The Story No One Dared to Read

Noor had been writing stories online for almost a year, but no one seemed to care.

No comments. No hearts. No followers.

Her words floated in silence—like messages tossed into an endless ocean of voices.

Sometimes, she’d check her views at midnight, refreshing the page again and again.

Zero reads.

She often whispered to herself, “Maybe I’m invisible.”

One night, frustrated, she wrote something different—something she’d never shared before.

It wasn’t fiction this time. It was a confession.

“If anyone ever reads this,” she typed, “please know that I exist.”

Then she added a strange title—“The Story No One Dared to Read.”

And for the first time, she felt afraid of what she had written.

Because while typing, she swore she felt someone watching her—someone breathing softly just behind her shoulder.

She turned. No one was there.

Her laptop screen flickered once, twice. Then froze on her reflection.

Only—it didn’t look like her.

The next morning, Noor woke to a notification.

1 View.

Her heart raced.

Someone had finally read her story.

But when she clicked to see who, the name was blank. No profile, no icon. Just the words:

“Thank you for writing me.”

She frowned. “Weird glitch.”

That night, she checked again—now 2 views.

And below her story, a comment appeared:

“I’ve been waiting for someone to finish it.”

Noor blinked. Finish what?

The story was complete.

She opened the document—and froze.

New lines had appeared at the bottom.

Lines she didn’t write.

“I can hear your heartbeat, Noor. It sounds just like mine did before the silence.”

Her hand trembled as she deleted the words. But when she hit save, the text reappeared—this time in red.

“Don’t delete me again.”

Noor slammed her laptop shut.

All night, she tossed and turned. But the words echoed in her head like a pulse:

Don’t delete me again.

By morning, she convinced herself it was stress. She’d been overworked, under-slept.

So she brewed coffee, sat down, and decided to check once more.

Her story had now 13 views.

And every comment said the same thing:

“We hear you.”

“We’re here.”

“Keep writing.”

Except there was no way to reply. The comment section had no reply button.

And when she hovered her mouse over the usernames, her laptop froze again—each one slowly fading into a single word.

“Gone.”

For days, Noor avoided her laptop.

But the silence of not knowing became heavier than fear itself.

So one night, she opened it again.

Her story had 99 views.

But now, her profile picture had changed—someone had uploaded a blurred photo of her sleeping at her desk.

Her hands shook. She checked her files—every one of her old stories was gone, replaced by a single document titled:

“We Finally Found You.”

She clicked it open.

There was just one line:

“You gave us a voice, Noor. Now it’s your turn to listen.”

And suddenly, her laptop speakers began to hiss.

A whisper grew louder, words overlapping—hundreds of voices, male and female, crying, laughing, whispering her name.

She slammed the laptop shut again, heart pounding.

But the whispers didn’t stop.

They were coming from inside the walls.

The next morning, her neighbor knocked.

“You okay in there? Heard you talking all night.”

Noor forced a laugh. “Just… working.”

He smiled nervously. “Right. Just be careful. The last girl who rented this place—also a writer—disappeared.”

Her smile faded. “What?”

He shrugged. “They said she was obsessed with a story. Wrote herself into it.”

That night, Noor opened her laptop one final time.

Her story had crossed 100 reads.

She clicked on the comments section.

All 100 names now displayed the same message:

“Welcome home, Noor.”

And then—her reflection blinked on the dark screen.

But this time, the reflection smiled first.