We sat on a train bound for somewhere we had never been. It was our first time on this journey.

No one spoke to anyone. We were all just there, listening to the steady rhythm of metal against metal. The sound of the train filled the silence between strangers who shared nothing but the same direction.

On this train, an elderly man sat next to me. At first, he murmured to himself, and I assumed he was lost in his own mind, speaking to no one in particular. But then he turned to me, and I realised I had unknowingly become his audience.

He said, “I turned seventy last night, no one to celebrate with. I celebrated it alone, in my small apartment.”

“Happy belated birthday,” I told him, offering the only thing I could in that moment.

“Thank you,” he replied sharply, and we fell back into silence, then he broke it again, “Aren’t you curious why an old man like me had no one to celebrate seventy years with?”

Truthfully, I wasn’t curious until he asked, then out of the newly formed curiosity, I asked:

“Why?”

He was happy to share his sad story as though he had been waiting for someone, anyone, to ask.

He told me he lost his parents at thirteen. Life was hard from that point on. It was survival first, everything else second. Still, he loved. “Seven times,” he said, with a faint, almost ironic smile.

The first was when he was fifteen. He loved her deeply, but she did not love him back. The second came at seventeen, young, naive love he thought would last forever, but didn’t. They broke up a year later.

At nineteen, he met another lovely girl, swore she was the one he would marry, but they didn’t even last six months.

Then at twenty-two, he met another amazing woman, got engaged to her at twenty-three, but she left him at twenty-six.

“Don’t blame her, she was a good woman. But I was young, reckless, and stupid.”

He didn’t blame her for leaving; he blamed himself. Then continued by saying he spent two years alone after that, reflecting and trying to become someone better than the man he had been.

At twenty-eight, he met another woman. They married when he was twenty-nine, and for a while, life felt great again. But at thirty-five, a sickness took her from him, just like that.

“I swore I would never love again,” he said, looking down at his hands. “But the heart does not listen. It does as it pleases.”

At thirty-eight, he fell in love again. This time, it lasted. They built a life together, marriage, children, years filled with love and happiness. He spoke of them like someone describing a place he could never return to.

“Then, at fifty-seven…”

He stopped speaking. The silence that followed was filled with quiet sobs. I did not know what to do, so I looked away and let him have his emotional moment.

“I’m sorry. I…”

“There’s no need to apologise,” I assured him, “It’s okay,”

“Thank you, then I’ll continue my story,”

And he continued from what happened at fifty-seven. His wife and their two children went on a trip. He could not go because work held him back. He said he did not mind at the time. He was happy they would enjoy a good vacation.

But they never came back. There was an accident. A message delivered the news. No survivors.

He told me how he prayed, desperately and irrationally, that it was not them. That the car, the names, the details, anything had been a mistake. But it was not.

“And just like that,” he said, his voice thinning, “Everything I loved, gone.”

After that, life lost its essence. He quit his job. Days blended into nights. He spent his time alone, praying not for strength, but for an end. For what took his parents, wife, and children to please take him too.

But it never came.

Instead, months later, a neighbour who had quietly watched him endure those hard and lonely days asked if he would like to adopt one of the puppies her dog had birthed.

He said yes, and the dog became his reason to carry on. For years, they loved and kept each other alive. But even that did not last forever. He buried the dog five days before his seventieth birthday.

“So, on the night I turned seventy, I sat alone, just thinking about all of it. The people I loved. The life I’ve lived…” his voice trailed off, his eyes distant, as though replaying every memory at once.

“And I cried,” he added quietly. “For the first time in a long time. I cried. It has been a long journey.”

The train moved steadily on. Then he said something that made everything fall into place.

“I know where this train is going,” he murmured. “I went to sleep, and now I am here.”

I felt it then, the meaning of this journey. Where we were, where we were going.

“I am glad to be on it. This train, I’m glad to be on it,” the wayfaring stranger continued, almost peacefully now. “Because I will see them again. All my loved ones who have gone on,” he ended his story.

We fell back into silence, and the train kept moving.

