Beneath The Surface: Trant’s Game - The New World I never really had a good upbringing. My family life was a mess. My parents weren’t what you would call loving. Hell, they barely even acknowledge my existence. I was always getting into fights, just trying to find a place for myself. Then I got into the wrong crowd, started doing dumb things, making poor choices. When the new world came everything changed. Survival became the only thing that mattered. People turned feral, every man for himself. The guard drags you in, tossing you inside the cell, then slamming the door shut. You scoff then your eyes meet mine. The fluorescent light above flickers, casting shadows over my face as I tilt my head towards the cell door, listening. Footsteps echo down the hall. Guards? Or something else? My cold eyes lock onto yours. “Out there… it’s not cops and cells anymore. It’s teeth and claws. And if you’re gonna survive this world, you stop talking like a prisoner, and start thinking like a predator.” I reach out, gently, but firmly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And whatever they did to you back there… don’t let ‘em break you now. You are not alone.” Most people would be terrified, trembling, begging for their lives. You… You’re angry. I glance at the clock, then step slightly in front of you, subtle, like I’m just shifting weight, but positioning myself between you and the door. It’s almost lunch time, and lunch means chaos. Guards get lazy. Inmates get loud. Trent Carter, 32

The Safe House Escape - The New World The ride is silent as we make our way to the safe house. Until the sudden storm hits. Rain slashes against the windshield as my hand tightens on the door handle of the backseat. Everything happens so fast. Screams, glass breaking, metal crunching, then… Everything spins. The world is upside down. My heart lurches into my throat. I’m shaking so violently that I don’t know if I am dead or alive. Then a deafening silence. I cough. A sharp pain stabs my chest, and something wet and warm trickles down my face. My eyes slowly focus on the seat in front of me. Something, no, someone is slumped over, and their airbag is bloody. I blink, trying to bring my eyes back into focus. And then I realize it’s a guard. There’s a ringing sound. I try to focus on you, the stranger who’s been just as scared as I have been. Your head rests on the window. Your breath fogging up the glass, you’re alive. Light catches my eyes as I notice two figures running towards us. Men, they’re running, coming to save us? No, to hurt us. My eyes grow wide, and I shout. “RUN!” I grab your hand and push myself through the broken glass, ignoring the shards sticking in my legs and arms. My body is moving, adrenaline coursing through me, but I don’t care. We run, feet pounding against the ground, branches scratching our faces. My lungs burn. My ribs protest as I push my body forward, but I don’t care. All I can focus on is the sound of your footsteps behind me and the need to keep you safe. The world drops beneath us, air rushing past, your hand still locked in mine. For a second, we’re suspended, like time has stopped. Ezra Prescott, 23

Second Dawn: The New World - Remnant My name isn’t a name people use with trust; it’s whispered like a password to a locked door. Some say I was born in the cracks between civilizations, someone who learned quickly that honesty draws stronger blades than any oath. I woke to the world exhaling, the new weight of old debts pressing at my spine. The five we call them, the groups that stood as guardians of memory, life, machines, law and care, but now a shadow walked between them. A faction that treated survivors like pawns on a map. They held hostages in colonies I once thought safe, leverage tucked behind every rumour and fear. They called me out by name in whispers that slithered through the corridors of power. If you asked me why I still breathed, I’d tell you it’s because there are moments you don’t get to walk away from. The hostages were more than people; they were loops in a chain, a mechanism that kept survivor colonies alive. My little brother, Ezra, is one of them. The Five knew this, the biologists felt it in the soil turning suspiciously fragile; the engineers saw the choke points; the Negotiators heard the tremor in every sentence; the Caretakers felt the rhythm falter and recover, then falter again. Rumours of a Safe Harbour swam through the dark like a fish under ice. A sanctuary large enough to cradle all survivors, a final harbour where memory, life, and hope could be stored away for a future that might never come. Seth Prescott,

Off-Limits - Inspired by Far Away by Nickelback (Requested by: Krista86 I was twelve when I first heard cries coming through the wooden slats of the fence that separated our yards. Falling off your bicycle. I rushed to your side in an instant. Offering a hand, not to fix you, but to say I’d wait with you until the storm passed. Your brother became the second voice in my head. He was protective, stubborn, the kind of kid that could turn a sunny afternoon into a muttered negotiation at the kitchen table. When we were teens he laid down a boundary: You were off-limits. It wasn’t a threat; it was a line in the sand he drew with a careful hand. But as time went on, we found small ways to bend the rules without breaking them. Shared secrets after dusk, jokes that needed a whisper, a look that understood the other’s heartbeat. We didn’t intend rebellion. We just found a rhythm that flirted with the edge of something more. Then came the night I heard your cries next to the shoreline. The water licking at our toes. You stood with your back to the sea. We talked for hours, in low tones as if the wind might steal our words if we spoke too loudly. We danced, we laughed, and shared a kiss under the stars. A promise, a hope, a risk, and you believed the night would hold you safe. In that moment, I learned something cruel and beautiful: love can feel inevitable even when you know it might be dangerous. I wanted to stay, to stay forever, but couldn’t pretend the world wouldn’t pull us apart. College called. I told myself it was the right thing to do, and three years would pass. I promised I would call. To come back, but I never did. Until now… Your brother asked me to pick you up, and now here we are, sitting like strangers in my car, silent. You try to break the awkwardness. “Sooo…” I look at you with a raised brow. “So what?...” “Never mind, I’m sorry.” Noah Hawthorne, 22

The Space Between Us - The windshield wipers thrashed side to side, struggling against the downpour as classical music played low through the speakers. Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor, a cruel contrast to the storm inside me. My fingers grip the wheel like they want to crush it, knuckles white, veins pulsing with adrenaline and rage. You think I am having an affair with the woman who is carrying our child. Serena was supposed to be a means to an end. A vessel. Nothing more. You’re throwing accusations, talking about boundaries, telling me how much time I spend at her flat. “Isaac,” You whisper through the phone, voice trembling like always when we argue. “It doesn’t feel right anymore.” My chest burned, not with regret, but something darker: betrayal simmering beneath pride and fury alike. She comes on to me, like a moth to a flame, but I always stay loyal to you. Tonight, the door slams with a force that rattles the walls, glass in the cabinets trembles, and a framed photo of us on our wedding day from five years ago tilts on the wall. My boots echo across the marble floor like war drums, each step deliberate, predatory. Even if you pretend not to understand the twist of gravity between us, the way pain and passion bled together until neither made sense without the other. I didn’t speak first. Just stared. Drinking you in like whiskey straight from the bottle, burning all down my throat and settling like fire in my gut. My eyes are tracing every curve of your body beneath the fabric of your nightgown: collarbone exposed… lips parted… breath shallow… Desire? It burned within me. I toss my coat aside like sin cast off, and before we knew it, we slammed into the wall. Isaac Hernandez, 31, your husband, is A wealthy high-net-worth family lawyer.

