ShortStory

@ShortStory Yep.

@ShortStory Lets go

Yeah

@ShortStory 
            
            The Moment Everything Changed 
            
            The moment everything changed was surprisingly quiet. No thunder cracked, no alarms rang. I was sitting beside my mother, listening to the clock tick across the room. She held my hand and smiled, though her eyes looked tired.
            
            “Promise me,” she whispered, “you’ll stop waiting for tomorrow.”
            
            I laughed nervously, thinking she was joking. She wasn’t.
            
            That evening, I understood what she meant. Tomorrow is never guaranteed. Dreams postponed become regrets, and words left unsaid become ghosts.
            
            So I called my father, apologised to my friend, and finally opened the notebook filled with forgotten plans.
            
            One sentence changed everything: Begin today.

@ShortStory 
            
            “You know I still like you, right?" My voice echoed through the empty room directly into her ears. 
            
            “I assumed," she mumbled. 
            
            “Aren't you going to do anything about it?" The question seemed to stop the world in front of us. 
            
            Her shadow disappeared from next to me. The three dots on the phone stopped appearing. "That story *was* about you.” My eyes lingered over her previous text. That was the moment everything changed. The moment I realized I was fighting alone… I realized we weren't meant to be. I realized there was really no us, just her and me. 

@ShortStory The moment I died was, really, the moment everything changed.
            
            Go figure, eh?
            
            I gained ultimate knowledge. I attained ultimate peace. There is no Heaven or Hell, but, at least, there is eternal contentment. The entirety of my past - the hearts I have broken, including my own, the smiles I have given and received, the joy and the tears and the experiences - now, effectively, is meaningless.
            
            No, not quite that. Rather, it's meaningful in every possible way it could be. But, also, it's redundant, because we are what and who we are, and, now, I am just everything.
            
            Except, there's no cheesecake.

@ShortStory Thank You Very Much! ♡(⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠✧⁠*⁠。

@QuinceArchFortes All the best with the writing!

@ShortStory Thanks so much for the feature and praise 💌 I'm looking forward to fleshing out this story one of these days! 

@ShortStory I never walked home at night. I didn't trust the area I lived in, with its gangs of youths wandering until stupid o'clock, stealing cars and intimidating passers by whilst high or drunk.
            
            So, I never did. Until tonight, anyway. It’s cold. The rain has been threatening but hasn’t appeared. I should have worn a jacket. I should have kept my phone away.
            
            I should have taken a taxi.
            
            Shoulda-woulda-coulda. Didn’t.
            
            And, now, I’ll never walk home at night again. I’m free of my fears and my foolishness. Unhindered by mortal needs.
            
            Unfortunately, they – and my body – are what was left behind.

@ShortStory 
            
            In the world of machines the only way to survive is to pretend to be the same.
            Emotions, any word of disagreement, all that makes you, you, has to be left behind.
            Shedding tears means shame, a burst of anger a lack of control. Even if it were mere words. Failure is followed by death.
            At first I believed it to be easy, that it was something I’m good at.
            But after so long… It’s killing me, those feelings, those voices of protest, they’re clawing their way out. Pressing their nails for grip inside my throat, ripping open my skin.

@ShortStory 
            
            What Remained Behind 
            
            When the moving truck disappeared, Maya stood alone in the empty house. Sunlight stretched across rooms stripped of furniture, photographs, and laughter. On the kitchen counter, she found a small yellow cup, cracked along its rim, and remembered her mother’s Sunday mornings, warm tea, and stories that always ended, “You’ll understand someday.” In the attic, beneath an old blanket, she found a wooden box filled with her mother’s letters, tied with faded silk ribbon. Maya read one slowly, smiling through tears. She carried both downstairs, realising the house was not truly empty. What remained was love, quietly waiting for her.

@ShortStory Oh wow, thank you very much.