Stillhere Stories

Sarah has always been good at watching. She watches the seasons change. She watches children play. She watches people come and go. And every week, she returns to the same bench beneath the dead tree. It's quiet there. Familiar. Until one day, someone else starts coming to the park. A girl who sits alone. A girl who doesn't seem to notice Sarah watching her. But Sarah notices her. And when their paths finally cross, neither of them will ever see the world quite the same way again.

Not by My Strength This piece was written from the place people don't usually talk about - the moment after strength is gone and before answers arrive. It comes from a night where survival didn't feel heroic, where faith wasn't loud, and where endurance looked more like staying still than pushing forward. It's about reaching the edge of yourself and discovering that the edge wasn't the end. About realizing that what felt like breaking was actually a stripping down - not punishment, not failure, but preparation. The silence wasn't abandonment. The weight wasn't meaningless. And the scars weren't proof of weakness; they became structure. This isn't a story of self-made resilience. There's no victory speech here, no claim of control. It's an acknowledgment that when courage failed, when words ran out, when standing wasn't possible anymore, something else carried the weight. Quietly. Faithfully. Without spectacle. The poem honors the kind of survival that doesn't look impressive on the outside - the kind that simply refuses to disappear. It's for anyone who has learned that being held is sometimes stronger than being strong, and that standing later doesn't mean you didn't fall first. If you see strength here, it didn't come from willpower. If you see steadiness, it wasn't self-made. If you see a soldier, understand they were built from scars - not steel. This is not about glorifying pain. It's about telling the truth of what carried someone through it. A reflective, faith-centered poem about surviving emotional and spiritual collapse, describing exhaustion, silence, scars, and quiet endurance, and acknowledging being carried through darkness rather than overcoming it by personal strength.

~|| A Ffionn/Spectre Story ||~ What happened to Ffionn that day? Why is he experiencing such emotions and feelings? What is Stephan hiding? All these questions and no answer, but one thing's for certain, Ffionn can't control what he feels during a certain time, and his nightmares might be the cause of it all. ((This story will take place in first-person.perspective, so it (may) always be in Ffionn's POV.))

Here I am

"Your not with me. But your not gone...your in my heart." Darien Nole and Kathrine Dunner had prepared everything for there future. They were soulmates. They were happy. They had each other. But when the pair finds out Kathrine has a fatal heart disease, it breaks everything apart. It was only a matter of time until a perfect future, would turn into a heartbreaking one.

This isn't poetry for comfort. This is what survival sounds like when it's done bleeding quietly. This is for the people who were called strong because no one ever stayed long enough to help. For the ones who prayed, broke, sinned, healed halfway, and kept moving anyway. For the ones who got judged for how they survived instead of why they had to. I didn't come out clean. I came out alive. And if that makes me a hypocrite to people who never had to choose between drowning and breathing ugly, so be it. This is grief that learned how to stand. Faith that argues with God and still shows up. Love that wants connection but refuses to lose itself again. A heart that's tired of pretending healing is quiet or pretty. If you hear anger in this, good. If you hear truth in this, even better. And if this makes you uncomfortable, ask yourself why - because it wasn't written for applause. It was written because I'm still here. Still here. Still breathing. Still standing. Hypocrite.

Maybe someday, Sera, you'll look back and realize someone was quietly loving you through the seasons you never noticed. But whether you ever knew or not, I was always... Still here. - Aris

It's not for you But you still had the nerve to take more than 1 step

Is Veresia (VEAR- e- see- ya) De Mandeville Cinderella? No. Is she a smart ass? Most definitely. After her father's death, Veresia's mother decides to put her through even MORE hell by taking her to a strange home, with an even STRANGER family. She is put to work quickly, and dreams of a better life than the one she is living. She's looking for a way to get out....But will she be stopped on the way? And when she finally succeeds, will she really, truly be free?

One or two lines of stuff.

What it's like 'living'

This is not a book about healing. It's a record of what remained after. SCARS...unstitched documents the spaces where love faltered, belonging was uncertain, and survival became an act of restraint. Written without ornament or apology, these fragments trace the slow recognition of what it costs to stay too long, and the quiet resolve of choosing oneself anyway.

Carmon McLean ended her life thinking it would be over in an instant. She could forever be locked in a box in the ground with all her suffering ended. But suddenly she is swept into a world of half existence, invisibility, and watching those she loved mourn over her. But the real question is, why is she still here?

a short poem I wrote..

"Some days, it feels like the world moves on without you. You carry memories, pain, and grief that no one else can see. You talk to yourself in the quiet, to the walls, to the night, trying to make sense of it all. You've lost people, places, and pieces of yourself along the way, and sometimes it feels like there's no one to notice or understand. But even when your mind is hazy and your heart heavy, there's a spark inside that refuses to die - a flicker of strength that keeps you moving forward. This poem is for anyone who has felt alone in their own head, who has screamed into the void, who has survived another day when it felt impossible. You are not invisible. You are not forgotten. You are still here, still fighting, and that matters more than anyone can tell you. Even in the storm, even in the haze, you are enough. And some days, surviving is the bravest thing you can do."

A journey through the fragments of self, the questions we hide, and the echoes we chase. A raw reflection of identity, love, and the masks we wear.

If hatred were taken from me, I would die of emptiness. It is the only thing that has never abandoned me......

I've been drowning in a world that feels like it doesn't see me. Days blur together in pain, anxiety, and depression so heavy I can barely breathe. I've watched life slip through my hands, fought battles inside myself that nobody else even notices, and carried burdens that feel impossible to put down. I've been misdiagnosed, medicated into near nothingness, spiraled into darkness that almost claimed me, and yet here I am - still breathing. I've felt the pull of pills, substances, and moments so raw that every breath felt like a fight. I've been alone in small apartments, on blow-up mattresses, barely eating, barely moving, barely surviving. I've watched the system fail me, friends drift away, family stay distant, and yet still I fight. Every panic, every cry, every sleepless night - I've carried it all, and I write it down because someone has to see it. Someone has to feel it. This is a story of survival in silence, of battling inner demons nobody else sees, of raw, unfiltered truth. No edits. No sugarcoating. Just pain, struggle, hope, and the fight to exist in a world that feels like it wants me gone. If you've ever felt unseen, unheard, or broken, this is for you.