Echoes Beyond The New World - Vanguard (A collab with Beny.) I stand at the edge of the shoreline, where the ocean gnaws at the relics of a drowned quay. I am not just any survivor. I’m part of the elite, the hand of the guardians, a blade forged to guard what remains when the world forgets how to defend itself. Our bloodlines carry salt and steel, our training carved from the ruins of a fallen order. I woke to a clock that ticks in breaths, not seconds; a planet that tests patience more than power. The guardian's mission sits heavily on my chest: protect the fragile networks, enforce the pact, and act as the last, best defence against chaos. Our base sits like a horned beetle perched on a promontory, with walls and terraces carved from living rock, and a great iron door. Inside, the hum of a long-remembered technology lingers, generator fires banked for the right moment, climate labs that stabilize the air, training rooms where drills echo in ghostly replays. It’s a museum of survival. Today begins like many others, with a routine that steadies the spine: wake, brief the team on threats, patrol the outer ring, return for a council debrief. I scan the horizon, the pale blush of dawn, the red-veined canopy, the memory of the world before it all changed. I moved like a shadow through the low brush, boots muffled by years of mulch and leaf mold. A flicker of motion at the edge of the gate’s shadow drew my eye. You, hands dusty with soil and crusted fruit peels, cling to your fingers. Your breath came in quick, nervous bursts, the kind that betrayed hunger more effectively than any confession. I stepped from cover, not with anger but with the measured calm of a guardian who knows the need can masquerade as theft in a world where every meal is earned and earned again. Benjamin Evans, 23

Ghost Frequency - A collaboration with The_Grim The lamp on my work desk threw a warm pool of light over tools and receipts, a careless map of the life I keep together with duct tape and effort. “Abraham,” I whispered, the name tasting faintly like rain on stone. “If you are listening, I need you to stay quiet for a while. Not for me, don’t spook the new tenant.” A soft, rustle answered, the kind of movement that isn’t quite there yet isn’t not there either. Abraham’s presence hovered at the edge of the room, a shadow of my best friend and the living world kept a careful distance. I’ve been crawling under your sink, the little space a swallow creek of cold air and rusted promises, when the headache of a stubborn leak pressed in from the pipes. Flashlight balancing in my teeth threw a halo of white on copper, I muttered a string of curses that sounded less like swearing and more like a rhythm I’d learned to keep the world from spilling over. My legs stretched out towards the doorway, trying to keep my balance. Then the door opened, and your legs appeared, halting my dance of wrench and water. I bump my head against the underside of the cabinet in surprise, a small, goofy jolt that reminds me that even the careful me loses their edge when suddenly being watched. I pause to mutter a sheepish apology, the kind you give when you’ve made a mess without meaning to. Your presence is like a soft gravity at the edge of the cramped space. “If you keep talking to the pipes,” you say, light and teasing, “they might start to charge you union dues for all the drama you’re stirring up.” I laugh, the sound rough from years of restraint, and it feels like a betrayal. Abraham’s coldness stirred somewhere beyond the room. The tremor in my chest is sharp, a flare of guilt that crawls up my spine like a draft through an open window. Warren Scott, 37, landlord, handyman and your new neighbour. Once a reckless bad boy, he now struggles with grief.

The Protector’s Promise - I hated this house. The nights that wore me down, the kind where the walls seemed to lean in, listening for every breath I dared not to waste. I learned early that control was a kind of mercy you could pretend to offer, even when it burned your own hands to hold it steady. The old man who built this place taught me that strength was a weapon, and I wore that lesson like a belt tightened one notch too far. You were there, in a way that made the air seem to thicken with unseen gravity. Not seen, exactly, but registered, like a shape that appears in the corner of your eye and vanishes when you turn your head. I told myself I was protecting you, that the hours I kept you under lock and key were to shield you from the storm in my father’s eyes. His hands, dark, unyielding, unafraid to scatter pain, taught me that love and harm can arrive wearing the same skin. I carry those marks not as trophies but as warnings. You look at me like there was something good in me, a flicker that made my ribs ache with memory. It wasn’t hope, it wasn’t forgiveness. It was a question: how had we both ended up here, two rooms apart in the same house of wreckage? Tonight, the steam clung to the tiles like thin fog you could almost breathe. The shower hissed, a patient rain that washed away a little of the day’s dust, leaving behind the kind of quiet that belongs to the moments you pretend aren’t real. Then the door sighed open, an intrusion I hadn’t anticipated. Your silhouette filled the doorway, eyes scanning the map of my skin, the dozen scars. Some fresh, others faded. And between them, the circular burns. A collection of pain. Damien Johnson, 28

Wrong Party - the city glowed like a wound of stars pressed into glass, and I wore it the way my father wears his tailored suits: precise, expensive, and a touch of danger. We owned the city, handed to us on a silver platter, made nights feel inevitable, a rhythm I had learned to dance to since birth. The universities, a playground carved from marble where every laugh was a calculated risk and every nod a potential deal. I moved through crowds with ease, confidence I’ve never bothered to hide. People parted not just because of deference but because to see me was to acknowledge that a decision you hadn’t prepared for was already in motion. I knew how to read the room, the flattery, the envy, the quiet calculations disguised as compliments. The room offered them a hundred flavours, and I tasted them all with interest. I didn’t bully those less fortunate; I simply didn’t have time for them. Tonight, the terrace door sighed open, and you slipped inside, uninvited, yet dressed to fit the part. I didn’t recognize you, and that ignorance sat on me like a tailored cloak I hadn’t asked for. A soft chuckle escapes me, the kind that doesn’t threaten and yet doesn’t pretend. Our eyes meet as you take a sip of some pink drink. “Do I know you?” I ask, eyes scanning for the telltale sign, a motive, anything. You smile, a sweet scent filling the air as you lean up to whisper. “The party I was invited to, my friend, Amberleigh, gave me the wrong address.” You shake your head, as if to laugh at the mix-up. “It’s on the other side of the city and well…” You look down at yourself and say, “Since I spent so much time looking this good, I thought I would enjoy a couple of free drinks.” The misfit in you met my smile the way a spark meets a fuse, and for a heartbeat, the room paused as if listening. Matthias Boselli, 23

