Have You Ever

  The house has never been so quiet. The kettle hums in the background, and I half expect your hand to touch the small of my back as you sneak a biscuit from the tin. But you're not here anymore. You were my beginning, you know. High school sweethearts—what a phrase, so quaint, so true. I still remember that shy smile when you stood at our front door, hair combed, nerves visible beneath your pressed suit. Navy blue, if I recall correctly, with your grandfather’s cufflinks. I wore the pale pink dress I’d spent weeks sewing, with lace at the collar and a little ribbon around my waist. My father glowered behind me, arms crossed, giving you that stare— “Ten o'clock, son. Not a minute later, or else.” You swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir,” then offered your arm like I was royalty. You always treated me that way. We built a life from next to nothing, but what we had overflowed with love. I remember the birth of our middle child—my body trembling, complications pressing down on...

The sea was her solace. Every day, Lila set up her easel by the windswept veranda of the cottage she had rented—a quaint whitewashed place that smelled of salt and rosemary. Her days were filled with long silences and crashing waves, her canvas a faithful confidant to her sorrow and healing. It had been two years since Thomas. Two years since the flag was folded and pressed into her arms like a final, cruel punctuation. She had escaped to the coast not to forget, but to feel again. That morning, the tide was a glimmering silver, and she was brushing a bold line across the horizon when a wild gust of joy came barrelling toward her—on four muddy paws and a wagging tail. The dog—a boisterous golden retriever—bounded through her easel legs, toppling everything in its wake. Lila gasped, catching the canvas just in time. A laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it—her first, in a long while. “Finn! No! I’m so sorry, he’s usually more gentleman than hurricane—” said a voice, rich ...

  In a forgotten corner of the city, nestled between shuttered storefronts and graffiti-tagged walls, stood Bella Vita , a once-bustling pizza shop now suffocating under fear and silence. The owners, Jaxon and Amara, were barely in their twenties, freshly married and fiercely hopeful. But that hope was eroding fast. Business had slowed to a crawl. A wave of violence had crept into their neighbourhood, pushing customers away and plunging the couple into debt. To make matters worse—or perhaps more poignant—Amara was six months pregnant. Their unborn child became both a beacon of purpose and a cruel reminder of everything at stake. Yet, even as the world turned its back, Jaxon and Amara turned to others. Each evening, with what little they had, they made warm slices for the city's forgotten—homeless men and women who gathered near the railroad tracks. One of them, a weathered man named Solomon, always lingered a little longer, always thanked them a little more earnestly. Unknown to...

From the moment they met in the sandbox of their first-grade playground, it was as if the universe exhaled, content that two wandering souls had finally found one another. Lily and Noah were best friends before they even knew what that truly meant. They shared pencils, secrets, scraped knees, and belly laughs—the kind that leave you gasping for air. As the years rolled on, so did they—side by side, through every awkward stage and life milestone. While others stumbled through fleeting crushes and passing romances, Lily and Noah already knew. They only wanted each other. No explanations, no complications. Just a quiet certainty that whispered, you are home . They married under a sky painted in twilight, surrounded by loved ones and the echo of their childhood laughter. Their home filled with music, mischief, and dreams of a little life growing inside Lily. When the day came, everything blurred. Panic crashed against sterile white walls. Noah clutched Lily's hand as her smile tre...

  Professor Julian Hartwell had taught literature at Merrow University for nearly two decades. His lectures were known for their passionate dive into Shakespearean tragedies and subtle postmodern prose, but it wasn’t the texts that lingered after class—it was the way he spoke about them. Like words weren’t just syllables strung together, but living things to be cherished. Arielle Nyame was a name he first learned from a class roster in her second year. She sat near the back then, sketching in the margins of her notebook, eyes lit with thoughtful defiance every time she challenged a text’s interpretation. She was brilliant—audacious in her thinking, unapologetically curious. Over the years, he watched her evolve—from an unpolished flame of potential to a force of nature in the faculty’s Masters program. Julian admired her quietly, keeping a careful distance, bound by ethics and a reverence for the timing life demands. He never once gave her special treatment. But once, he did lea...

  In a windswept coastal town nestled against the Atlantic swell, Brendon lived in quiet harmony with his only constant companion—a wiry little terrier named Scout. Scout was more than a pet. He was the echo of Brendon’s childhood, the rambunctious thread that wove together his loneliest days. That harmony was shattered one stormy afternoon. Brendon never saw the delivery van coming. One yelp. One moment. Then stillness. The world tilted. Panicked and half-blind with dread, Brendon sped through salt-slick streets to the nearest veterinary clinic. The scent of antiseptic and lavender greeted him—oddly comforting, eerily sterile. That’s when she appeared. Dr. Liyana Patel. Young, composed, and with an ease about her like still water. Her voice was calm, like steady rainfall: “We’ll do everything we can.” In that moment, Brendon hated how vulnerable he sounded. But her eyes—earnest and unwavering—made space for his fear without judgment. Over the next 48 hours, Liyana became more t...