying. One evening, she played a recording for me. It was my voice—from weeks ago—laughing. “You sound happiest when you forget you’re being heard,” she said. That scared me. Because love has a way of making us visible, and I had spent years hiding. Then one day, everything changed. Aaira got an offer—a scholarship abroad. A chance she had worked for her entire life. She told me with shaking hands and hopeful eyes. “I don’t want you to feel left behind,” she said. I wanted to tell her to stay. I wanted to say love should be enough. But love is not a cage. So I smiled. “You were never meant to stay still.” The night before she left, we met on the same bridge where we first talked. The river moved endlessly beneath us. She handed me her recorder. “Keep this,” she said. “Fill it with your voice. So distance doesn’t erase us.” I held it like it was fragile. At the airport, she hugged me longer than necessary. “If love has a voice,” she whispered, “yours is the one I’ll always recognize.” She left. Days became quieter. Then heavier. I spoke into the recorder every night—about my mornings, my regrets, the ache of missing her. I recorded my silence when words failed. Sometimes, I played old recordings just to hear her breathe in the background. We stayed connected—messages, calls, shared dreams—but time zones are cruel, and life doesn’t pause for longing. Slowly, the calls shortened. Slowly, the space grew. One night, I stopped recording. Years passed. I became someone else—stronger, maybe lonelier. The recorder stayed locked away, like a chapter I was afraid to reread. Then one day, I received a package. Inside was the recorder. And a note. “Press play.” My hands trembled. Her voice filled the room—older, calmer. “I never stopped listening,” she said. “I heard your fear, your strength, your love. I carried your voice through cities, through nights when I almost gave up.” There was a pause. “I’m coming home.” We met again on the same bridge. Older. Changed. Familiar. No dramatic running. No tears. Just a quiet smile. She pressed the record button. “Say something,” she said. I looked at her and spoke the truth I had been carrying for years. “Some love stories don’t need to stay loud to stay alive.” She stopped recording. Because some moments are meant to be felt— not saved.
By Mustafa24 days ago in Fiction
CRIMSON VOW
The first thing she heard was laughter deep slow and cruel echoing through concrete walls while cold water dripped on her face and the smell of iron and blood filled her lungs when Lyra Hale opened her eyes she realized she was tied to a chair in a dark warehouse surrounded by men who carried guns like toys and scars like trophies she did not scream because fear had already burned her voice away and when the footsteps approached her heart stopped because she knew that sound belonged to him Roman Vale the king of the Crimson Syndicate the man whose name ended lives without bullets the man she hated before she ever saw his face he stopped in front of her studying her like a broken weapon worth fixing or discarding and instead of threatening her he smiled and said she was not supposed to be there and that single sentence terrified her more than any knife because it meant she was now part of his world a world where people disappeared and love was a weakness Roman ordered his men to untie her not to free her but to see if she would run and Lyra stood on shaking legs staring into the eyes of the man who ruled the city through fear and silence and in that moment something dangerous sparked between hatred and curiosity because Roman Vale did not look at her like prey he looked at her like a challenge
By Diab the story maker 24 days ago in Fiction
Romeo and Juliet. Content Warning.
He wanted her. He deserved to have her. He had money, a job, a house, a car, and took four foreign holidays a year. He was every woman's dream; he knew how good he was.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 24 days ago in Fiction