'Dear Delulu Me
What’s the best thing about getting ready? It’s not a selfie. Surely not the light fragrance from my tinted sunscreen.

It's the skill I have. Colour coordination, matching heels with my dresses—also, compliments. I can be a great makeup artist.

But hold my mascara. And don't call yourself delusional for this thought. If I became an awesome makeup artist?
People won't argue when I choose the perfect lipstick for their black party dress.

My friends always ask my opinion first and then deny it. They can apply that coffee colour lipstick and regret it later.
My artist name would be Miss Crystal. Cool. Better than Shivi.
And I would have a collection of nail paints and lip glosses. Earrings too. Of course, how can I forget bracelets?

And...I am off to buy a new lip gloss. I lost the old one. Bye!'

Shivi laughed, reading her diary. Her red pen was resting between her fingers—notebooks of students stacked up on the nearby table.

Her teacher ID card was peeking through her purse. Books were adjusted on the shelves. Group photos with students were hung on the wall.
Receipts of rent and electricity bills were tossed on the sofa.

Shivi glanced at her reflection: dry lips and hair tied in a braid. Specs perched on her nose.
"Miss Crystal was surely delusional." With a small smile, she placed her diary between her college books.
Before taking the notebooks, she glanced at her old photo. She was laughing with her friends near a mall and holding a small bag of makeup.

— — — —

Thank you, 🌸Preeti Pathak🌸, for this challenge prompt. I really loved it.

For the dreamers, the overthinkers, and those who have a little too much imagination. Enter your Delulu Land, give your imagination a story, and share them with Write Your World. Reality can wait.

Welcome To My Delulu World🏰 — A Writing Challenge

Welcome To My Delulu World — A Writing Challenge was originally published in Write Your World on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I would fly and sit on the branch in front of his room.
I would gaze at how he ignored his personal diary and pen. When did he switch to the Notes app on his laptop?
And when did he start drinking coffee instead of tea?
Why isn’t he playing his favourite songs now? I don’t want to listen to the rustling leaves.
I wonder when he’ll replace the dead plant. It’s been months, I guess.
How about I peek into his phone? He had messages from his family. Proud parents. His younger siblings seemed relaxed. Why did he seem exhausted?
But oops, I got caught in his quilt. Why was his quilt left unfolded? It wasn’t folded as usual.
He just noticed that a pigeon had come in. He got up to help.
His eyes haven’t changed. Yet, how can he hold the sun and moon in his eyes?
Now, he’ll leave me on the window, waiting for me to fly away.
Suddenly, it started raining.
Is it necessary to leave without gazing at how beautiful the rain still looks in his eyes?

— — — — —

Title: Change. was originally published in The Gravity on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

(4)

Part B
"Oh damn, we forgot about Shawn's performance," Asher said, looking at the time on his wristwatch.
"And I didn't give him the quote to read," Fion sighed.

They arrived at the café. Shawn was playing the cello, and the hall was filled with university students.
The waiters were busy serving coffee and cakes.

"You two are very late," Nevan said, walking towards them.
"Is his performance going to end?" Asher asked.
"Yup. And, Fion, I gave him a poem, but it was a bit old. You weren’t here; I thought I'd help you," Nevan smiled.
"What? Are you freaking crazy? That's the cringiest poem I've ever written!" Fion placed his palm on his forehead.

"Please be quiet," a student said. The others glanced at them before returning to their work.

They sat at a corner table. Fion briefly glared at Nevan before lowering his head.

"Sorry, bro. But don’t worry. It's just a poem," Nevan said with a nervous smile.
"That was a long poem. Everyone would have found it boring," Fion sighed.

The three of them watched Shawn play the cello. His eyes were closed. The café was hushed.

After a few minutes, the music stopped. Shawn took a piece of paper from his black trench coat.

He adjusted the mic and read:

"Poets write about a night of waiting and hoping to meet their muse.
I write about the nights, seasons and years of waiting.
But how do I write about the privilege of being around you?
By paying that debt at night, and waking up to another morning alone."

The students applauded. Shawn stood and bowed. The students began packing their bags.

"That was a short poem," Nevan said as Shawn walked towards their table.
"I only read the last part. Here." Shawn handed the paper to Fion.
"Thank God!" Fion took a deep breath.
"But you should read your poems as well," Asher suggested.
"My voice isn’t good. People would cringe..."
"Whatever. You're stupid," Nevan interrupted.

Shawn smiled at them and said, "Guys, remember, our group performance is in a week."

— — — — —

Winter Rain was originally published in Beyond Lines on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Ghosts are not the scariest.

If your parents woke up at midnight while you’re watching cartoons, it’s scarier than ghosts.
A ghost in your home?

Play some comedic music. But no music can save you from your mom’s flying slipper.
My new definition of adulthood: it can make you laugh with ghosts and a new fear of real life.
So, apart from the wasps, uncertainty is the scariest for me.
Not the uncertainty of finding some forgotten money in your hoodie pocket.

Uncertainty is scary when you lack trust in the universe.

What if you won’t be able to meet that one person?
You’re left with a handful of memories and a playlist of sad songs.
Or uncertainty can make you doubt your prayers.