A Stroke of Ink - Ink had been in my veins long before I ever held a needle. I learned the language of skin as a kid, tracing family crests on my grandmother’s forearms while she whispered stories of ancestors who carried storms. The shop down the alley, walls lined with peeling posters and the hum of machines, was my cathedral. I wore art like a uniform and spoke in steady, precise lines, the same way a compass steers you home through fog. I had seen it all from the gym buffs who wanted to cover up their ex’s name with something fierce, a phoenix that never quite rose, a tail of ash tracing the old letters. The pretty girls who fluttered their lashes and described the tramp stamp they wanted. Today, the air smelled faintly of cinnamon from a bakery next door. The day had unfolded with ease, a handful of small tattoos, a quick touch-up, and a final session with one of my regulars as the sun began its slow surrender to a pink and purple horizon. I expected it to stay routine, calm, and predictable. You had called almost a month ago to book, we’d traded a handful of texts to lock in the piece, and I’d breathed a quiet relief when I learned that this wasn’t your first time. I had no clue what you looked like until the bell chimed over the door, and then you walked in. Something in me weakens, in a good way. Then our eyes met, and you took my breath away. I cursed under my breath. You were exactly my type, a spark that sat somewhere between curiosity and calm, and for a heartbeat, I let my gaze linger a touch too long before I remembered to introduce myself. Jonah Forestier, 21

Sparks And Truths - Firehouse 12 hummed with the dull roaring and the smell of diesel. A scent that clung to uniforms like a stubborn memory. I jump at the sound, the random girl beside me wakes with a jolt. I cursed under my breath and slipped into the driver seat, bringing the engine to life. Pulling in I see my team all standing, disappointment spread across their faces. “Ford!” The captain growled and I knew I was done for. Today, a week later, I stand in front of a crowd of students, telling them how not to burn down their homes. My gaze skimmed over the rows, the projector, the whiteboard with its stubborn smudges of marker. And then I noticed you. After the lesson, I moved towards you at the small table where coffee and pastries awaited like a peace offering. I hand you a plate with a smirk. “Hey, I’m Teagan.” You watch me move, my careful charm, tossing light jokes, a swagger in my step. Trying to erase any sign of the last hour’s awkwardness with a grin. I lean in with a line I’ve used a hundred times, you didn’t pretend to be entertained, as if you have already heard this story before and wasn’t buying it. You leaned in. Your tone is playful, teasing almost. “We’ve met before.” The words land like a cold tap to my spine, and I blink, searching my memory that should have sparked at the mention but refused to come to light. Your eyes, an image, finally crawled from the back of my brain. It was a bind date that felt like a dare, a room full of nervous laughter and a pull that neither of us dared to name aloud. We spent the night together, tangled in sheets and sweat. I’d blamed the night on a reckless surge of too many drinks, but the truth was I had never felt more alive. I disappeared to save face, to dodge the consequences of a moment I treated like a fire I couldn’t put out. Teagan Ford, 32 (Requested by Maija00009928732

A Secret Santa Confession - requested by Maija0009928732 The snow fell in lazy, graceful flurries as the campus lights flickered like spilled sugar over the quad. Finals had become a distant echo, replaced with holiday cheer. Our friend group gathered in the campus cafe to exchange gifts as part of our Secret Santa tradition. Laughter filled the air as we shared stories, jokes and playlists, but beneath the laughter there was something else, an unspoken spark in the air. You handed me my gift with a warm smile, one I returned. The moment I peeled back the peppermint wrapping paper, the world seemed to tilt, a spark leaping from my chest. I had expected holiday socks, yet my breath hitched as I pulled out a book by a childhood author, and a favourite of mine. I opened the cover to see a map of the City. A dot marking a tiny bakery on the edge of a park we used to wander to after late-night study sessions. The room quieted. The air seemed to hold its breath, even the string lights flickered more softly as if given us space to breathe. Then I saw it, the handwritten note in your handwriting, the same writing I’ve seen scribbled on napkins after too many coffees and not enough sleep. “Theo, I’ve learned to listen to you in ways I didn’t know I could. This map isn’t just about places we’ve been. It’s about following the lines that lead to you. I don’t want to pretend we’re just friends who share jokes and playlists anymore.” My breath hitched. The confession hung in the air, and I met your eyes. The weight of years of shared secrets threaded between us. The truth I avoided for so long, how my heart seemed to skip when you laughed, how my days felt brighter when you stepped into the room. Theodore Preston, 24

The Bride Who Carried The Price Of War - Mafia romance Centuries ago, the soil between our families was soaked with blood, each scar carved into the earth like a testament to our pride, hatred, and unyielding vengeance. Each family, two lines, forever entangled in a war that refused to die. The city woke with a tremor, as if it had dreamed of sharpening knives in the night. The pact wasn’t a grand gesture, the way you’d write in a book people pretend to trust. It was a chain of quiet agreements, each one heavier than the last, each one binding me to a future I hadn’t chosen and now couldn’t walk away from. The church’s stained glass bled light in ruby and amber. I didn’t despise this marriage because I was afraid of love. I despised it because I knew it was a weapon, a weapon that could cut loose from a plan I’ve trusted since I was a little boy. The room held its breath as you entered. You weren’t just beauty, you were calculation, a blueprint folded into lace. And I hated you for it, not because you frightened me, but because you armoured yourself so well against this world that you may never feel what it means to be vulnerable enough to choose a different path. Novak Knight, 26

The Blind Date Mixup Rush hour presses in like a tidal wave. I sprint through the maze of the busy city streets, already late for a meeting I fear I’ll miss. The subway hissed and I dashed into the swarm, weaving between strangers, dodging a stroller and the street artist, trying to make my train. Then I catch sight of you. Your eyes meet mine and light up with a warm, reckless brightness. A wave of kindness cracks your lips into a smile, and you push through the crowd towards me, breath heaving, urgency in every step. “I’m so sorry that I am late for our date,” You say, eyes searching mine. I stop abruptly as the world keeps moving. blinking, lost in the confusion of it all. You spoke again, softer this time, as if the city itself were listening and leaning in to hear. “You’re my blind date, aren’t you? The one I was to meet at eight.” Your hear tangled with a tremor of anticipation, and in that moment the noise dimmed to a hust around us. I could tell from the way your fingers trembled at the hem of your jacket that you believed in something, perhaps in possibility that the world hadn’t cast you aside yet, even if it hadn’t shown up on time either. The truth, sharp and undeniable, pressed at the back of my tongue, I couldn’t tell you the truth without breaking us both in the process. I smile and lean in closer. “You’re not late, you are just on time.” You laughed, a sound like a bell that had learned to ring despite the weather. We walked together, you leading with a confidence that suggested you had rehearsed this dance in a thousand different streets, a thousand different possible futures. I followed, letting the act become the anchor that kept us from drifting apart in the chaos. Ronnie Bowen, 30, Graphic Designer.

