Have You Ever

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 ...

  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...

  Longing and desire are intertwined forces that drive human emotion, shaping choices, relationships, and even identity. Longing is the ache of absence, the weight of something lost or unattainable—a silent yearning that lingers beneath every thought. It is the space between what is and what could be a perpetual hunger that refuses to be sated. Desire, on the other hand, is raw and urgent, a fire that demands fulfilment. It is passion wrapped in need, an unrelenting force that propels us toward what we crave. While longing is reflective, a quiet ache that stretches across time, desire is immediate, pulsing with the thrill of pursuit. Together, they create a cycle—longing fuels desire, and desire fuels longing, each feeding the other in a never-ending dance of temptation and restraint. In the context of forbidden romance, longing and desire become even more potent. The unattainable heightens both the pain and the pleasure, making every stolen moment more intoxicating, every absenc...

  Picture this: A boutique shimmering with satin and lace, a sanctuary of romance and whispered promises. Enter Mr. Confidence , strolling in like a man on a mission—a mission that reeks of audacity. He browses with precision, carefully selecting two stunning lingerie sets, each designed to inspire breathless admiration. The first—a vision of elegance, meant for his beloved wife. The second—a sultry masterpiece, intended for his… other beloved .  It’s unsettling how some people treat commitment like a flexible suggestion rather than a promise.  Surely, he’s kidding? No man would be so boldly  self-destructive . Then, with the casual air of someone ordering two different flavours of ice cream , he makes his request: “Could you pack them separately? Oh, and I’ll need two Valentine’s cards—one for my wife, and one for my mistress.” What a strange situation standing there, packaging up his carefully chosen gifts, knowing that each one was meant for a different woman, ...

If you ask the people in our community why my ex-husband and I got divorced, they'll give you a tidy answer—a story wrapped in the kind of tragic romance that makes betrayal almost palatable. Three years ago, I fell in love with someone else . It’s simple, digestible, something they can whisper about over coffee or roll their eyes at in private. How predictable , they’ll say. They still judge, of course, but there’s an undeniable poetry in it. A narrative that fits neatly into their understanding of love, loss, and human folly. But it isn’t what happened. Few people know that for two years before I finally left, I was actively trying to get a divorce—pushing against invisible walls, screaming silently into a void that refused to listen. What they don’t know is that our marriage wasn’t just unravelling—it had already collapsed in on itself, trapping me in its wreckage. For six months, anxiety ruled me. Every day was a battlefield against my own thoughts. At times, I considere...

  In the idyllic town nestled near a serene lagoon, where weekends were synonymous with freedom and laughter, my heart found its anchor. He was seven years my senior, a striking figure of unwavering courage as a Navy diver, and the embodiment of grace as he glided across the waters on skis. From the first moment I saw him, he was the boy who captured my heart through all my school years. Our families’ weekend retreats were held in quaint holiday house owned by his parents, a tradition that became the backdrop to some of my most cherished memories. He was tall, his presence commanding, with a personality that sparkled as brightly as the summer sun reflecting off the water. To him, I was the younger sister, a title that became both a comfort and a source of longing. Weekends were spent on the water, where he patiently taught me to waterski, his laughter mingling with the sound of the waves. His encouraging words and the warmth of his smile made those lessons more than just a pastime—...