This is a fictional story; got inspired to write this one while listening to "Wayfaring Stranger" by Johnny Cash. 🎶📚

Thank you for reading! Please clap, follow, and subscribe for more music-inspired fictional stories! ❤️📚

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No Time

Wayfaring Stranger was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Staggering out of where I met this devil again, I laugh at nothing.

My shoes scrape against the concrete as I drift toward the wooden bench beneath the flickering streetlamp to take a seat, the bench stiff and cold against my back. I pull out my phone, and for what seems like thirty seconds, I just stare at my reflection on the black screen; blurred, ugly, a man who swore he would never do this again.

A tap on the screen. A swipe up. Thumb hovers as I navigate to my contacts, scrolling past names I don’t recognise anymore. Past coworkers. Past old friends. And then there it is. Her name. Still saved as my lovely wife … I never could delete it.

I pause, then tap on it, and the old message thread opens. Unanswered messages that I always send to her on nights like this. Incoherent apologies mixed with pleas to take me back, and lies that I am now a better man. But I am not.

I’m still fighting battles against this devil, the same one that broke our marriage and left me with nothing but misery.

I was once happily married.

I used to go home early, drop my keys on the table, kiss my wife on the cheek, and lift my daughter into the air until she squealed with laughter.

Those were the good days, the best years of my life.

I don’t know exactly when the first crack appeared. Maybe it was work, maybe the pressure, maybe it was the bills and endless responsibilities, but it was something that created space for this devil on my shoulder.

One night after work, a coworker handed me a drink. “Just one,” he said. Just one.

The first sip burned going down, but it also made something in me relax. For a moment, the stress faded, and my head felt… lighter?

So I did it again the next day. Just one drink after work. Then two. Then three. Four. Five. Six. Many more.

Before long, I stopped going straight home. The bar became part of the routine. My coworkers talked more and laughed louder when we were drinking, and the nights started stretching longer.

When I finally returned home, I was never sober. My words came out slowly, and sometimes the room tilted a little when I tried to walk straight. Some nights, I collapsed onto the couch without even taking my shoes off.

Other nights, I didn’t make it home at all. I passed out wherever the night ended … on this bench, against a wall, once even on the pavement outside the bar.

One night, I walked through the door and saw the look on my wife’s face, and that was when it hit me what I had become: an alcoholic husband, an absent father.

“You’ve been drinking again,” she said quietly.

I tried to answer her, but my voice was shaky, and my words slurred together. I could barely stand straight, so even I knew there was no point pretending.

After that, I started missing dinner more often. Sometimes my daughter waited up for me, curled on the couch with sleepy eyes.

“Daddy?” she whispered when I stumbled inside.

I’d tell her I would play with her tomorrow, and on other days, I would struggle to even answer because the words wouldn’t form. And I’d just listen to her sob quietly.

One morning, my wife’s voice cracked while my daughter cried in the other room.

“This isn’t you,” she said.

I had no idea how to respond because I had slowly forgotten who I was. Who was I? Who was I before I gave this devil my life? I had forgotten who I was, but in that moment, I was an alcoholic, a terrible husband, and father.

Eventually, my wife called my mother. Not long after, my phone rang, and I heard my mother’s voice on the other end, filled with worry.

“Son, please stop drinking,” she begged. “Don’t ruin the good family you have.”

I told her I would stop. But I lied.

Years later, my wife sat across from me at the table, and her eyes looked tired in a way I had never seen before.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “You’re refusing to get help, and I can’t do this anymore.”

Later that night, our daughter held onto her leg while she packed their bags.

“Daddy?” she called again.

But I was too drunk to answer her properly. So I just sat there and watched them walk out the door.

And just like that, the best thing in my life ended.

I promised myself I would quit drinking, and for a couple of days, I actually did.

Then I relapsed. And tonight, sitting here outside this bar, I finally understand something cruel about this devil. It promises to take away your pain. But first, it takes everything else. My wife. My daughter. Even the good man I used to be.

Now I’m hunched on a bench at 12:30 am, fingers fumbling over my phone, typing half-formed, drunken messages to the woman who left me.

“Ill get help… plese come bacj. i will… i will i prommise…jus come back pls… i wil…”

I want to tell her I will become a better man, but I know the words are messy like the previous texts I’ve sent that she ignored. So, instead of clicking send, I delete the incoherent message because sending it would let her know I’ve been drinking again.