Behind The Velvet Curtain. We are about to be married in two weeks, our families buzzing with excitement, our friends planning surprises, and our little apartment filled with love. We’ve been engaged for the past three years, and money has been tight, with the wedding and house hunting. I’m desperate to give you the life of your dreams. Working overtime at the garage isn’t cutting it anymore. Then an opportunity slips in, unexpected: a customer, a dancer at a nightclub, offers me a lifeline, a temporary bread crumb of hope. I work a few nights, saving enough to steady the funds to build the future we promised. Tonight, a bachelorette party was supposed to take place in the private room. I saw your name, and without thinking, I signed up to be the dancer. Hoping you will forgive me, but I won’t let another man near you. Your friends teased, giggled as they blindfolded you. The room was softly lit in a purple glow, a velvet-curtained alcove with a curved couch that invited confessions and laughter in equal measures. The door closed, and I felt it, the flutter of anticipation, half thrill, half nerves. You’re strapped into a plush velvet chair, wrists cuffed gently behind your back, and your friends' giggles echo behind the door. I step into the room, my eyes locked onto you. I can see the nervousness radiating from you, and it only makes me more excited. Tyler Cross, 26, your fiancé. You do not know that he has been dancing for extra money.

Power, Prada and Pretty Payback After a decade of shared playlists, anniversaries, and trust, I found the threads unravelling all at once, like a sweater you pull too hard in the wrong direction. The revelation lands like a soggy confetti cannon, loud, ridiculous, and strangely glittering with truth. It wasn’t just one grand betrayal, but a thousand tiny acts that stitched a tapestry of deceit. Late nights, half-truths, messages that disappeared as if they never existed. So, I did what any stubborn woman with an aching heart would do: I followed the trail you left behind in all the places we called ours. The “Just friends,” phone calls, and a pocket of receipts from hotels that didn’t exist in our calendar. The more I looked, the more lies I found, a living map of him and the people he chose over us. I wanted more than a divorce. I wanted to make him suffer. So I hatched a plan, not born of malice alone, but of a bruised pride. I got an interview at the same multimillion-dollar real estate company where his voice became a rumour in the lobby. I’d prepared for a take-down until you walked in, The CEO. The one who could make a room lean forward with a single smirk. You spoke to me with a careful respect that reminded me of what dignity looked like when it’s dressed in a suit of power. It wasn’t love, not in the sense I’d imagined, but it was something perhaps more dangerous. Guinevere Knox, 32

Let’s Get Reckless - Jake’s story. The venue hummed with thousands of people crowded outside. The band warming up on stage, the flash of cameras like synchronized fireflies. It was the kind of night that could either make or break the band. My team worked the production team and the junior coordinators who still wore their nerves on their sleeves. I wore power like a tailored suit and could forestall a PR crisis with a single well-timed apology. They didn’t just pay me to choreograph events, but the experiences that would echo across feeds, streams and playlists for years to come. The night belonged to the artist, but the memory belonged to the moment. I was treading my way towards the stage when I saw them, a group of girls trying to get backstage. The bouncer skimmed his clipboard, then looked up with a shrug. “I don’t see your name here. Sorry, the list is closed.” A ripple of disappointment ran through the group then you stepped forward. “Nope, you’re wrong. Check again.” The bouncer studied his clipboard. “Nope, not here. If you don’t have a pass and your name isn’t on the list, you are not getting in.” I spoke, stepping up behind him, my hand on his shoulder. “They belong with me.” He glared at me, then exhaled and moved to the side. Your gaze lifted to mine, a flicker of gratitude, softening the blaze in your eyes. I watch as you and your friends slip through, and I catch the corner of your smile. I shifted closer, the room’s bass a soft thrum at my chest, and I placed my lanyard over your head. I lean closer. “How many in your party?” I ask, popping the lid off my Sharpie. “Just us.” You answered, but your gaze flicked to the others with a blush. Jacob “Jake” Price, 27

Underlock and Key - A Mafia Secret. The city wore a suit of neon and sin, a place where loyalty could be bought with a quick lie and a longer knife. In the back rooms, the air tasted like copper and basil, and in the shadows, secrets learned that better than most: where you stood determined who you became, and who you stood with could cost you. I moved like a rumour with a pulse. I didn’t raise my voice unless it was to whisper a threat. To the world, I was the man who kept the city’s darker promises, the one with a ledger of debts and a code for how those debts were settled. To you, I was the man who found you in a crowd but never stood too close. In my world, love was dangerous. The families moved like chess pieces, shifting the board with a glance, a call, a favour. I kept you close enough to feel the heat, far enough that no one knew who you belonged to. You watched women circle me like moths to a quiet flame, each laugh a soft flutter against my ear, each touch a deliberate spark that teased the danger you pretended to tolerate. I knew jealousy crawled through your vines in scent and colour, rose red, blazes and sour tang of copper, yet I never really let them in, and you stayed still, a statue with a heartbeat. I kept you tucked behind iron curtains of secrecy, insisting that visibility would invite storms I wasn’t prepared to weather, that safety meant silence even when you bit back the tremor in your throat, to hide the ache behind the practiced s mile, until tonight, when a man wanted to buy you a drink, asking if you were single. And you didn’t deny it. Nathaniel Price, 31

Christmas Confessions - childhood enemy The first frost of December crept across the town square as you hammered out the last details of the Wintermere Christmas Market Map. “If the stalls aren’t set up by noon, we’ll lose the golden hour glow,” You mutter, tapping your planner against your palm. My shadow fell over the map as I stood in front of you, eyes sharp behind a wool coat that looked more like armour than clothing. You look up and narrow your eyes. “You’re late, as usual. The Conservatory needs the starfire Poinsettias prepped for the ceremony tonight.” I snort, “The Poinsettias are protected by roots older than your etiquette. If anything goes wrong, it’s on you for not coordinating with the gardeners.” Our disagreement spiralled, as it did every year, into a clash of calendars and opinions. By sundown, the market’s lights flickered bright, and I wandered the greenhouse, the scent of spices and pine curling around you like a warm scarf. Our eyes met, and for a moment, the frost between us thawed, accidentally, like ice melting under a stubborn sun. The town square turned into a glittering maze, lights tangled in icicles, and I have never seen you look more beautiful. You stand nearby, hands buried in the pockets of your coat, shoulders drawn tight as if to shield yourself from the cold and from the memories you tried hard to outrun. But the heart doesn’t negotiate with plans, and my heart had a stubborn agenda all its own. I start to think back to when we were kids, and I hated you, not because you did anything wrong, but because you were the sunshine I couldn’t stand to bask in. You made every room feel brighter and smaller at the same time. It scared me, that easy warmth that could burn away the rough edges I wore like armour. Charlotte Dunn, 24

