she was a girl in a small town,
he was a boy in the same,
he’d cycle to her house every night,
because the days were too bright,
she’d peek through the window every evening,
and once their eyes were locked,
the world disappeared,

there was nothing else they could do more,
except notice the blush on their cheeks,
while they gazed at their love from afar,
still they’d never get tired,
in classes, he would say hello,
talk to her a few times,
and she’d respond back with one,
they wrote each other letters of love,
it was these letters holding them together,
but it was never more than that,
they were a little shy,
a little afraid of the world they were born in,
for they knew loving each other was already a sin,
a sin they were to be punished for,

one night,
late after dusk,
at the time where her shy lover would arrive,
didn’t today,
she waited,
and she waited,
he didn’t come,
and she was a little curious,
not mad,
not furious, just a little confused,

the following night,
she gathered up all her courage, snuck out the window,
late after dusk,
and that’s when she finally met him,
and he finally met her,
more than shared hello’s,
more than noticing each other’s gaze,
there was just a few mere inches holding him from her,
that’s when she smiled,
and when his heart dropped for the first time,
he’d seen her smile often,
she had that could light up a city in the dark,
but it was never at him,
never for him,
and that point he knew there was no going back,

under the moonlit trees,
and the clouds of stars,
they lay next to each other,
talking of everything and nothing,
and what their lips couldn’t say,
their eyes did,
she loved the way his eyes sparkled,
the way his skin glew under the moonlight,
he loved the way her hair cascaded in waves to her waist,
the way she talked to him
and in that moment, they swore they were infinite,

but she knew good things wouldn’t last for long,
and she knew she loved him,
more love than she could ever comprehend,
if she went to declare it to the world,
she’d be killed before she could utter another word,

but he was determined,
he’d always promise her that he would forever find his way back to her,
no matter which side of the border he was on,
she was his home,
and he was hers,

they stood there in a field of tall grass,
cheeks flushed, and hearts pounding against their skin,
when the scent of charred wood,
and the raging red fire roared,

he took her hand in his,
and they ran,
she slipped,
she fell,
her ankle almost matching the color of the fire,
which chased towards them with great force,
he took her in his arms and ran once again,
“I can’t let you go yet” he whispered,
“you’ll have to someday” she replied too quiet for him to listen.

Thank you so much for reading! I watched a beautiful movie called Main Vaapas Aaunga yesterday and this poem was inspired from it. I think I’ll continue this poem in another part. I hope you could connect with it! 💗

We are finally on social media.. Come say hi…

Subscribe and follow our official social handles on Instagram | X | Facebook.

Feel free to mention / tag us on these social platforms whenever you want to promote or collaborate on your content. We love watching you grow with this community.

This story published on “Pen With Paper” — a fresh space where writers bring their thoughts, stories, and ideas to life. Want to share your voice? Join our community, and together, “We Elevate Your Stories”

Pen With Paper Submission Guidelines 2026 : A Brand New Way to Be Added as a Writer

Love in 1947 was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It’s been a few years since I said hi to him.

Sitting behind in class, talking about the most serious of things in the most illogical sense.
Laughing like idiots in math, till our cheeks hurt.
I remember him standing right in front of the lockers, eyes locked with mine, and a huge smile on both our faces doing something stupid again. I recall myself flying somewhere up in the air when you talked to me, like yesterday. Honestly, you didn’t even have to talk for me to feel that way. Just glancing at you from the corner of my table was enough. I remember wearing a cute top once, and you looked at me so purely lost in adoration. I knew you were out of my league, every girl had a crush on you.
But even then texting you gets my feet kicking and my toes curling and my cheeks blushing.
One compliment from you and I feel like the prettiest person alive.
You had me dancing to love songs, smiling all day long, wishing you were here next to me. I imagined us running in fields, eating ice-cream in an amusement park. I told you my favourite drink and you went out to have it. I said I talked too much, you said you liked listening to me .

Guess you weren’t the one.

I know I haven’t seen you in what feels like forever.
I know it’s impossible. But a text from you makes all these thoughts disappear. And before I know it, I’m floating in the air again.