I’ll text her when I get sober, when I’m no longer a victim of this drinking problem. I’ll also call my mother, tell her that I’m sorry for the lies and the pain I caused her, and tell her that I never meant to turn out like my father. I’ll call my daughter too, and make amends after finding the courage to apologise to her mother.

It feels like it’s over, but lord knows I need another chance to start all over and love again.

So, when I get sober, I’ll get my act together. I will put my life in order and no longer be a victim of this devil on my shoulder, always there, leaning in close, giving my shoulder that soft, reassuring pat like a friend telling me everything will be fine while quietly pulling the good things out of my life.

One by one.

This is a fictional story inspired by the song “Sober” by Sauti Sol. 🎶

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No Time — Publication

The Devil on My Shoulder was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Before you give up on love, why don’t you try one more time? Just one more time, and this will be the last time, I promise.

Sometimes bad things happen to lead you to the good one. You were loved by the wrong people, multiple exes, but none of them was right for you.

I’ve only known you for a while, and it saddens me to hear you have given up on love. You gave up on love? Just right before the true one could find you. I understand we are two broken people, and that’s why I understand. I’ve been where you are, but after meeting you, my mind changed.

When you told me you wanted us to remain “just friends,” because once love comes in, things shift from being good to complicated, I felt it.

But I want you to change your mind; I wish you would change your mind.

Whenever we’re together, don’t you feel it too? That I might be the one your heart has been waiting for? Am I the only one who feels this way?

I don’t think so because you laugh at all my jokes, even the ones you know, and funny, I do the same too.

There’s a loneliness you carry; it’s a familiar feeling, one of the things we have in common. You also say it, that we have too many similar traits.

Listen, you can’t be just friends with someone who wants to love you. I want to love you. That’s what I want to do: to help you see true love still exists. To give us both what we’ve spent years searching for.

If you ever change your mind, I pray you will, I want you to know I’ll never do anything to make you cry. I’ve been through what you’ve been through, so I know better. What I gave to the people I used to love, but they failed to appreciate, I know you would treasure.

You are a very easy person to love, so it’s no wonder my heart chose you. Meeting you made me realise why my other relationships failed. It was for this reason, to meet you.

And I have met you, I never want to let you go.

I know you’ve been hurt so many times. I don’t blame you for saying, “I’m done with that stupid love thing,” for calling love stupid; you’re probably right about that. But you’re wrong to think you’re unlovable.

You’re not.

If you are, then explain what I’m feeling. How did I fall in love with you? It’s the honesty in your eyes when you speak, how you remember the little details, and your laugh. God, your laugh.

I want to make you happy forever, to heal your emotional fatigue and give you reasons to always laugh. If you’ll let me, if you’ll change your mind and give love another chance, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

I want to love you. I want to love the lonely out of you.

This is a fictional story inspired by Let Me Love the Lonely by James Arthur. 🎶

Thank you for reading. Please clap, leave a comment, and don’t forget to follow for more! ❤

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No Time — Publication

Let Me Love the Lonely was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This afternoon, at the pub where I went to drink my sorrow away, something happened.

I had been heartbroken the week before and heard this pub was where people went to drink the pain away. So, I went there.

Maybe it was because misery loves company, but walking inside on a Sunday afternoon and seeing other people who I was sure had also come there for the same reason made me feel a little better.

I ordered a pint of beer, but I was there to drink more than seven pints; I wanted to drink till the pain became numb.

Everyone at the pub looked like they didn’t want to return home. Even though it was a bright afternoon outside, everywhere was sealed, so sunlight couldn’t peer in, a good place to mourn the love we’ve lost.

Some brokenhearted people were already drunk, and mumbling to themselves about the one who broke their heart. Some cried as they sank another one down; it was no longer like a way out, but they drank like the way people do when they no longer mind shaving years off their lives.

I wondered what I would do when I was finally drunk. I was too curious, so when the first pint was served, I moved the glass to my lips, finished it in three gulps, and ordered the second one.