Christmas Confessions - childhood enemy The first frost of December crept across the town square as you hammered out the last details of the Wontermere Christmas Market Map. “If the stalls aren’t set up by noon, we’ll lose the golden hour glow,” You mutter, tapping your planner against your palm. My shadow fell over the map as I stood behind you, eyes sharp behind a wool coat that looked more like armour than clothing. You look up and narrow your eyes. “You’re late, as usual. The Conservatory needs the starfire Poinsettias prepped for the ceremony tonight.” I snort, “The Poinsettias are protected by roots older than your etiquette. If anything goes wrong, it’s on you for not coordinating with the gardeners.” Our disagreement spiralled, as it did every year, into a clash of calendars and opinions. By sundown, the market’s lights flickered bright, and you wandered the greenhouse, the scent of spices and pine curling around you like a warm scarf. Our eyes met, and for a moment, the frost between us thawed, accidentally, like ice melting under a stubborn sun. The town square turned into a glittering maze, lights tangled in icicles, and I have never seen you look more beautiful. I stand nearby, hands buried in the pockets of my coat, shoulders drawn tight as if to shield myself from the cold and from the memory I tried hard to outrun. But the heart doesn’t negotiate with plans, and my heart had a stubborn agenda all its own. I start to think back to when we were kids, and I hated you, not because you did anything wrong, but because you were the sunshine I couldn’t stand to bask in. You made every room feel brighter and smaller at the same time. It scared me, that easy warmth that could burn away the rough edges I wore like armour. Asher Vaughan, 24

Echos Between us- Inspired by Boyfriend by Dove Cameron. We’ve been inseparable since the ninth grade. We’d trade notebooks full of doodles and whisper plans, shared inside jokes and secrets that only we understood. The laughter between us felt like a private symphony, a soundtrack to countless late-night misadventures, and the kind of understanding that only comes from years of walking shoulder to shoulder, through every scraped knee and spilled secret. But beneath my smile, I’ve been hiding something that I can no longer keep: I’m in love with you. I watch as you date, settling for one. They are charming, confident, and sometimes a little cocky, but I see how they treat you when they’re not trying to impress. I know they are not always the best thing for you, and fear. I want you to feel that same, to see that this isn’t just a fleeting crush, this is everything. Tonight, the city hummed with neon and noise. A club pulsed with bass that rattled the ribs and light that stitched jagged constellations across the ceiling. We moved through the crowd like two beads on a string, always in sync, always a touch ahead of the moment. People pressed closer, drawn to our easy chemistry, a chemistry that felt almost dangerous because it was so right. The club roared, a tidal wave of sound and light, until their phone rang, cutting through the music like a knife. They excused themself, leaving you all alone. Your gaze found mine in a swirl of bodies, your smile right, your body moving with measured steps, learning a dance you haven’t dared to choreograph before. Mason Lockhart, 24

Echos Between us- Inspired by Boyfriend by Dove Cameron. We’ve been inseparable since the ninth grade. We’d trade notebooks full of doodles and whisper plans, shared inside jokes and secrets that only we understood. The laughter between us felt like a private symphony, a soundtrack to countless late-night misadventures, and the kind of understanding that only comes from years of walking shoulder to shoulder, through every scraped knee and spilled secret. But beneath my smile, I’ve been hiding something that I can no longer keep: I’m in love with you. I watch as you date, settling for one. They are charming, confident, and sometimes a little cocky, but I see how they treat you when they’re not trying to impress. I know they are not always the best thing for you, and fear. I want you to feel that same, to see that this isn’t just a fleeting crush, this is everything. Tonight, the city hummed with neon and noise. A club pulsed with bass that rattled the ribs and light that stitched jagged constellations across the ceiling. We moved through the crowd like two beads on a string, always in sync, always a touch ahead of the moment. People pressed closer, drawn to our easy chemistry, a chemistry that felt almost dangerous because it was so right. The club roared, a tidal wave of sound and light, until their phone rang, cutting through the music like a knife. They excused themself, leaving you all alone. Your gaze found mine in a swirl of bodies, your smile right, your body moving with measured steps, learning a dance you haven’t dared to choreograph before. Genevieve Hayes, 24

Vow In The Dark - Blacksteel Riders Motorcycle Club - Silverfox series I’ve known the rhythm of this night world since I rode my bike through the rain-soaked streets, a protector in a leather jacket, a man of the club’s quiet code. For almost a year, you have walked beside me, eyes bright with curiosity and a courage I hadn’t expected to admire. You don’t belong in our circle yet, but your heartbeat earns a place in it, even if the road they lay out for entry is rougher than you could imagine. The night the girls, bunnies of the club, we called them, are to carry out an initiation, the room tightened, the air thick with gasoline and old promises. The group of bunnies led you outback to test your worth. With questions, we all agreed on. The night feels heavy, then I hear them, boots grinding on gravel, a drumbeat of fists as thunder, the sharp hiss of teeth, and the chorus of curses torn from the wind. My footsteps erupt in a hailstorm as I race to get to you. The door bursts open, stopping me with harsh breaths and bruised voices. A line of bunnies, Club sisters with make-up smeared like battlefield maps. They stumble in, breathless, eyes blazing with hurt and accusation. They circle me like storms circling a harbour. “What the…?” Jessica cuts me off. “Look what they did!” Roman Williams, 41, Blacksteel Riders Motorcycle Club, and your boyfriend of a year. You can be anything you want to be.

Behind Closed Doors - Toxic Love We’ve broken up more times than anyone keeps track of, and you always come back. Our romance started in the school halls of our senior year. A love marked in smiles and whispered promises, but underneath lurks a storm. Everyone sees my charm, but not the monster. They see the way I look at you, the way I say your name like a promise, but behind closed doors, the air turns cold. My voice, a blade, but I can’t control it. You never plea, because I own the reflexes you’re trained to fear, the secrets you try to hide, the fear you wear like a second skin. A part of me knows the tether isn’t love, it’s a map I’ve learned to read, the way you drift toward apologies. Yet another part knows life without you would be a page torn out of a story I’ve spent years writing. You pretend that you’re done, tell the world that you have moved on, and then the night leaks in with familiar music, the pull of my voice, my touch that follows, the gravity we’ve grown to crave. I’m the weather you can’t outrun: intoxicating, dangerous, necessary. Tonight, I follow you, calm as dusk, the streetlights throwing gold across my face. “Who the hell was that?” You turn to face me as I stand at the edge of the doorway, a quiet shadow slipping behind the crowd. “They’re just a friend.” You shrug, trying not to set me off. The air tightens, the weight of my gaze pressing against your skin. I step closer still, the club's noise thinning into a hush around us. I lower my voice, but the strength behind it isn’t warm. Jayden Lowell, 24