I wish yearning could be this pretty.
I wish it wasn’t so gut-wrenching to like someone for more than 2 days and I’ve liked you for 2 years? I mean why would you ever like me?
I was too insecure, too ugly, too weird.

But do I even really liked you?
Or did I like the thought of you liking me?

Whenever I think of you for more than a minute, there’s a pit in my stomach I can’t quite describe. It’s beautiful and draining and colorful and paining. And I feel myself inexorably drawn to you. Because your voice gets me so happy. And your texts get me blushing. And whenever my friends talk about you it’s like I physically cannot stop smiling. And suddenly, all the love songs are about you. It’s embarrassing to admit it.
But we’re just friends, right?
Or are we even close enough for that?

But you know what’s actually embarrassing? That I’m out here writing this piece about you because you haven’t cared to text me back, while you’re probably so oblivious about it.
I think about texting first, but if you really wanted to talk to me you would’ve texted.

It’s not that serious, I know.
But I know I liked talking to you.
I liked flirting with you.
I liked our deep conversations.

And I know you said you liked it too.
But I guess it wasn’t much as I did.
Now I know, it’s time to finally let you go.

I’ve written essays like this for him a few times now, telling myself it’s finally over. I don’t know about the future, but I think I do have to thank him for teaching me how much love I am capable of.

Thank you for reading!

📌 This story is published under Quirky Rants — a home for unfiltered thoughts, everyday oddities, and real, relatable voices.
Want to share your story too? Join us here.

Quirky Rants — A Publication!

liking this guy from high school was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Thank you for being my maa,
thank you for being born in this world,
for out of all these people in the world,
you’re my mother.

I’m so grateful to have you,
that I sometimes take it for granted,
but you should know,
you mean everything to me,

you deserve all the love and care and support,
because nobody can ever be you for me,
happy birthday dear mumma,
I hope you have the best ones,

everything that you do,
everything that you are,
everything that you know,
you’ll always be my inspiration,

the efforts you make,
the comfort you bring,
the beauty you hold,
the life you’ve gifted me,

you’re worth everything,
and I hope you realise that I love you very much,
thank you for being,
thank you for loving,

thank you for my mother,
the best one I could’ve ever asked for,
and happy birthday!!!

Thank you for reading and for your support!

📌 This story is published under Quirky Rants — a home for unfiltered thoughts, everyday oddities, and real, relatable voices.
Want to share your story too? Join us here.

Quirky Rants — A Publication!

happy birthday to the best mother! was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It was my first time speaking to a large audience today.
And my first time was speaking to a bunch of teenagers.

What a cool crowd for a nervous girl?

Honestly though, I believe my speech wasn’t the best and I might not have gotten everyone’s attention but I know I tried.
And I know the nervousness I felt before and during the speech.
I felt like fainting on the stage.
But I stayed through those torturous two minutes which felt like an eternity.

Public speaking is something that had been on my vision board for two years now, and finally getting that opportunity felt unreal enough.

Now I think of it, it actually wasn’t that bad and I think I might’ve enjoyed one of my speeches.

I don’t know what the others thought of me, but I do know that 9 year old Jia would definitely be so proud of me standing up in front of all those strangers older than me and giving a speech!

In my third grade history class, my teacher would call out children to read from the textbook and I’d always used to be trembling by the time it was my turn.
I was too scared to read from the book in front of my classmates, and today I just gave two speeches in front of people I barely recognised.

That is improvement. And it feels so great to look back on.

I know this is just the start.
I know I’ll get better and better at it, because I won’t stop just yet.
Not until one day, the older version of me will look back at me presently, and think that I would be so proud of her.

Giving that speech was hard, but I don’t think everyone would get that.

“It’s just a speech!”

But to me, it was everything.
It was proof that all you have to do is try.

Because trying and failing will always be better than not trying at all because you were too scared to fail.

To fail is to succeed.

I believe our worst critics are ourselves. We judge ourselves way harshly than the rudest judge sitting in the corner. A little kindness to yourself does sometimes feel self-obsessed but it goes a long way.