I was relieved 10 minutes ago, and now I am pacing in my room.
A fear of losing genuine friendship because life and uncertainty love melodrama.
Also...
*Drums*

The cost.

Meeting a ghost will cost you or your loved ones your life.
Uncertainty will cost you, throwing you into darkness, where you will learn to hope for light.
Bad news: I am not friends with either ghosts or uncertainty.

— — — —

Thank you a lot to Meta Marvelia. Sriram Yaladandi. Rishita Sharma💗 . 🌸Preeti Pathak🌸 for this awesome challenge.

For the bravest writers. For those whose fears go beyond ghosts. Confront them by writing them in Pen With Paper. Only if you dare.

Things I’m Scared of More Than Ghosts — The Writing Dare

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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

Things I’m Scared of More Than Ghosts — The Writing Dare was originally published in Pen With Paper on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Writing can be passion, grief, or creativity. It has many shades, like the colour blue.
But re-reading a story I wrote two years ago? That takes courage- and a place where no one can hear me judging myself.

Or staring at a blank page because, last night, my abandoned story was haunting me. I remembered, "Oh, I once planned this whole story."
It's not written yet, and I went to sleep.
I just realised that a poem has been rotting in my notes app for months. It is waiting to be posted.

Honestly, writers like me write less and think more. We breathe less and overthink more.

Maybe not everything needs to be written or published. My stories could portray me as a depressed potato or a rookie criminal.

I promise, I am normal.
I just might write and post stories after improving them.
It’s hard to believe I wrote them; I wonder what type of spirit possessed me?

And the best celebration for a writer is publishing the stories their younger self once dreamed of.

They won’t believe that damn... people read my words.
But the best celebration is chocolates. No doubt.

A big thanks to Meta Marvelia and Rishita Sharma💗 for this wonderful opportunity.

Nope. Don’t think too much. Open your draft and write down things that you might do. And submit it to Quirky Rants. Be quirky. Be ordinary. Be real! Have fun!

I Just Might — A Writing Challenge

📌 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!

I Just Might — A Writing Challenge was originally published in Quirky Rants on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

(4)
Part A
Asher woke up to the doorbell ringing. He went to open the door, half-asleep.
"You took so long just to open the door," Fion scoffed.
"Morning, Asher," Aneira and Katie said together.
"What the heck? Why are you guys here?" he asked in a high-pitched, almost scared voice.
"We’re going for a walk, and you’re coming with us,” Fion said.
“Around five a.m.?” he checked the time.
"Come on. Remember how we used to drag each other out like this back in the old days?” Aneira said.
"Here. Get ready. You’ve got a minute.” Fion held out a black jacket.
Asher nodded and walked toward the bathroom.
After a while, they were walking down the road. The fog was thick; even a nearby tree was barely visible.
"Whoa, it’s really cold. I was sleeping so peacefully,” Asher said, trembling.
“Lazy. I feel like we’re teens again,” Katie said.
“Yeah, but I wish our other friends were here too." Aneira rubbed her palms together.
Fion was walking casually when he noticed an empty apartment.
“Remember when we randomly went into empty apartments, hoping to see ghosts?" he chuckled.
“Oh yes, and then we found out that they were regular apartments," Katie said.
"We were just stupid kids." Aneira smiled.
“And some are still stupid, right, Fion?" Asher asked.
“Shut up."
"Oh, by the way, the quote Nevan read was so good,” Aneira said, complimenting him.
“Well, actually, Fion writes quotes. This creature just lets us read them,” Asher said.
“Oh.” Aneira stopped, and the others did too. She looked at Fion for a second.
“How’s Isabel?" she asked softly.
“Who?" Katie asked, confused.
Fion’s eyes flickered, and he gulped hard. He paused before saying anything.
"Fion’s girlfriend; they were together in high school. How did you remember her?" Asher asked quietly.
"I...don’t know. It’s sudden. I just remembered he had a girlfriend for three years,” she whispered.
“She... Isabel died in an accident before our final exams. Before I...started writing quotes and playing the violin." Fion looked away.
"I am so...sorry," Katie said.
Aneira put her hands in her pockets, lowered her head, and started walking again.
"I also forgot about her too, like Katie. Fion, I am sorry,” Asher said, walking beside him.
"It’s just...alright. I once told you guys I had a girlfriend in Truth or Dare. Don’t overthink it.” Fion ran his fingers through his hair. They barely spoke after that.

— — — — —

Winter Rain was originally published in Beyond Lines on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

You’ve so much to talk about, and it’s not there.
Just you and a letter from the moon, it left days before disappearing.
It told you about your lover, that they avoid the sunlight that used to make their eyes glow.
Flowers in your lover’s town talked about how the lover just smiles these days. But doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look happy.
Clouds wrote in the moon’s letter about the line of tears in the lover’s eyes. They don’t cry.
Breeze touched your face and whispered that your lover usually stayed quiet.
What would you do with that ache? Now, would you talk to stars? Or just go to sleep?

But I guess your shadow would sigh. It'll explain that your lover stayed awake these nights. They won't meet you in your dreams.