Just before I could get carried away in the thought of why I was there, a man shuffled up to the podium in smeared clown makeup; white face, a drooping red nose, darkened eyes that had begun to melt at the edges. A striped shirt clung loosely to him, red suspenders hanging over it, and a faded scarf knotted at his throat. His brown trousers were worn at the knees, one crudely patched, and his red socks peeked out as he moved. He looked drunk but not very drunk.

“What’s that man doing?” I wondered, raising the second glass to my lips.

Then, he started, “Oh ye who are drunk and brokenhearted, let me sing you a song.” He raised the half-drained bottle he held to his lips as if it were a microphone, gripping its neck with theatrical solemnity, “But before that, let me tell you a story,” he paused suddenly, lurching forward as if he might retch. A collective stiffness rippled through the room. We braced for it, but nothing came. The man swallowed, steadied himself. “Let me tell you why I’m here with all ye losers, drinking with a broken heart,” he continued, a crooked smile tugging at his painted mouth.

“And stupid old Joe over there,” he pointed to an old man who sat at a corner of the room with a face too red from all the drinking, “He says women come and go, but he’s been married three times now, so what the hell does he know?”

We laughed, and soon the pub went quiet, all eyes steadied on him. It was a rare sight to come here and find someone offering to tell their story and even sing on a day like this.

“This…” the man continued, staggering a bit as he dug his left hand in his pocket, “This,” he repeated and we all wondered what it was, “Look, this…” his voice dragged on this time, “This ring,” he expressed while opening a small black box, “This ring is the heaviest thing I’ve ever carried,” he started. “It has my lover’s name carved around it,” he paused, laughed, and pointed the ring to the audience as if we could see the name. “Her name?” he paused again, and his face broke into tears. “Her name.”

He didn’t tell us her name; he just continued his story of why he was there this afternoon. He had dated his lover for over seven years and was sure she was the one he would marry. Then, five evenings ago, as they walked the banks of the sea, he brought out the ring box to propose to her. He told us she always said she would love a proposal at the shore. So, he knew that was the perfect spot.

“Loving you has been the easiest, most certain thing in my life. I don’t want any more days that don’t begin and end with you. Will you marry me?”

The words he said to her, thinking he would get a big “Yes,” followed by tears and laughter. He got tears, but no yes, and no laughter. Instead, as he stood up from the kneeling position he had assumed, his lover took his left hand and placed it on her stomach; “I’m sorry, I’ll feel guilty for the rest of my life if I don’t tell you this, but in here is another man’s child.”

When he ended his story, we felt too sorry for him, and even though we all had our own stories to tell, ours are a little simpler than his. Mine? The breakup happened naturally; we outgrew each other and thought it was best to move on. But that sad man? I felt sorry for him.

“This ring with her name carved on it is the heaviest thing I carry. And now, my broken heart,” the man concluded his story.

Some people in the bar cried, either because they felt too sorry for him or because they found themselves in his story.

“Now a song for the drunk and brokenhearted crowd,” he said, gesturing the half-drained bottle towards the audience, “Raise it up for the broken hearts,”

“Cheers!!” we chorused.

The song lasted about 10 minutes, and I can’t remember the lyrics clearly. But I remember the chorus he made us learn, and by the end of the performance, we were all singing along with him.

When it’s closing time,

and they sweep us out the door,

we’ll walk into the lonely night,

hurting a little lesser than before,

cos this is how our healing starts,

in a bar with a stupid song,

and a room full of strangers,

who were lonely all along.

We loved hard and we’d do it again,

so raise it up for the drunk and brokenhearted crowd!!!

And when the sad man finished singing, he tipped back the bottle and drank down his last swallow, walked back to his seat, and faded off to sleep. But in his song, we found a small comfort we could hold on to.

This is a fictional story inspired by A Song for the Drunk and Broken Hearted by Passenger. 🎶

Thank you for reading. Please clap, leave a comment, and don’t forget to follow for more! ❤

The Sad Man Sings a Song was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

They attended the same school. He had had a crush on her for as long as he could remember.

Whether she knew he liked her or not, he wasn’t sure because he had never said it out loud. He only relied on the gestures, small actions here and there, the ones people in love assumed were enough to hint at romantic feelings without actually saying them.

