Have You Ever

  As I sit here and put these words on paper, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of my feelings for you. My love for you is limitless, and you will always be the most valuable person in my life. We’ve shared twenty years of laughter of shared glances across quiet rooms, of whispered dreams in the darkness. You have been my anchor and my wings, my refuge and my spark. And though time has gently altered the nature of how we live and love, you are still here with me —not always in the same way, but always with the same soul. When the fog of dementia began to settle around you, I felt something inside me falter. The man who could read me with a single look, who knew the rhythm of my day without a word spoken, now sometimes asks me my name. I lost the daily you , the partner who shared every mundane thought and burst of laughter—but I never lost the essence of you. It's still in the way your hand finds mine without thought, in the smile that returns when an old love ...

  The town of Willow mere had always held a quiet charm—cobbled streets, ocean air, and an unhurried rhythm. But for Elara Voss, it had mostly been a backdrop to her self-doubt. An artist caught between dreams and overdue rent notices, she moved like a shadow, sketching faces no one noticed and colours she could barely afford. That changed the day she stepped into Thread & Thistle , the art and craft store that pulsed with colour and warmth. It smelled like cedarwood and dried lavender, with every aisle whispering the promise of creation. And behind the counter stood Kieran Hart. He had arrived three years earlier, city-bred but sea-bound. After buying the store on a whim—part escape, part second chance—he turned it into a sanctuary of creativity. Locals adored him, kids flocked to his Saturday art classes, and the shelves teemed with hand-curated treasures. Elara had wandered in for watercolour paper. She left with an invitation. “I’d love to feature your work,” he said th...

  Eliot Hart was the kind of man people noticed. Six-foot-two, with silver-flecked dark hair, tailored suits, and a gaze that made boardrooms hush and investors lean forward. He had built his real estate empire from a single run-down apartment he refurbished on weekends—nail by nail, plan by plan—while holding down a full-time job and raising two toddlers with Olivia, the woman he’d loved since he was twenty. He lived in a world draped in glass and power, where luxury whispered and temptation roared. Banquets hosted in sky-high penthouses, poolside parties spilling with champagne and laughter, women whose smiles were invitations and eyes full of curiosity— what would it take to win the attention of Eliot Hart? But the truth was, they never stood a chance. His wedding ring was more than gold. It was a promise wrapped around his finger, warm with memory. He wore it like armour. He’d see them. The assistant who lingered too long near his office, her laugh a shade too bright. The...

  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...

  Most nights, the newsroom stank of burnt coffee and broken hope. Ellis Cole, lead crime reporter for The Chronicle , had spent twenty years ink-stained and hollow-eyed, chronicling the worst humanity had to offer. Murders scripted like nightmares, cruelty dressed as everyday life—he captured it all with a brutal clarity only trauma could sharpen. They called him “The Mortician” behind his back—cool, clinical, unflinching. But what they didn’t see was her. Clara moved like a quiet song. Soft laughter in an unforgiving world. She ran a florist shop two blocks from the paper, where the scent of eucalyptus and honeyed lilies wrapped around you like a promise of peace. They’d met when Ellis came to write a feature on small businesses surviving the recession. He never wrote the piece. Instead, he kept coming back—for excuses, for coffee, and eventually, for her. Every evening, after cataloguing bloodshed and betrayal, Ellis returned home to warm lamplight, Clara’s humming in the k...

  The golden anniversary crept upon Harold and Miriam like dawn on a long winter’s night—expected, slow, and then all at once, radiant. For fifty years, they had weathered life’s tempests, tethered by the simple truth they discovered early on: Beyond being my beloved, you are also my truest companion. A gift I never take for granted. Preparations for the celebration had begun weeks before. The community centre in Saldanha Bay had been booked, a jazz quartet hired Harold insisted on real instruments, not that synthesized nonsense. The guest list brimmed with cousins, old friends, and former neighbours, all eager to toast to five decades of shared history. But beneath the excitement stirred a quiet anxiety. Their eldest, Daniel, hadn’t called in weeks. Once a tender-hearted boy who wouldn’t let a spider crawl unharmed, he’d fallen deep into addiction after losing his job and custody of his daughter. Miriam left a voicemail every Sunday; some days he responded, most days he didn’t...

  London in spring has a way of pretending it’s summer—sunlight skipping across the water, pub gardens overflowing with laughter, and the faint scent of cherry blossoms weaving through the city like a secret. Maya had just exited a particularly long-winded museum exhibit on Victorian plumbing—don’t ask, it was her brother’s idea—when she decided to reclaim the day with a walk along the Thames. She sipped her oat latte and browsed the street art by South Bank, when a man stumbled backward into her path, nearly knocking the cup clean from her hand. “Blimey! I’m so sorry,” he gasped, turning to face her with flushed cheeks and apologetic eyes. “It’s alright,” she said, steadying herself. “Caffeine casualties are the worst kind.” He chuckled, brushing off invisible dust from his coat. “I’m Theo. And I promise, in most daily encounters, I’m less of a disaster.” Maya wasn’t entirely sure why she kept talking to him—but there was something about the slight crinkle near his eyes and ...

