You’ve begun to notice the pattern: his excuses for not getting together are too polished, too rehearsed. A sudden work deadline. A forgotten cousin’s visit. A migraine that only flares when plans involve you. Each reason arrives with a ping, never a presence. And yet, you don’t confront him—not yet.

Instead, you become the archivist of his absences. You nod, you empathize, you even offer alterna...

I just wanted to go for a normal walk…

But the sidewalk had other plans.

It started with a flicker—barely noticeable. One streetlamp blinked out as I passed, then another. I paused, half-expecting a squirrel to dart out or a jogger to nod hello. Instead, the air thickened. The breeze stilled. My phone buzzed once, then died completely, screen black as obsidian. No signal. No time. Just me and th...

Beneath the willow, you will find…

a hush that holds what others missed—

the sigh between the spoken lines,

the ache that dared to still exist.

A thread of moss, a pulse of rain,

a memory stitched in silver bark,

where longing curls like candle flame

and silence sings its sovereign arc.

You’ll find the notes you never sent,

the birthday wish you almost named,

the mop-free truth, the soft lament,...

They say she’s fragile. That she’s soft-spoken, too trusting, too gentle for this world. They say she needs to toughen up, learn to bite back, stop giving second chances to people who only ever take.

They don’t know her like I do.

I’ve seen her hold grief in her palms like river stones, smooth and worn from years of carrying. I’ve watched her stitch hope into broken places with nothing but threa...

The mirror catches her mid-turn—red, gold, and stars flashing across her hips. She pauses, tilts her head, then swaps the top for black and yellow. A Batman smirk replaces the Wonder Woman twirl. She’s not just trying on costumes; she’s trying on selves.

The room is quiet, but her body hums with possibility. Superman’s cape drapes over the chair like a discarded promise. She reaches for her phone...

I wasn’t born with ease in my bones—

I carved it, stitch by stubborn stitch.

Not gifted grace, but gathered scraps

from ache, from silence, from the ditch.

I built my joy from mismatched threads,

a patchwork of almosts and no-shows.

Each ritual, a quiet rebellion—

each boundary, a bloom that grows.

My comfort isn’t store-bought soft,

it’s forged in fire, cooled in wit.

I sanded down the jagged e...

He walked in like he owned the air.

Hair too perfect, like it had been negotiated with the wind. That smug little swoop at the front—probably spent more time styling it than answering a single damn text. His shirt clung to him like a sycophant, tailored to flatter a torso that had never lifted anything heavier than his own ego. Even his shoes clicked with entitlement, each step a punctuation mark ...

Setting: A quiet September evening. The air smells like cooling pavement and unsent texts. The ingenue stands outside a familiar apartment door—not knocking, just breathing. She holds a folded card in her hand, handmade, illustrated with a comic panel of two figures: one glowing, one distracted. Inside, her truth waits.

---

Ingenue (softly, to the door):

I’m not here to be chosen. Not tonight.

I...

They were the kind of friends who knew each other’s coffee orders, childhood traumas, and the exact moment to send a meme that would crack open a bad day. For years, their rhythm had been steady—late-night drives, shared playlists, inside jokes that no one else understood. No one ever questioned their closeness. It was just them.

But tonight was different.

Rain tapped against the windows of the ...

A dimly lit restaurant, late evening. The kind of place that pretends to be intimate but mostly serves as a backdrop for people trying not to feel too much. The table is small. The space between them is not.

She stirred her drink slowly, watching the ice melt like it owed her something. Across from her, he scrolled through his phone, thumb moving with the rhythm of someone who’d mastered the art ...