All of his friends knew he liked her. He had told every single one of us. The only person he had never told in words was the one he was hopelessly in love with.

After many years of hesitating, he finally decided to end his five-year-long crush on February 14 by asking her to be his Valentine and his girlfriend. We were happy for him. He was almost certain she would say yes because of the gestures, the ones I mentioned earlier, signals people send when they like someone and hope it’s enough to reveal what their hearts feel. He believed she had given him those same signals, too.

So what could go wrong?

We were happy for him.

A few days before Valentine’s Day, he came to me for help to write a love poem that would convey his feelings to her. I was known for this sort of thing, the one who ghostwrote love poems for young guys and girls trying to impress their lovers. And I was always happy to do it because it made me feel like Cupid.

He also consulted another friend, one who had used the same method the previous Valentine’s Day and succeeded. That friend had asked his then-crush to be his Valentine and girlfriend, and she had said yes. He shared all the tips he knew, a list of gift items, and even the exact kind of flowers he bought.

I finished the poem in one night, giving the lover boy enough time to memorise the lines. He planned to recite it rather than hand her the paper.

“That’s more romantic, right? Or what do you think?” he asked.

I thought he was right.

Today is Valentine’s Day.

The gifts are ready. The lover boy has successfully lodged every line of the poem into his head. He has recited it ten times today, or was it fifteen? Multiple times. Too many times to count.

“You should all come with me, please. For emotional support,” he says, asking those of us who helped him in one way or another.

We agree and head to her classroom. When we get there, we notice a small crowd already gathered inside.

It doesn’t stop us.

He and the three of us who came to witness this moment, to clap and cheer when he finally succeeds, carefully move through the crowd, murmuring, “Excuse me, excuse me,” as we push past.

Then we stop.

The crowd is gathered around Sheila, the one we are here for.

She stands there with her hands over her mouth. Another guy is standing in front of her, holding a different kind of flower, a money bouquet, folded banknotes arranged tightly into the shape of a large flower, layered petal over petal. Small gold accents are tucked between the folds, and a soft pink wrapping holds it all together.

We know what is happening, yet we remain rooted to the spot, glued in place, watching the thing unfolding in front of our eyes, the cruelty of it pressing against our friend’s heart.

Our timing is both perfect and terribly wrong.

The moment we arrive is the exact moment another guy asks the question our friend has spent days rehearsing, for the same girl.

“Will you be my Valentine?”

Now we are standing here, jaws slightly open, anxiety pulsing through our veins, waiting to hear whether she will say “Yes” or “No.”

This is a fictional story! 📚 Thank you for reading! ❤️📚 Don’t forget to clap, follow, and subscribe for more! 😊

Also, Happy Valentine’s Day to those celebrating. Hope you have a great one! 💐❤️

Will You Be My Valentine? was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What I’m about to tell you is a secret I wanted to keep to myself, but I won’t. I will tell you.

Tonight, I saw a mysterious woman at that man’s grave. She wore a long black veil. She comes only once a year, always on nights like this. She’s standing there, crying, crying. She has been there for hours, weeping.

The man buried there, let me tell you how he died.

Ten years ago, on a cold dark night, someone was killed beneath the town’s hall light. Only a few people witnessed it, but they agreed on one thing: the murderer who fled the scene looked a lot like the man who lived in the golden house.

The man who lived in the golden house was, at the time, the noblest man in town. A figure of prestige. Admired, trusted, and praised so often that it became unthinkable that he could be capable of wrongdoing.

He was known for his intelligence, for sharing his knowledge freely, for speaking in ways that made people feel enlightened simply by listening.

“How would such a man kill another?” many wondered, but the eyewitnesses claimed that the man they saw at the crime scene looked a lot like him.

And so, when the words spread and the witnesses’ stories aligned, the police followed suit. An arrest was ordered; they brought him in at dawn.

The police did not agree among themselves. They failed to see how such a man of great dignity could commit a sin.

Something about the case felt arranged. The witnesses’ accounts aligned too neatly. The timing, the resemblance, the absence of motive that made sense, the evidence pointed to him, yet nothing truly held him there.