              Sarah wasn't used to silence quite this golden. The kind that stretched across sunflower fields like a lullaby. Back home in Surrey, her days were booked solid with responsibilities, charity brunches, and the invisible weight of her title: Lady Sarah Worthington . Elegant? Yes. Free? Never quite. But in the Italian countryside, everything shifted. The air smelled like lavender and baked earth, and time didn’t tick—it strolled. She was sketching—well, trying to—on the worn stone steps of a vineyard near San Gimignano when he nearly tripped over her watercolours. “Whoa! I swear I wasn’t aiming for your masterpiece,” came the voice, rich and amused. She looked up. Tall. Sun-streaked hair. An American accent dipped in charm. Khaki shorts that had clearly seen better adventures. And those smile lines—laugh-worn and well-earned—framing kind blue eyes. “Brad,” he said, offering a hand. “Sarah.” She hesitated, then added with a grin, “No on...

Danielle never did blend in. With paint-stained fingertips, sun-kissed curls, and a laugh that bounced like light off a canvas, she was everything not expected in the sterile corridors of Bergmann Industries. Her latest commission? A formal portrait of their CEO, Gerhard Weissman—Businessman of the Year and, as her client warned her, a man of granite . Danielle had met statues with more flexibility. Their first session was a disaster. He arrived precisely on time, wearing a navy three-piece suit and an expression that suggested the entire endeavor was a colossal waste of his schedule. She, in contrast, had forgotten her shoes in her rush and greeted him barefoot, balancing a coffee cup and her sketchpad. "I need to capture your essence, not your résumé," she announced, gesturing for him to unbutton his jacket and maybe—heaven forbid—smile. His response was a long, glacial stare. But he sat. Day after day, she returned. One time with flowers she claimed reminded her of ...

Love at first sight? That was a phrase Cole Harper had always shrugged off, like an old coat that didn’t quite fit. But then she stepped out of the SUV, all sleek lines and sophistication, with her hair pulled back in a practical bun and sunglasses perched atop her head like a crown. The midday sun caught her in its golden net, and something clicked inside him—like the snap of a saddle buckle just before a ride. She was everything he wasn’t—meticulously dressed in a crisp white blouse, slim black jeans, and polished ankle boots that had never met a day of dust. Her name was Lila Bennett, a corporate consultant from the city, trading boardrooms for barns for just one holiday week. It was supposed to be a break. A breath. Not a breathlessness. And certainly not this electric moment she felt the instant their eyes locked. Cole stood tall by the paddock fence, a worn Stetson shadowing a face sun-kissed and rugged, with eyes the color of prairie skies before a summer storm. His shirt, ro...

  My heart skips a beat and a smile spreads over my face whenever you are in my thoughts. That one simple truth carries the weight of an entire love story—one that unfolded in the most unexpected of places: the workplace. They were just two professionals in a bustling office, their days filled with emails, deadlines, and countless cups of coffee. But something subtle began to shift. Side glances turned into shared jokes, casual conversations lingered longer, and soon, their desks weren’t the only things side by side. Working together laid a foundation of mutual respect. They saw each other at their best—and their most stressed. They learned how to handle challenges not just with competence, but with compassion. And somewhere between team meetings and lunchroom chats, friendship evolved into love. It wasn’t the cinematic kind of love with grand gestures and perfect moments. It was a quiet, sturdy kind of love—the kind that holds your hand through rough patches and laughs with yo...

  Carla had always thought Tinder was mostly good for collecting dating horror stories—until Franco. With cheekbones carved by angels and a smile that made traffic lights feel optional, he swept her off her feet like a Nicholas Sparks protagonist dipped in mystery. But three months in, something wasn’t adding up. He’d never let her near his apartment (“it’s being fumigated…for, uh, exotic beetles?”), his phone was always face-down, and family talk was met with masterful subject changes that could’ve won Olympic gold. So, Carla did what any self-respecting woman with trust issues and high-speed internet would do: she reverse image searched his profile pic. Cue the gasp. Turns out, Franco wasn’t just a gym-loving digital marketer with a tragic aversion to commitment. He was Franco Giannetti , only son of the internationally beloved actress Seraphina Giannetti —think Meryl Streep meets Beyoncé in terms of fame and red-carpet dominance. The man who claimed to hate the spotlight ha...

