Love

🌸 The Silent Melody of Love
The Beginning Rafi was always a quiet, different kind of boy. He was a twelfth-grade student at a renowned city college. While his classmates were busy chatting, joking, and laughing, Rafi drowned himself in books. His eyes carried a dreamy spark, his lips held a shy smile, and deep inside, he hid an unknown emptiness.
By Md Bayzid Bostami6 months ago in Fiction
The Last Train
Rain whispered against the station roof, a soft rhythm beneath the stillness of Platform 7. Anaya sat alone—though not quite alone—on a worn wooden bench, her fingers tracing the edge of a train ticket like it might vanish if she stopped holding on.
By meerjanan6 months ago in Fiction
Loving Oneself
Loving oneself, It is as tedious as counting stars, yet you can never refuse their alluring charm, so when you lose the count, start over.
By Chaotic Minnie6 months ago in Fiction
The Last Sunflower
The air had a metallic taste. It was thick, like something from a forgotten era. A time before the sun had disappeared from the sky. A time when the Earth had been alive with warmth, growth, and hope. Now, only shadows remained.
By Solene Hart6 months ago in Fiction
The Longest Night
The night had fallen heavy over the small mountain town. The wind howled through the pine trees like a warning whisper, and the power lines swayed above the narrow road. Inside a modest wooden cabin, Daniel sat at the dinner table, cradling a steaming cup of coffee while his wife, Emily, tucked their little girl into bed.
By MIGrowth6 months ago in Fiction
Consequences
If his hands could kill me, then I would be dead very soon. Because my wrists are in his grip, clasped together behind my back and my forehead is kissing the bed. And his hands were around my neck not too long ago and I was on my back with my gaze softened towards the ceiling. So if I really thought about it, he could have killed me already. But he hadn't, and we are wet all over, wet on our chests and foreheads from the hanging, hugging, Territorian heat, and our groins are wet from one another. 'Why are you interested in echoes?' he asked. I didn't answer him. 'You murmur about echoes in your sleep'. I recall a phantasmagoria of bells somewhere in the distance but nowhere to be found. The last chime had an echo. But the inescapable heat was making me red in the face and unable to explain or think, anesthetised. I could tell he was desperate to know but not desperate enough to push. I found it odd that I was more willing to send him my drawers and skin and chest and bits, than I was willing to talk about the echoes. The heat had settled on me like a wet towel, thick, clinging, and oddly intimate. It dulled the edges of things: the clatter of dishes, the scrape of a chair, we drifted in the hot bed like moths in syrup. I moved slowly, not out of laziness but necessity, as if the air itself had weight. In an attempt to cool off, I take a dip. Dead bees floating atop the pool surface. Poor things. I push them aside with some care, clearing an exit path. Water comes with me as I drag my limbs, insensate, on to the warm pavers. I am pink in the cheeks and brown on my shoulders. Young looking and it is nice. I'm sitting outside in an early morning peace, goosebumps on my arms from the fans above. They never stop spinning. The droplets from my ponytail trace my spine, from my neck to my bottom. He appears and I ask him to leave. And he does. With every intention of never seeing him again, I said goodbye. 'Good luck with the echoes' he said. I drank a hot coffee from a speckled mug that wore the name of a community art centre on its posterior.
By Max South6 months ago in Fiction
She Called Me-Two Years After I Buried Her
I wasn’t supposed to hear her voice again. Not after the funeral. Not after the dirt hit the coffin and we all stood there in silence, trying to believe she was really gone.
By ETS_Story6 months ago in Fiction
The Call
I lay peacefully in bed. I wanted to forget the day behind me and begin anew with another day tomorrow; albeit an early day.
By Kent Brindley6 months ago in Fiction
Love story gone wrong . Top Story - August 2025.
It was a beautiful day, full of pleasant surprises, until he called, that is. At first, he sounded concerned, but that wasn’t the reason he dialled her number. There was always something Adam was unhappy about and there was always someone to blame. Anastasia was exhausted, mainly from the weight of her thoughts. He always expected her to lighten up in his presence, regardless of what was going on in her life. She had a CT scan earlier that week and she was really nervous about the results. She barely ate anything, anxiety was wreaking havoc with her nervous system. Anastasia needed Adam to be there for her, but he was preoccupied with his own problems, or the lack of. After few days of silence, she summed up the courage and reached out to him. Instead of affection he gave her a cold shoulder. She didn’t pay him a visit that week because she was anxious and tired. After another attempt to connect with him, she gave up and blocked his number. It was painful, knowing that he didn’t care about her as much as he said he did. The silence was deafening. There was a growing distance between them, a lot of things were left unsaid, on both sides. Adam always put himself first, not matter what was going on in her life. He said she meant the world to him, but when she needed him the most, he left her out in the cold.
By Sasha Chaply6 months ago in Fiction
The Last Time I Saw the Moon . AI-Generated.
The last time I saw the moon, it lingered low above the rooftops, a pale coin tossed into a velvet well. I remember how the light bent through the trees,
By Azmat Ali6 months ago in Fiction
Childers Grove
I stood atop of the bluff above the sea. The mist rolled off the ocean mixing with the smoke from the wildfires. None of the rays from the setting sun seemed to penetrate its wall. The sky was turning an eerie orange. What should’ve been a hot August evening was growing cold and a chill set in on my skin as I watched the mist and smoke curling.
By Stephanie L. Moreau6 months ago in Fiction
Water Trails. Winner in Leave the Light On Challenge.
The wind whispers to itself, playing along the old boards of a lone farmhouse, seeking a gap where it can creep inside. Moonlight falls in muted beams, casting shadows long across the bikes and toys scattered through the yard. Reaching further, it moves into the fields of corn, long ears bowed and sorrowful. Finally, it pierces through the clouds to cover a solitary cross embedded in the dirt beneath a tree-swing, the white gleam chasing away the dark. Swaying silently in the uneven breeze, the swing lurches, while the branches above stretch and scrape the milky sky.
By Joe O’Connor6 months ago in Fiction