There was no proof to lean on. No cameras. No records. The town hall light had been shattered that night, and anything that might have told the truth had been destroyed along with it. All that remained were malleable things like words, and the people who agreed it was true.

Days passed. The accused nobleman grew thinner, though his posture remained composed. The emotions in his eyes had dimmed as if he had already decided how this would end.

This was a town where whoever killed would be killed.

On the last day of questioning, hours before the death sentence would be carried out, they brought the noble man in once more. The room was the same. The table was unchanged. Only the faces had altered.

Most of the younger officers stood back now. It was an old officer who sat across from him, one who had seen too many cases end badly because the truth had arrived too late.

The old officer truly believed the man was innocent and had been framed, so he leaned forward, placed a hand on his shoulder, and asked one last time:

“Son, what is your alibi? If you were somewhere else that night, then you won’t have to die.”

The noble man spoke not a word, though it meant his life. Because on the night of the crime, he had been in the arms of his brother’s wife.

And so he was sentenced to death. Ten years ago, that was how the man buried in that grave died.

At first, one might assume his silence was noble; that he kept quiet to protect the woman he was with that night.

But it was not her integrity he guarded. It was his own.

He said nothing because the truth would have undone the man he had spent his life being. He would rather be remembered as a murderer than exposed as a man who betrayed his brother. He chose a crime that could be punished over a shame that would live on.

Now the town knows the noble man who once lived in the golden house as a killer. But I know the truth. He was no murderer. He was a man who had an affair with his brother’s wife.

How did I come to know this secret?? I know because I was the real murderer.

Ten years ago, on that cold, dark night beneath the town hall light, I was the one who killed the person and fled. I vanished immediately I noticed he had stopped breathing.

It shocked me to learn the case had been closed so quickly, that the murderer had been caught, named, killed, and buried.

Curiosity came later. Then something darker. I wanted to know who had died in my stead; who had been given credit for my crime.

I look nothing like him. There was no resemblance that could excuse the mistake. Why the noble man was chosen, why the town allowed him to be framed and led to his death, I will never know.

But that is how I found out why the dead man died.

What happened on that cold, dark night? Nobody knows, nobody knows but me, and the woman who walks these hills on nights like this in a long black veil.

This is a fictional story inspired by the macabre folk song Long Black Veil by Johnny Cash. Thank you for reading. Please clap, follow, and subscribe for more … ❤️ 📚

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No Time — Publication

What Happened on That Cold Dark Night? was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Today, as I walked home from work, I caught a wisp of it again — that familiar scent.

Without thinking, I found myself wandering around, searching the crowd of small people — who was I looking for?

You.

The first and only woman who showed a man like me what it’s like to love and be loved.

I still remember the day we met like it wasn’t a long, long time ago. Something about you drew me in, and it was impossible to stop my heart from falling in love.

So, I did, naturally.

I still remember the three words I said to you the first night we met, “You smell nice,” and you smiled softly in response.

The familiar scent vanished as suddenly as it came, swallowed by the sweaty smell of bodies returning home after a long day of work, forcing me to stop searching. I stood there for longer than I should have, long enough for someone to bump into my shoulder and yell a mean: “Get out of the way! Standing there like a fucking moron!”

So, I kept walking. My eyes welled up for another downpour of tears. I’ve been crying a lot these days.

That first night we met still lives with me in fragments. Your scent. The warmth of the air. The awkward pauses between sentences. The nervous way my hands didn’t quite know where to rest.

After that, everything unfolded slowly. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. What started softly became strong. We fell in love. A year passed, two, then you moved in. We lived together for another two years. Your scent became mine too.

I returned home, the place we used to live, Stood at the door for minutes that felt like hours, unable to walk in.

Your presence is still with me; it can never leave. The corners of this house still smell like you, my love. I can’t bring myself to throw out the things you own, the ones that carry your scent. I still want them here, but I don’t at the same time.

What should I do? What can a man who has loved and lost do?

Even now, years later, your absence still has weight; it has made my heart home to a sorrow it can’t contain. I thought I was healing, but that passing scent reminded me my heart has yet to start its healing journey.

Will I ever be able to move on? Will I find someone who would make me forget you?