  Once upon a time in a land ruled by algorithms and avocado toast, there lived a swipe-happy romantic named Carla . With a thumb like a gladiator and hope that refused to die, she embarked on a quest not for riches or revenge—but for love. Or at least a decent dinner date where no one tried to recruit her into a pyramid scheme. Her journey began with Chad the Crypto Bro , who was less “boyfriend material” and more “walking Reddit thread.” Over kale smoothies, he pitched her Bitcoin as if it were a religion. When Carla asked if he believed in marriage, he replied, “Only if it’s backed by blockchain.” She paid for her half in cash. Old-school rebellion. Next came Andre the Aspiring DJ , a man whose passion for beats rivalled his disregard for hygiene. He whisked her to a secret warehouse where people danced like injured flamingos wearing headphones. He called it a “vibe sanctuary.” Carla called it “a fever dream with bass drops.” Then there was Felix , the barefoot philosopher ....

  They say timing is everything—and sometimes, the universe just isn’t ready for two hearts to meet until it is . Roxanne and Wessel were once a high school cliché in the best possible way: shy glances in the hallway, secret notes passed between classes, and stolen kisses under the bleachers. But like so many teenage romances, their love collided with life’s reality. With college acceptance letters sending them to opposite corners of the country, they made the most grown-up decision two 18-year-olds could make: to let go, gracefully. Years passed. And passed. Fifteen of them, to be exact. In that time, they lived—fully. Careers flourished, relationships were tested, hearts were broken and mended. There were near-misses and almost. Each of them walked through seasons of hope and heartache, growing in ways they could never have predicted when they said goodbye all those years ago. And then one quiet evening, Roxanne clicked on a familiar name in a Facebook friend suggestion. Wes...

  Olivia stood with her arms crossed, staring at the latest gift on her dresser—a delicate necklace shaped like a crescent moon. “This isn’t sweet anymore,” she said, voice low. “It’s starting to feel… invasive.” Aaron looked up from his laptop, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Another one?” She nodded. “That’s four this week, Aaron. Four. And they’re getting more personal. The note with this one quoted a passage from Wuthering Heights —my annotated edition. It was word for word.” His expression remained neutral, too neutral. “Maybe someone at school noticed your taste?” “Or maybe someone’s watching me.” She didn’t mean for her voice to tremble, but it did. “Aaron, I need to ask… is there something you’re not telling me?” He blinked, startled. “What? You think I’m behind this?” “I don’t know,” she admitted, taking a shaky breath. “You’ve been… distracted lately. Distant, even. And the guy from the coffee shop—Jordan?—he asked me yesterday if I liked ‘roses and rid...

  I never imagined I'd become the villain in my own story. It started innocently—just a spark, a glance, a feeling I hadn’t felt in years. He was everything my partner wasn’t: attentive, magnetic, dangerously charming. Before I knew it, I was entangled in a secret romance that felt too perfect to question. But perfection is a lie. By the time I discovered he was married, I was too far gone heart deep, soul bound. Still, I chose him. I left the man who loved me, who trusted me, to play second fiddle in someone else’s life. Two years I lived in the shadows, clinging to stolen moments and empty promises, hoping he'd finally choose me. Then came the betrayal: he was cheating on me, too. Just like he had cheated with me. In that moment, the illusion shattered. I was alone, ashamed, and used. I crawled back to the man I once betrayed, not to reclaim love, but to face what I'd destroyed. Cheating doesn't just break hearts—it burns bridges, scorches dignity, and leaves sc...

  Part 2 The last time Anna saw her father, he was framed in a car window, waving in that distracted way people do when they're already halfway gone. Twenty-five years of marriage, two children, and a transcontinental marriage had unravelled in a text message that blinked across continents. “I’ve met someone. I’m not coming back.” No maintenance. No phone calls. Just radio static and foreign postage. Anna and her brother Luka had grown up in the echo of that silence. Now, in her thirties, Anna was a family lawyer, known for her scalpel-sharp precision in court—and the fire in her voice when defending abandoned parents. Luka had walked a different line: a painter whose chaotic canvases spoke of fractured homes, of limbs stretching across oceans. Then came the email. A forwarded invitation. Their father—John—was being honoured at a corporate gala in Cape Town for “decades of international development and leadership.” Luka sent no message. Just a plane ticket confirmation and a link ...

Part  1 She was seventeen when they traded city lights for cattle trails. The rustle of dry grass became the new soundtrack of her life. In the beginning, she felt like a misplaced book on the wrong shelf—until she met him. He wasn’t like the local boys with predictable smiles and inherited land. He had anger in his knuckles and poetry in his eyes. They met at a truck stop dance, kissed behind a silo, and never looked back. By twenty-two, she wore a white dress with muddy heels. By twenty-five, she held a child in each arm and a silent resentment in her chest. He still had that hungry look in his eye—but it wasn’t for her anymore. When the offer came—for work overseas—he took it. Said it was for them . Said he'd build a future. But months turned into years. Calls grew short. Then, one morning, a vibration on her kitchen table: “I’m not coming back. I met someone else.” That was it. No signature. No explanation. Just cold digital ink. She tried to protect the children from the grie...