— — — — —

Title: When Moon Is Absent was originally published in The Gravity on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

(3)

Asher was playing the piano, but he kept pressing the wrong keys.
The soft melody was being interrupted by a sudden loud noise. He sighed and closed his eyes.

He remembered her. She was smiling- a gummy smile. She was walking in the garden; sunlight fell on her face.

But then, he heard footsteps. He shifted his gaze towards the door. Nevan, his friend, was there.

"What are you doing here?" Nevan asked.
"Nothing. Just practising a little." Asher replied. And then asked, "When will your performance start?"
"In a couple of hours."

Nevan stepped inside and took a seat beside him.
"Are you thinking about her?" He asked.
Asher nodded.
"She is in our town. You could... at least tell her how you used to feel."
"Yeah. She is married, stupid." Asher chuckled.
"What are you guys talking about?" Fion appeared.
Both were startled by his sudden appearance. Fion was rubbing his eyes while holding a paper.

"What are you? A ghost? Make some noise at least." Nevan said.
"Shut up. By the way, read this quote after your performance." Fion extended the paper towards him.
"Why are your eyes red?" Asher asked.
"I didn’t sleep well. Just trying to write something," Fion replied.

Then, he looked at the clock. "Asher, you could ask Katie. If she and Aneira wanted to come," he suggested.

"I didn’t have Aneira’s contact, so yeah, I had to message Katie," Asher mumbled.
He took his phone and typed.

"I am going to do a little practice." Nevan stretched his arms and walked outside.

A few hours later.
Aneira and Katie reached the café. Fion helped them get a table. They walked across the crowded hall. A table was reserved near the music stage.

"Where is Asher?" Aneira asked.
"He is coming. And Nevan’s performance is going to start," Fion replied.
"Sorry, I am late." Asher arrived with a small smile. He pulled up a chair.
"It’s fine." Aneira smiled as well.

Then, Nevan entered with his guitar. He sat in his seat and inhaled softly.
For a while, the café was filled with his music and the audience’s smiles.
He was humming while playing the guitar. Even the waiters glanced at him while serving their orders.

After a few minutes, Nevan’s fingers stopped, and he held the mic. He looked at the paper and read the quote:
"While living in the ruins of your memories, I tried to tell you something through my music. But when you’re actually in front of me, I want to confess. Still, I only want to see you. What if you disappear again?"

The audience applauded, and he smiled. Asher looked at Aneira; she was clapping with a small smile.

— — — — —

(This chapter really takes a long time. I hope that’s okay.)

Winter Rain was originally published in Beyond Lines on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What happened after you left?
Nothing.
Nothing happened at all.
Life is moving along, at least.
I still laugh.
Still try to fulfil my dreams.
I live a little. I write a little.

What doesn't happen after you left?
Nothing feels good.
My heart cannot escape sinking into emptiness.
Into a void where I couldn’t remember your voice.
Not a single day goes by without 'if only' and 'oh well'.
But that's okay.

And what about me?
I am known as silence after your laughter faded away.
If your memories were the ink, I am a paper soaked by it.
A story of you, something you left before leaving.
 — — — — —

Title: Absence was originally published in The Gravity on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Let’s stay in the artistic world and talk about you—someone who gave inspiration to an artist.
Or you want to give inspiration to an artist.
Maybe you started being a muse.

Maybe you know that you're a muse. Or maybe you don't know.

If you don’t know, then it's fine.
How about we assume that you know that someone dedicated a painting to you? Or maybe a song?

Isn’t it exciting? Did you feel your pounding heart? I think you're smiling right now.

But did anyone tell you about the hidden warnings? No? Well, I am here for it.

Right now, you’re living a colourful life; they’re trying to imagine how to draw you in a garden of orchids.
And they're probably crashing out.

Your eyes, smile or even your black wristwatch; these are distracting them. If one day, the artist is sad about something.
They'll remember your eyes, and they're done. Not sad anymore.

I guess this is quite a predictable warning. Umm...maybe details and perfectionism aren’t.

As a writer, I am confirming- it's a bad combination.
I picked up a pen in the morning. Thought about you (as my muse).
Analyse how to write that one incident flawlessly. And put the pen down.
Zero words.
And just thinking about you for the rest of the day.
Oh, this is predictable as well.

I have another one left, and you're allowed to ignore it. This might hurt you.

If you find yourself in every poem of theirs, then, great, you become a part of them.
Even if it's been years and you're far away.

If the artist lives without their muse, they connect the muse with the world.

They might be complaining about you to a random cloud on Monday before work.
Or filling the silence by remembering your voice.

Also, if you somehow summon yourself in front of them. I guess, you know what would happen.

But in real life, you might not be able to meet them. They sat alone at night.
Maybe stare at the stars, because the moon isn’t always there.

I hope you don't know that you're an artist's muse. Don't try to find yourself in the stories they wrote.
Pro tip: They'll write about you, not your name.

Meanwhile, the artist might be busy, thinking about your current favourite colour.

Or thanking the universe that once, they got the chance to sit beside you for more than a day.

— — — — — — —