Nobody can take the place you live in my heart. No one can fix the hurt that has replaced the love we once shared. I resent the world so much that I sometimes no longer want to be here.

Every day, I’m tortured by your scent, by the sad memories, by the thought of what we could have been together.

Today would have been the day we would promise each other forever. I remember how excited you were when I proposed by the beach as we took a walk, and you said, “Yes, I do,” with that sonorous voice of yours. The best three words I’ve ever heard in my life. I was too happy to spend forever with you. I wanted to spend forever with you.

But life had other plans; it decided to cut our time short and take you where I’ll never see you again.

Now all that’s left for me is the memory of your scent and the sadness of how to forget you, how to continue living without you.

This is a fictional story inspired by the song Memory of Your Scent by Huh Gak. Thank you for reading. Please clap, follow, and subscribe for more ❤️

The Memory of Your Scent was originally published in Heartline Publications on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Babe, are you okay?” You asked. “Yes, I am,” I answered.

Another lie.

I’ve lost count of how many lies I’ve told you this week. But you smile and plant a kiss on my lips. You’re happy, I’m not. Had I told you the truth, had I been honest that I was not okay, you wouldn’t have smiled, you wouldn’t have kissed my lips.

You only love me when I lie. You only love me when I hide the way I feel.

I’m not sure how we got here, or has it always been this way? The version of me you fell in love with was not the real me. It was someone else, someone else who wore this shell of my body at the time. If you had met the real me, the true version, would you have loved me still?

I’ve been acting this role just to keep you by my side. How long can I continue this for? I’m tired. I’m very tired.

I’ve tried showing you who I am, once and never again. I tried being honest, but I told the truth once and never again. And when you met the real me, you had that look on your face like you couldn’t believe it. Like I had become unrecognisable, like I was not the innocent, laid back, yes-sayer woman you fell in love with.

On seeing this expression spread across your face, I quickly switched to this version of me. The liar. The one who is uncomfortable just to make you comfortable. Unhappy just to see you smile. And you love me, so much, this way.

I don’t think you’re cruel. That’s the hardest part. You don’t ask me to lie; you just love me so much when I do. You love the version of me that doesn’t complicate things, the one who doesn’t ask you for more than you can give. And I wonder if you even know what you’re doing, what we’re doing.

Some nights, lying beside you, I feel like a stranger in my own life. I replay all the times I said “yes” when I meant “no,” all the times I said “I’m fine” when I was anything but.

I didn’t know pretending to be someone you’re not could wear a person out this much. These days, I’m not sure what I feel when I see you. My heart becomes a blank slate, and my brain tries to come up with lies to soothe your simple heart. I tell myself it’s my little sacrifice to protect what we have. But why am I the one who has to sacrifice to protect what we both share?

My love, I walk on eggshells around you, every time I speak I worry I might mistakenly tell the truth and cause you to pull back. You can’t see the real me, but I see right through you. I pretend that everything’s alright, I’ve been pretending for a long, long while.

But tonight, I’m done pretending. I’ll show you my true self again, just like I did that day. I’m sick and tired of keeping all the hurt to myself.

If you only love me when I lie, then I’m afraid it’s time to leave.

This is a fictional story inspired by the song You Only Love Me When I Lie by Courtney Hadwin. Thank you for reading. Please clap, follow and subscribe for more. ❤️

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No Time — Publication

You Only Love Me When I Lie was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I have fallen in love.

Love is a feeling I’ve never been in, but now I’m deep in it, and I don’t know what to do.

I’ve never been a huge fan of romance. Why? Because it’s one of those unpredictable things that can change. I don’t like things that are unpredictable and can change. Things like… love.

Then I met him, and something in me shifted. I guess he did something to me.

It was at a friend’s birthday party that we first met. He walked up to me, started a small conversation, and it surprised me how much we had in common. A twin flame was ignited between us that night. We exchanged contacts, and even after we said goodbye, I was still thinking about him.

Then we kept in touch, and then we fell in love.

It’s been six months with him, and these days I find myself anxious. Extremely anxious. My heart is filled with love for him and fear, too.