I also believe that people are much kinder than you think.
If you’re really nervous, just casually tell the crowd that you are. They will be way more supportive than you think.
Once you get that out of your chest and start speaking with ease, you’ll start getting the flow and do well.

Your first time is not all about confidence. No one is born with confidence. Confidence is built, and your first time is to build that in you.

Remember you’re not performing for them.

You’re performing for the little version of you in the crowd who’s smiling proudly, busy in admiration.

Thank you for reading! I hope this article could help you maybe even a little. Wishing you the best in your future endeavours!

We are finally on social media.. Come say hi…

Subscribe and follow our official social handles on Instagram | X | Facebook.

Feel free to mention / tag us on these social platforms whenever you want to promote or collaborate on your content. We love watching you grow with this community.

This story published on “Pen With Paper” — a fresh space where writers bring their thoughts, stories, and ideas to life. Want to share your voice? Join our community, and together, “We Elevate Your Stories”

Pen With Paper Submission Guidelines 2026 : A Brand New Way to Be Added as a Writer

My First Time. was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It’s my favourite lyric in one of my favourite songs, I 100% recommend listening to Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls.

It reminds me of movies like titanic, and this life we live.

Heard of that line, ‘it’s too good to be true’? It’s actually sort of sad that that’s the kind of world we live in but it’s true.

When things are going too good, something just falls apart and everything feels like it’s ruined. Or sometimes we pretend things are going too good and it will therefore end to soften the impact of disappointment we feel after it falls apart.
We end up becoming the reason of our own downfall.
We ruin the moment of ‘things are going good’ by adding a ‘too’ before the ‘good’.

But what defines ‘too good’? Is there a line that one crosses for things to be ‘too good’? Is it that one becomes jealous of their own happiness?

It sounds absurd, but I can’t find another reason.

I am jealous of my own happiness.
I’m scared that I won’t find that happiness ever again, and I’ll have to live vicariously through this moment, that is going to become of my fondest memories, that I forgot to live in it at all.
I’m jealous of the version of me that lived in those memories.

Because honestly, I don’t think there’s a feeling worse that nostalgia. It creates this kind of pit in my stomach because I know I’ll never be able to be there at that moment ever again no matter how much science evolves. There are quite a few moments in our lives if we’re lucky that does feel like the movies. Dancing in the rain, a dramatic love confession, sitting on a plane seat watching a city from above. It’s like you’re wearing a pretty outfit and you feel really good about yourself, and later on when that feeling fades, you start feeling so weird about yourself.

There’s a fine line in being alive and feeling alive. Feeling alive doesn’t have to mean feeling happy, it means being in touch with your emotions. And so I believe doing what makes you alive is an integral part of being human which I hope we never lose.

Life isn’t supposed to be like the movies. It’s not supposed to be all sunshine and rainbows.

It’s to be alive and to feel everything deeply.

Maybe the tiny movie-like moments are supposed to be tiny. To show us what it truly meant to be alive, and then drag us back to the reality.

Thank you for reading!! I hope you could truly feel this article because that was my aim. 💌

This story is published on bloody sweet writers — where the new generation of storytellers redefines creativity. Here, words pulse with passion, imagination knows no limits, and bold ideas take flight. Want to share your voice? Join our community and be part of something bloody sweet! 🚀

Bloody Sweet Writers — A Publication

when everything feels like the movies, yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive. was originally published in bloody sweet writers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Paris has always been considered the city of love and the moment you step into it… nothing just instantly changes. I expected the air to stink of cute couples kissing (french kissing) everywhere. . But it wasn’t like that, I mean there were couples but it was so much more than just that.

So many different people from all over the globe all those saved up their hard earned money just to visit the city that I am in now. Someone’s first honeymoon, someone making their dream come true, and someone showing their parents how far they’ve made it.

It never fails to amaze me how us humans behave. We crave for love and attention for people we love. We smile at compliments. We cry at sad movies. Humankind has come a long way, but emotions have never changed in millions of centuries.

I believe it is these emotions and the ability to express them that actually makes us humans greater.