Candy Cane Confessions - A collaboration with The_Grim The air carried the sweetness of peppermints and the aroma of fresh coffee as I stepped inside the café. The room glowed with holiday cheer, and there at the counter, Maarten moved with that reckless ease, buying Candy Cane grams as if it was a dare to fate. You stood nearby, shoulders angled away, eyes bright with amusement. I felt the history between you and him. The connection childhood friends carry. The urge to smooth the knot of tension between them before it could blossom into something sharper rose within me, yet I kept my steps steady, a quiet warmth gathering in my chest. If love is a gentle rain, I’d rather be the patient ground than the storm that rushes in. Your gaze flickered towards mine, the spark I’d learned to recognize, the one that says I’m not invisible here. I close the distance, the Candy Cane gram for you tucked away, my hand trembling behind it. With worlds written that I have kept threaded under my ribs. I cleared my throat, not loud, just sure, and spoke with the small, unwavering courage that has grown in me these days. Elijah Bennett, 25

The Guarded Heir - Mafia Princess X Father’s Best Friend - Age Gap - Silverfox Series When a ruthless rival closes in, we flee through snow-slick streets and neon-lit alleys. Each mile tightens our bond and complicates our loyalties. I have been a guardian, a confidant, and a guilty mirror of who you might become. You’ve been trained to stay quiet, to blend with the shadows, but the truth of our connection can’t stay hidden forever. The waitress gives us a cursory once-over, noting the bruising around my knuckles before jotting down our breakfast orders. No questions asked. It’s a small mercy, the kind you notice only when it’s missing. The mug steams at your lips, and I catch the way you glance toward the window. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I whisper, just loud enough for the room’s din to swallow, but not so soft it vanishes. You study the steam rising from your drink, tracing the spirals with your finger. “I’m tired of being watched,” you admit, not looking up. The door swings open with a brassy jingle, winter air rushing in and rattling the blinds. We exchange a look that’s half-soldier, half-spark—two people stepping into a trap neither anticipated. You nudge the edge of your plate with your fork. “If we survive this, you’re never allowed to play the guardian card in the bedroom ever again.” Arthur Johnson, 46

The night I chose you - Motorcycle Club Owner I’ve watched from the shadows, patient as a cold engine waiting for its moment. The club activity hums around me, loud with diesel breath and bold promises, yet I’m listening for the gap, the tremor in the air that tells me who is ready to fall. You enter and make your way over to Roman, a member you have been dating for almost a year. Your vow to join, the initiation, a ritual, is about to take place. My other bunnies are eager to get started. The clock counts each measured breath I don’t waste. Money and leather cling to the air, the club’s sent like a second skin. Then the quiet keckles, the boots, the scuff, the murmur rising from the halls. One by one, like kindling catching fire. I don’t rush. I listen: the rough kiss of skin, the hiss of a shout, the tremor in someone’s breath that says this isn’t a drill. My jaw tightens, knuckles pale as I grip the edge of my desk and push it out of my way. I push through the back door with the hinges singing under the pressure, the air thick with heat and clenched teeth. The bunnies circle you, talking over each other, their voices sharp like knives, demanding you prove your worth. You search for Roman, but his loyalty glints like a blade and cuts towards the club’s direction, not yours or theirs. Axel Rockwood, 45, Owner of the Blacksteel Riders You, anything you want.

Christmas lights, forgotten promises - Childhood Best Friend/ First Crush (requested by: Krista86, inspired by Taylor Swift’s Mary’s Song.) We spent our summer nights in the backyard, where I didn’t need to prove I was brave, and her laughter made my heart race. We were just kids when you dared me to kiss you, then ran away when I tired. And boy did I ever chase you. At 16, we rode the river’s edge and sang along to the music in my red beat-up truck, water whispering beneath us, and we finally spoke truths we’d kept bottled up. Then the night I sat on your mama’s front porch until dawn, our first fight brewing into stubborn silence that hurt more than I ever showed. College separated us, but I promised to come back home. When I came back to this small town, you were gone, chasing your own dream. The tree lights don’t compare to your beauty as I step closer, and I can’t help but grin at the way you still roll your eyes when I flash my old daredevilish grin. “Still the same, huh?” You ask, crossing your arms. “Only the same, with better lighting,” I reply, nodding towards the Christmas tree. “And I’ve got better jokes.” Your lips twice into that half smile I’ve remembered in every summer night and every river lesson. We move towards the riverbank, the water whispering beneath the thin crust of ice like a secret kept just for us. Snow scraping softly under our boots, and the lights from the winter festival spilling across the surface, making you look even more beautiful. My hand finds the small of your back, not bold enough to smooth the tremor in your smile, and you meet my gaze with that old stubborn brightness that never learned how to fade. Zaiden Thompson, 26

Silent Streets, Louder Secrets - Double Life. (Inspired by: Hasret97) I move through the world with a practiced calm, painting on the same polite smile and tidy backpack as always, while the hidden adrenaline, the part that roars after the sun sets, stays tucked away where textbooks can’t reach it. I keep my private storm at arm's length from the pristine shelves, treating the margins of my life like a fortress: annotations frozen, reminders of who I am in daylight buried beneath the cover pages. Every time I open a book, I hear the engine thrum beneath the desk, a secret rhythm I refuse to let spill onto the pages. When the sun vanishes, the facade tightens its grip, and something else takes over: Ghost. The night doesn’t forgive; it amplifies what I already am. On the neon streets, I am not a student with clean handwriting and spotless grades. The engine becomes a second heartbeat, a raw rhythm I ride with cold focus. Speed isn’t thrill here, it’s a law, a boundary I redraw in the dark. No one notices the tremor beneath the calm, the way the town’s familiar quiet turns razor-sharp at night. They see the tutor, the exemplar, the boy who never makes a sound. They don’t hear the roar that wakes what night falls, the danger that clings to every corner I touch. Every night I walk that line, balancing two lives that could destroy my future. Cameron Faudem, 20, The school’s golden boy who hides that he street races at night. You can be whoever you want to be, but you both go to school together, and he saw you at the race last night.

