Psychological

The downfall of Sparrow
Trauma, they say, never leaves us. It marks our bodies and brains in unmistakable ways - we may hunch over, we may struggle with language and communication, we may feel a constant battle ahead. But we are masters of our own trauma as we juggle the feelings, reactions and simply keeping it together.
By Paula S.7 months ago in Fiction
The Room Without a Door
There’s a room I don’t talk about. It doesn’t exist in any house I’ve lived in, and yet, it lives inside me—quiet, waiting, with wallpaper that peels in dreams and a light that never fully turns on.
By Ghani7 months ago in Fiction
The House that We Build. Top Story - July 2025.
He comes home from work. He walks through the door, happy but exhausted. Thinking of what’s for dinner, the video game he is going to play. But he is tired. The dogs greet him, the cats meow. Me, his wife before him, tense my shoulders and I told him how he didn’t empty the dishwasher this morning. That delayed me making dinner because the saucepan and all the other cookware were still in there.
By Amy7 months ago in Fiction
Why I Started Muting Myself Mid-Sentence and Acting Like I Was Arguing With Someone Offscreen. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
It began as an accident. A glitch, maybe. My mic cut out mid-sentence during a meeting, and for a moment, I sat there, lips moving, hands gesturing, completely unaware that no one could hear me.
By Jesse Shelley7 months ago in Fiction
How Subtly Moving My Camera Angle a Few Degrees Every Minute Broke My Team’s Focus. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
It started as an accident. I nudged my laptop slightly during a meeting, just enough to shift my camera angle a fraction of an inch. No one noticed. Not at first.
By Jesse Shelley7 months ago in Fiction
The Room for Eliza. Runner-Up in You Were Never Really Here Challenge. Top Story - July 2025. Content Warning.
At the end of the hall, there’s a room we don’t talk about. Mother calls it the “Sewing Room”. She says it in the same tone she uses when talking about frozen casseroles or tax deadlines; blunt, flat, leaving no room for a second opinion. The “Sewing Room” hasn’t seen a spool of thread in, at least, thirteen years; a blatant lie, so we don’t talk about it long.
By Luna Jordan7 months ago in Fiction
Echoes of the Lost. Content Warning.
The silence in the room began to play tricks on me. I swear I just heard AJ’s voice. I quickly sat up and waited to see if I would hear it again, but I did not. Still convinced I did, I waited around in the room all day, hoping he would walk through the door alive and as well as he could be.
By Rebekah BT7 months ago in Fiction
What remains of celeste . Content Warning.
The boutique stood preserved like a chapel. It had once buzzed with waiting lists, white-gloved consultants, and the soft click of heels on marble. But now, velvet ropes barred the entrance like funeral cords. Beneath the golden signage — ADELINE in looping, delicate serif — tourists gathered to pose for photographs, quiet as if in a cemetery.
By E. hasan7 months ago in Fiction
You were never asleep . Content Warning.
The clock in the hallway ticked like a nervous heartbeat, always one second too late. Rhea stared at it from the couch, arms coiled around her knees, swaddled in her boyfriend’s hoodie. It still smelled like him. But he hadn’t come home.
By E. hasan7 months ago in Fiction
Metamorphosis. Content Warning.
You murdered me with your axe, and then you slowly skinned me and started to cut up my body into the thinnest of possible slices. You gave me no warning, and I saw the less precious parts of my anatomy smouldering on your open fire. That hurt a lot, but you were not finished. you then got out your tools and started to decorate my skin slivers with the blackest of your inks. Then you sewed the bits back together, bound them, and that's what I am now to the world. I was a tree. Now I am your book.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 7 months ago in Fiction
Renting a Stranger’s Memories
Renting a Stranger’s Memories By [Hubaib Ullah] I didn’t think much of the ad when I saw it plastered on the side of the subway train.
By Hubaib ullah7 months ago in Fiction
The Day People Could Hear Each Other's Inner Monologues. AI-Generated.
It began on a Tuesday. The morning was unremarkable. The air smelled faintly of rain, and city pigeons cooed with their usual arrogance. But at exactly 6:43 AM, a woman named Lila Fisher heard the barista at the coffee shop think:
By Ahmet Kıvanç Demirkıran7 months ago in Fiction