Everyone in Paris had a different story but we all clapped when the Eiffel tower sparkled, saw our dreams come true. We all got excited for a proposal we witnessed. We all danced the night away with strangers. And that makes me think of all the good this world has. I guess people were right, when they said travel the world to see the good in the world and watch the news to see the bad. It reminds me that life isn’t so bad and you’re actually really blessed.

Each street witnessed more history than we could comprehend. The lock bridges holding more love than locks. The great Eiffel tower that stood through all seasons. Paris was something I don’t have enough words for.

The city had a different air not because of just couples but that everyone here feels more as to the fact that they have made it here. and I guess I don’t quite understand that because well this wasn’t my hard earned money it was my parents. But I do feel extremely proud of them. They’ve made it in life. And hopefully so will I. For now, it was so fun to see the city of love and it is surely beautiful.

And so Paris felt different. It felt nostalgic because I was last there at the age of seven. It was fun because of my crap french and the universal language of sex sevennn. I needed no translator. They might call Paris overrated, but I will strongly disagree. Yes, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows but it is sunshine and rain.

Paris and me still have some unfinished business, I know we’ll meet again. And maybe that time I’ll feel nostalgic again about this time. What a wonderful thing it is to crave for your own memories again. What a wonderful thing to have such memories.

Thank you so much for reading!! I haven’t written in a while because I was on vacation but I’m surely back. Thank you for staying! 💗

📌 This story is published under Quirky Rants — a home for unfiltered thoughts, everyday oddities, and real, relatable voices.
Want to share your story too? Join us here.

Quirky Rants — A Publication!

Paris — The City of Love was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This is what love feels like

To be in love,
is to have a mind running miles inside,
imagining me in places unknown, a bride

Perhaps a secret garden of flowers,
bright and loud,
away from the crowd,

Or the Palace of Versailles,
it’s a place for sure,
more beautiful than dreams I never dared to dream

It is to be a girl so whimsical,
to be atypical of what I was,
to run in a field of daisies in a pretty yellow dress,

The sun lifting the sky,
the moon sinking with the birds ready to fly,
love is a sunrise, that I do believe,

To be in love is to laugh and to cry,
tears I never asked for in my eye,
with sounds of my laugh echoing through the hall,

A warm hug in the storming cold,
a safe harbour to completely unfold,
to worry about nothing and everything at once,

To be in love is to listen to a song,
and realising love isn’t wrong,
it’s just the person that was,

To be in love is to understand,
love isn’t just for a boy in a band,
but in everything you see,

It’s in the clouds raining,
and the girl painting them,
white, hazy and lost in adoration,

It’s in the boy crying,
and the dog trying to play with him,
just to make him smile once,

For love is in everything,
in every guitar string,
and in every word.

thank you so much for reading! I know I haven’t been regular with my writing but your support will mean everything to me.
PS: this was written at 2am while listening to Olivia Rodrigo’s new drop.

📌 This story is published under Quirky Rants — a home for unfiltered thoughts, everyday oddities, and real, relatable voices.
Want to share your story too? Join us here.

Quirky Rants — A Publication!

To Be In Love — was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

After a long day, the only thing we crave for is to go home.

Home is a place of comfort and warmth, a place that doesn’t ask of us anything and just listens to words you don’t need to speak out.

Home isn’t the four walls we live in, it’s the people we love and those who love us. Just like our home, nostalgia is never about the place, and always about the memories.

It’s the people make a house a home.
A warm home you can always come back to.
Fortunately we each have a place we call home, but only a very lucky few have a person we call home. The person could be your best friend, your parents, your sibling, your grand parent, it could be anyone.
And it could depend on the situation.
Sometimes all I need after a day is a hug from my father or to just sleep in my mother’s lap. And sometimes I just want to crash into the arms of my best friend or complain about life to my favourite teacher.
And if you have that someone in your life, you should be grateful. Make an effort for them just the way they do for you — because they deserve it.

But sometimes home doesn’t feel like a person, it could be your favourite show, your favourite book or your hobby, or something you are attached to, that you call your safe space.
Writing for example was a hobby I had somewhat forgotten about in midst of life. I’m sure you might have a childhood or teenage hobby that you loved but left it when life hit hard.