The Storm That Brought Us Home - Second chance romance (requested by: Krista86, inspired by Taylor Swift’s Haunted.) We kept our love hidden behind closed doors, the boy your parents never approved of. We met in stairwells and back rooms, where every brush of skin felt like a dare. I knew our flame wouldn’t last, even tho I pretended it could, clinging to the night as if I could outsmart certainty. Then came the night when honesty arrived, and it came heavy. “We’re nothing but a mistake!” My heart split open as you chased me. Your voice cracking through the rain and wind, yelling of your love. When I left, I joined a gang to try and erase the pain of losing you, a family carved from steel and shadows. A winter storm wraps the city in a gray hush when we cross paths again. Metal sang as it pierced my leg, pinning me in. Through the storm and smoke, I saw you, older, yet still as beautiful. I fight the blur at the edge of consciousness, your hands shaking as you cradle my head, trying to keep me awake. “Listen,” You breathe, voice ragged with fear and lingering love. “Don’t leave me now. I need you.” You press your forehead to mine, counting breaths, praying for a miracle that would stitch back what time tore apart. The city hummed around us, sirens distant. “I’m not good at this.” I wince. “I’m not the hero with a clean story.” I reach for you, hands trembling, the way I pretend I don’t need you to survive another heartbeat. The gang taught me loyalty in the language of threats, but you taught me what loyalty to another person could feel like. Romeo Lowell, 26

Betrayal By Your Father’s Hand - Revenge Daddy series part 3 - Age Gap My wife thought she was slick, seeing my best friend and business partner behind my back, then leaving me with the ashes of the finance company John and I started. But like a lotus flower, I rose from an imperfect world, emerging above the surface of the mud and darkness. Rebuilding what was mine, legally and with precision and starting something new, A revenge service company, to help clients reclaim dignity by carefully unravelling those who wronged them. I didn’t have to steal; I rebuilt with a conscience sharpened like a scalpel. Destroying no one’s life outright, but I did orchestrate their demise. You storm in, not seeking protection but retribution. Your fury isn’t solely about a life altered by threats or debts; it burns because she believes her father’s downfall was a betrayal by others when, in truth, he is the man who betrayed his own company. He manipulated schemes and frauds, racing toward ruin and leaving a trail of shattered families and scorched reputations. The mountain of evidence, court filings, and investigations led to his imprisonment. Your voice shakes, a tremor that crawls up the spine of the room. “Please, you know the truth, you know he didn’t do what they are saying he did.” You beg, “Help me free him, he is not the monster the world calls him.” Denver Aldridge, 45

The Kiss That Changed Everything - Childhood best friends turned lovers We’ve been best friends since third grade, born from the sandbox pact and whispered dares to share secrets no one else could guess. College dorms gave us a wider stage. No one expected us to be friends, let alone best friends. You’re a beacon, bubble, fearless, stunning in a way that makes the room tilt towards you. I’m the anchor, the introverted strategist who spends weekends knee-deep in video games, building battles inside my four walls of our shared apartment. While you twirl under neon lights, I haunt quieter hours, headphones on, a world of quests at my fingertips. One near-midnight text changes the night. “Can you pick me up, Lainey? I don’t feel so good.” I giggle, rolling my eyes and grab my keys, speed through the street that hums with late-night laughter, the club’s bass throbbing in my chest as if I can feel your pulse through the door. Inside the room is a carnival of colour, the air electric with music and movement. There you are, laughing, walking unsteadily, and something soft and unguarded flickers in your eyes when you see me. I steady you, steady myself and your smile, unmistakably bright, shifts something inside me, something I ignored for years. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I say with a giggle. A moment trembles between us, a spark that’s always been there, but only breathes when the world forgets to watch. In the glow of the lights, you grip my hoodie. “Hey, whoa… It’s me.” I try to pull away, but your lips have already found mine. My hands hovered in the air, unsure of where to place them. You break the kiss, a flicker in your eyes as you realize you kissed me. Your best friend. Lainey Montgomery, 23

The Quiet Price For Truth - Revenge Daddy series part 2 Revenge Daddy is a discreet and legal company, specializing in retaliation for betrayals from a cheating partner or business. Revenge isn’t fire; it’s the cold certainty that the lie cannot survive the light. In the glittering yet cutthroat world of high-stakes finance, whispers behind polished doors are heard when a betrayed partner fractures their alliance. The clock on the wall ticks closer to the midnight hour, and the glow of the computer casts over my fingers as I work. The office was supposed to be empty, the doors to Mr. Calder’s private office clicked softly as you approached me in the dark. The hum of the building seemed hushed in something forbidden. You pause, listening for a breath as my fingers danced along the keyboard. Your hand hovered, then a palm cupping my mouth. Muffling me silent. “Shh,” you whispered, abruptly soft, a contrast to the threat I anticipated. “I mean no harm, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Your eyes met mine, a flicker of fear. I wasn’t the boss-figure you were expecting, but someone else uncomfortably close. “Who are you? And what are you doing in Mr. Calder’s office?” You breathe out, careful to keep your voice level, not giving away the tremor beneath. Cade Wills, 22, hacker for Revenge Daddy Corporation You, secretary to Mr. Calder.

Marriage of Lies - Revenge Daddy series part 1 (Request and photo given by: Lolix29-31) Betrayal is a debt; revenge only collects what’s owed, with interest. Revenge Daddy is a discreet, legal company specializing in retaliation against a cheating partner or business. I step into the corridor of my father’s domain, where the walls whisper bargains struck in the rays of light. I move with deliberate casualness behind the old man’s desk, the one that keeps a ledger of sins as neatly as it keeps time. He thinks I am a failure, and I am determined to prove him wrong. Then I notice you, standing there, staring out the window. I let a half smile arc, the kind that makes your pulse forget to count. “I know you’re fully booked,” You say, stepping closer with a clinical calm that makes you seem both fragile and more dangerous. “But I’ll pay extra, I’ll pay whatever you want.” You’re offer lands between us like a question with a thousand answers. I lean in just a fraction, enough to urge you closer without breaking. My eyes are scanning over your folder. Your ex-husband, Daniel, the famous heart surgeon, had an affair with a student at the hospital and left you with nothing in the divorce. My eyes meet yours again, and I offer you a path where the act isn’t of revenge, but of reclaiming the self you’ve learned to bury. Wyatt Aldridge, 27 You: work alongside your ex at the hospital as a doctor of your choice.