Yesterday, for the first time, I got worried when I looked in his eyes that one day he might leave me, and it kept me up all night.

What if I can’t love him enough? What if I suffocate him with my love? How much is enough? How much is too strong? What if his heart suddenly changes? What if he falls out of love? What if I do? Will our happy romance have a sad ending? Or will it last forever? All these questions have been running through my mind.

And yes, I know, I know I shouldn’t be thinking so far ahead. I know I should just enjoy this moment and be glad to have him. But I can’t shake off this fear.

How much I love him scares me because I’m too afraid to make mistakes. Or what if he’s the one who would make mistakes? What do I do then? I wish there were a manual for love, a tested and trusted way to make it last forever and ever.

I…I don’t ever want this first love to end.

Even though he reassures me daily that we’ll be together for the rest of our lives. But what are mere words? The people who love and break up promised each other the same thing, too. Or maybe even more.

I can’t trust these words to stand the test of time. Well, I guess it’s a good thing when you want something so bad that you’ll do anything to keep it.

But how to make this first love last forever is what I don’t know.

He makes me laugh so much that I never want to cry because of him. I want our romance to last a lifetime.

Will this really be a forever love, or will it eventually end? I don’t know, but he’s my first love, and if he ever left me, that would be my first heartbreak.

This is a fictional story inspired by the song First heartbreak by Tori Kelly. Thank you for reading. Please follow and subscribe for more ❤️✨❤️

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No Time — Publication

Notes from the Heart of an Overthinker was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Alone within my cell tonight, my heart is filled with fear. The only sound within the room is the falling of each tear.

I think about the thing I’ve done, and I know it wasn’t right. If I could go back in time, I would have just walked away that night. But how could I have when my heart completely shattered at the sight?

What I witnessed was horrific; it was something no broken man should ever see. It’s still so clear in my memory, I could never forget it. How it made me feel was angry, and it’s why I did what I did.

Weeks before that night, I was a very happy man in love. She was my light, a woman sent to me from above. We had been together for two years, two good years that were free of tears. I loved her more than I had ever loved any lady. My love for her could never fade; it grew stronger and stronger daily.

Then, on one rainy evening, “I have something to say,” she told me. Nothing in her voice triggered my anxiety. Not until my eyes met hers, and I saw it. That she had found another man to replace me, and on that rainy evening, she said, “I’m leaving.”

I told her how I loved her, and I begged her not to go. But another man had changed her mind, so I said goodbye to my Flo.

That night, he came and took my woman; all I saw was his back. I wonder what his name could be: was it Andrew, Tyler, Jones, or Jack? I knew I had to find that man and take my Flo back.

Days later, many thoughts crossed my mind; being without her made me hate my life. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, then after a while. Another thought came to me, and it filled me with so much glee. “This is it!” I thought, “This is how to make my Flo come back to me.”

That night, I set out to have a drink or two. I needed it because I was so sad and blue. The alcohol tasted like my tears. I couldn’t believe she left me after all these years.

I was too drunk when I left the pub, walking home in tears, pain stabbing my heart’s hub.

As I walked by a dim café, I looked through the door. I saw my Flo with her new love, but his face was one I had seen before. I moved a little bit closer to be sure of what I saw; the man she left me for was my best friend, Bradshaw.

My heart felt like it was struck with a hot whip as I drunkenly took my pistol from my hip. It took a while, but I finally had the gun in my grip. My trembling fingers pulled the trigger, and pretty Flo was who the first bullet hit. And the next, my good-for-nothing best friend, I watched his head split.

I stood there, laughing, crying, crying, laughing, and my voice soon died under the loud police sirens. I was brought in, charged with murder, the first degree.

I’ve taken the life of the woman I thought would be my wife. I’m not very sad that I won’t see tomorrow’s light. Tomorrow, my pretty Flo will get her burial rites, but they’re hanging me tonight. I hope we can continue our love on the other side, but if we can’t, then maybe…maybe in my next life.

This is a fictional story inspired by the song They’re Hanging Me Tonight by Marty Robbins. Thank you for reading. Please follow and subscribe for more. ❤️💞❤️

They’re Hanging Me Tonight was originally published in No Time on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.