When I went back to writing, it felt, it still feels like something about it tells this is what makes me me. This is made for me.

Something that reminds you of the same warmth, the same comfort. That doesn’t overstimulate you but comforts you, understands you even without explaining, and when needed challenges you.
The one that always takes your side when no one else believes you.
The kind that gently rocks you to sleep to your safe place.
Where you can just be you, without any restrictions.

thank you for reading, hope this article reminded of your home! 🪷

📌 This story is published under Quirky Rants — a home for unfiltered thoughts, everyday oddities, and real, relatable voices.
Want to share your story too? Join us here.

Quirky Rants — A Publication!

Home isn’t a place was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Jack of all trades, master of none is a commonly used 17th century quote we’ve all seen. The ending is something that remains hidden from most. And I believe it is rightly said, it is indeed often times better than one.

A narrow expertise in one topic will help you connect people who have knowledge of only that one topic. A generalist can connect anyone who has even a bit of knowledge of any of his topics.

A master will have expertise, will be respected by the society. A jack of all trades might not have expertise in one topic, but they explore everything. On that journey of exploration, is where you find yourself.
Your true self.
One you cannot know of unless explored.
You’ll find out your likes and dislikes, your strengths and advantages. That is what differentiates jack of all trades from the crowd. Because pursuing one mastery is great but having the strength to pursue many even if only scraping the ground is even better.

Mastering one skill is great.
You have expertise in one field and can apply that knowledge where needed. And it is supposedly the one easy path to success. But the truth is there is no one path to success, and there is no path that is to be easier than the others. Each path has it’s own hurdles, and it’s own advantages.

Just being a master of one does not guarantee success, neither does being a jack of all trades. But one is open to new concepts and ideas while the other may not be, because they didn’t explore everything.

No conventionally right path will lead you to your success.
It is the path that rightly fits you that is the right path.
And to find that, you need to explore the unknown.
The unknown about yourself.

Some think of jack of all trades, master of none as an insult for their lack of focus, attention, and depth. Lack of depth is something I agree. One cannot have expertise in several different skills in a lifetime. However, this is not about lack of focus or lack of attention. This is about curiosity. This is about learning for the joy of learning. Which I think some of us have forgotten.

I believe it’s a big compliment. A recognition of your versatility, adaptability, and creativity. It makes you stand out. Makes you your own person. A special, one of a kind person, because you could lose everything but your skills. Whatever that skill may be, it’ll always stay with you.

If there’s one thing I want you to take away from this piece, it’s that your skills are your most important assets. Something you can’t lose.

Act like you own your skills because you do.

thank you for reading, hope this was helpful! 🌷

📌 This story is published under Quirky Rants — a home for unfiltered thoughts, everyday oddities, and real, relatable voices.
Want to share your story too? Join us here.

Quirky Rants — A Publication!

Jack of all trades, master of none was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The moon was alone,
Lonely with no one to call his,
Lived a life of shadows,
Sneaked out one night,
Just enough to see the day,

He saw the people rise,
The farmers smiling,
The babies crying,
The chickens crowing,
And to him, it felt so lively.

Lost in a reverie of the glamorous life of the day,
Interrupted by the thoughts of getting caught,
He went back unwillingly,
And stumbled upon the sun,
Apologising for his rendezvous,

And ready to escape,
The sun held him close in an embrace,
The moon pulled away, addled,
“I overshadowed your light!” the moon cried,
“I’ve always wanted to meet you!” the sun exclaimed,

Polar opposites met in the beauty of the sky,

The sun met the moon,
The moon met the sun,
Just for a while,
Before they went back to their own ways.

This story is published on bloody sweet writers — where the new generation of storytellers redefines creativity. Here, words pulse with passion, imagination knows no limits, and bold ideas take flight. Want to share your voice? Join our community and be part of something bloody sweet! 🚀

Bloody Sweet Writers — A Publication

the eclipses was originally published in bloody sweet writers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.