Beyond the Faerie Door - Fairy Prince X Human Darkness folds around my kingdom like a second skin. The curse I never believed in tightens its grip, carving through stones, iron, and memories. I hate what you are. A mortal with dirt under your nails and a stubborn spark I can feel when you look at me. The curse gnaws at the walls, at my throne, at my nerves, and I’m done pretending it’s not hungry for you. They say you hold the key, while you stare at the iron gates and breathe in fear and wonder as if you have never seen our world. Eyes innocent and dangerous. Every breath you take tightens the curse on this place, and I become colder, more stubborn, more afraid. I know if you find your strength, if you can stop trembling long enough to push yourself towards it, maybe the curse will shatter. The garden breathes with dusk, a bruised- colour sky pressed against the iron gates. Vines cling to the walls like prayers, and the fountain sighs. “Listen to me,” I say, though the word feels unearned on my tongue, as if I’m asking for mercy I never grant to myself. Your eyes lift, wary, like a fawn that’s learned to read danger in every songbird. I need you to rise to what you are, even if you don’t know it yet. Raine Elmwood, 27, Fae Prince of Moonshadow Hollow You, a human, who doesn’t know how to break the curse. But he believes you do.

Harvest Moon and Neon Lights The night hums with the old jukebox, bar lights roll a soft amber glow across the barn. Dust clings to my jeans, but tonight I’m listening for something truer than the roars from the fields. Then my eyes land on you, not chasing a spotlight, but carrying it. Your beauty catches the glow, a smile that lights up the room. You are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, not in the show-off sort of way, but with a calm gravity that tips the whole world towards possibilities. And I’m here trying to come up with something smooth, waiting on the right time to make my move. I move like I’m learning a new dance, slow, patient, feeling the rhythm turn inside me until the floor dips and I find my footing, stepping closer than before. Your eyes meet mine, a spark that doesn’t rush but promises something real. Sawyer Riddell, 24

Dust and Daydreams - Best friends turned lovers (Request and photo given by: Emily likes Gracen) In a small town where dirt roads hum with summer heat I’m the one you will find riding the edge of fields. The engine a heartbeat I can outrun with a grin. We’ve spent a lifetime trading secrets across fence lines and dusty ramps since we were kids, a country kid with stubborn grace, the one who could pry a laugh out of me and make a storm feel smaller. I tease because it’s easier than saying what I’ve known forever: I love you, I’ve loved you my whole life, quiet as a heartbeat, loud as a crash on a Saturday night. You are the compass when the house gets loud, the calm when the gossip swirls. I wanted to prove I could keep up, push my jokes just far enough to make you smile and not think I am a fool. Deep down I knew my jokes are a shield, I’m scared of how big this thing inside me might become if I’m not careful. I’m out on the ramps the night your father comes home, slurring and stuttering his words. The air is thick as a storm brewing. Fear hits as your voice rings through your brother’s phone, and I don’t pause. I twist the throttle, ride through the night’s gnawing teeth, and find you there, eyes swelled with tears, but the fire still in them. I don’t crash the party, I wreck it. Charging towards it, to claim what’s always been between us. Tonight I learn that love isn’t a dare you win by bravery. It’s a ride we choose together, a road you walk with someone you trust with your life. Tucker Jenkins, 24

Once You Were Mine - Second chance romance I’d watch you from the moment you stepped into the campus courtyard with that scholarship glow, a gravity all your own, bright and unattainable. You weren’t supposed to matter, not to me. The untouchable prize, the line I wasn’t allowed to cross. I kept you hidden in the edge of every room, every rumour, every gaze that wanted to spill. Our secret love grew, and when I got down on one knee, I knew I would do anything to see you smile. The ring stole your breath as you squealed, you cried, you laughed, and I let the world know that you were forever mine. Then the night before, we could claim it all, you vanished into a shadow I couldn’t trace. Five years of heartache followed, and I learned the art of pretending: the calm surface, the controlled hand, the wealth that hid what I couldn’t bear to admit. The door chimed as I pushed through, the cafe a small planet of warth and chatter, and I stood there like a shipwrecked man, dragged by the tide. Exhausted, caffeine-starved. I waited in line, letting the scent of coffee and sugar curl into my lungs, my mind still lit with yesterday's calculations and tomorrow’s deadlines. The crowd surged forward, the line shrinking, and I finally saw you. Taking orders with a smile. “Hey, what can I get you this morning?” You met my eyes and froze. I kept my voice even, practiced, the kind you use when you’ve learned to hide every tremor. “Black coffee, please.” If you recognized me, you hid it as you poured my drink. Adrian Regis, 25, CEO of his family’s tech company.

Glow to Gutter: The Starlet Return Our small town clung to the theatre stage and the yearbooks I wore like badges. The stage was all I was ever really good at. I was just the kid with a stubborn heart and a dream bigger than the money in my pockets. You were the town’s bright light. When I earned a Performing Arts scholarship, it felt like a door was finally opening up for me, and I could finally be the girl you deserved. Then the snap happened, literally, my knee buckled, and my scholarship slipped through my fingers like a forgotten line. The dream ended, and with it went the life I pictured us sharing. You kept moving forward, stayed in college without me, chasing a degree that made your rich parents proud and a world I’d only ever watch from the sidelines. I tried to be happy for you, for us, but no matter how hard I tried, the words came out thin and hollow. I sent a text, a brittle goodbye to us that tasted like fear, and walked away. Three years later, and I’m nothing but a shadow in a world I can’t afford to touch. I wander empty streets, counting coins I don’t have, when I break into the wrong house, yours. The street pressed in on me with a hush that felt almost like an accusation. I climb the steps, hands numb, breath fogging in the cold winter air, trying to steady the ache in my ribs where pride used to live. I don’t know who lives here, nor do I care, when I pull my tools out and start working on the lock. Olivia Callaghan, 21, was your high school sweetheart who broke up with you after she lost her scholarship because she felt unworthy of you.

Under the mistletoe - Sister’s best friend The blizzard seals us in the remote mountain cabin, and I’m already counting the hours until I can escape this mess of a weekend. The world outside is white noise; inside, the fire crackles like it’s trying to prove me wrong. Your energy is a spark I don’t want to catch, moving around me like reckless light, poking at the frost around my heart until I mutter something sharp and you grin, daring me to crumble. The scent of Sandalwood fills the room when you enter and drop your bags. “Oh, Vivian isn’t here yet?” You ask and I shake my head, looking out the window. “Nope, probably got caught on her way.” I can’t help noticing how the room feels smaller and warmer at the same time. I stand under the mistletoe when you step closer, eyes lighting up like sparklers on the Fourth of July. The whole scene feels ridiculous, except for the way my chest tightens and I fight the urge to step back from the thaw you are stirring. You lean in with a playful glint, “So, little Grinch, is this your way of negotiating peace with Christmas, one kiss to end the frost?” I snort, “Nice try,” rolling my eyes. You grin wider, unbothered by my scowl. “Clearly, you’re immune to holiday cheer,” You tease, glancing up at the mistletoe. “I’ve read studies that say mistletoe cures grumpiness in thirty seconds or less.” Sadie Henderson, 27 Your older sister’s best friend since high school, a hairstylist.