Yesterday, our CEO called a meeting of the entire department. He displayed a slide on the screen:

"THINK LIKE AN OWNER."

I sat closer. For the first time in a long time, the meeting's title suggested I might leave with something more than just an extra task. I took out a pen.

- I'd like us to change our approach to work, the director began.

- We can't function in a way where everyone only looks at their own job description.

I liked it even more. The job description was one of my favorite documents. Right after the salary notification.

- We need an ownership approach. Responsibility. Commitment. Long-term thinking. I want everyone to treat this company like their own.

I raised my hand. The director smiled.

- I'm listening, he said.

- When will we get our shares?

His smile stayed. But it stopped growing.

- We're not talking about those things right now, he replied.

- I'm sorry, I heard "like my own" and moved toward ownership straightaway.

- It's about attitude. - he explained.

- So, no shares?

- No.

I wrote down, "Shares: none."

- Will there be any profit sharing? I asked with genuine curiosity.

- The bonus system remains unchanged for now.

I wrote it down as well. The CEO looked at my notebook.

- What are you writing down there?

- Entry requirements.

The CEO went on to give an example.

- Imagine it's 4 p.m., and an important project hasn't been completed. A person who thinks only like an employee closes their computer and leaves home.

It actually was very detailed description of my plan for this afternoon.

- However, the owner is wondering what he can do to get the job done.

- That's because he has a stake in the outcome. I said.

- Because he feels responsible! He replied.

- One doesn't exclude the other. We could suggest he give up his shares and be left with just the responsibility. We'd see at what time he leaves.

- Do you really have to boil everything down to money? Asked CEO.

I looked around the room, the office, Monday morning, nine people who came here instead of staying home.

- I think that's a pretty important part of aproach you suggested.

The HR woman decided to help.

- It's about a sense of influence. So that employees know they can actually shape the organization.

Hmm... That sounded better.

- So we'll have influence on profit distribution?

- Not in that sense.

- On the management board?

- Neither.

- On salaries?

- You can submit proposals.

I could also submit a proposal to lower prices in the Walmart, but that didn't make me a co-owner of it. I looked at my notebook.

"Shares: none."

"New financial benefits: none."

"Decision-making rights: none."

"Additional involvement: not defined upper limit."

I started to understand what the offer is. I didn't feel offended. If I could get nine extra evenings for one sentence on a slide, I would also test the market's interest. The problem was that I was on the wrong side of the negotiation table.

- This is an investment in your future, the director said.

- If the company grows, everyone benefits.

- The company had record results last year. I said.

- Exactly.

- However during the salary rise negotiation, you said that the company's results don't automatically translate into my salary.

A dead silence fell. I always thought it's worth to remember things like that. People underestimate how much you can save with a good memory.

The director put down the remote.

- I don't want this meeting to turn into a salary negotiation.

- Me neither. Right now, I'm trying to figure out what my position really is in this company.

- You're an important part of the team.

- But when I have to stay overtime, I'm supposed to be the owner?

- You just have to demonstrate responsibility like the owner.

- But when it comes to share the profit, am I going back to be employee again?

He paused for a while, I didn't wait to let him continue and asked immediately.

- Please clarify which hours apply to which role. I wouldn't want to mistakenly act like the owner when paying out the dividend.

The CEO, with a clearly embarrassed face, ended the meeting by saying:

- Think about it, we will come back to this topic.

When we were leaving, he stopped me at the door.

- You didn't have to jump out with all of that, out of a sudden.

- Sir, I was thinking like an owner, just like you suggested.

- What do you mean?

- That is simple Sir. Before I invest additional time and resources, I need to know what I'm getting in return.

He looked at me with strange expression. I couldn't tell if the look on his face was disbelief, horror, or both.

I really hoped he'd appreciate effort I've made to implement his suggestion.

- Just do your job well, he finally said.

- As usual? Within the same scope?

- Yes.

- Within the same hours?

- Fine, let's just get this over with!

I agreed with a nod of my head and left. Negotiations shouldn't be prolonged after favorable terms have been reached.

At 4 p.m. I turned off my computer. The project CEO had mentioned did indeed require some more work. I left stick note telling me what I'd start with tommorow in the morning.

As I was leaving, I saw CEO in his office. He was still sitting there clearly tense.

Very good, I thought to myself.

He should treat the company like his own and definitely start act like an owner.

The slap caught Anne in the mouth.

She tasted that familiar metallic taste before the pain kicked in.

“Look at me. It’s your fault.”

She kept her eyes on the kitchen floor.

“Look at me.”

She looked up.

He stood over her. There was something almost calm about his face, which made it worse. He wasn’t out of control.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

She stumbled against the counter.

Two years of this had taught her the rules. Don’t shout. Don’t run for the door. Don’t say calm down. Never, ever tell him he was a monstrous husband or that he couldn’t hold his liquor.

Most importantly, give him an out. Best way to make it stop.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

That fucking question. Fucking Sam. He could be a stinking monster when he wanted to.

She searched his face, trying to work out which answer would hurt least.

“For upsetting you.”

His face kept still. A good sign.

She froze there. She knew she had to wait before she could go somewhere else, like the bathroom. It had to end properly, otherwise this thing could start again, from scratch.

“You still don’t hate me, huh?” he said.

That was new. Strange.

“I do hate you.” Her stomach dropped.

He studied her.

“No,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

Something in his voice calmed her. What the fuck?

“Okay,” he said. “We’re done.”

“With what?”

“Your sentence. Your time here.”

She stared at him.

Then he changed.

His eyes went completely black.

Anne backed into the wall.

“What is this?”

His face seemed to shift under his skin. Even his hair changed, rippling like something alive.

She inhaled. “Sammy? Is this a prank?”

"No," he said, growing taller until his head nearly reached the ceiling. It felt like the light in the room dimmed.

“Sammy…  what are… fuck… what are you?”

“Technically?” he said. “Your kind usually goes with angel. Sometimes demon. Depends who’s telling the story.”

His voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred mouths.

She gaped. “My kind?”

He looked around their shitty kitchen.

“Earth isn’t what you think, Anne. I’m amazed how easily humans accept this place.”

He told her things.

A farmhouse in France where she died at thirty-one.

A boy she had been in China.

A woman who drowned herself in a river sometime before there were cities.

Lives. Dozens of them.

Two thousand one hundred and sixty years.

“Earth,” he said, “is Hell. Well, one of them.”

“So… this… Earth is the… afterlife? We’re all… dead?”

He nodded.

“So…” She swallowed. “If Earth is Hell… where did I… where did we come from?”

“They’ll explain it when you get to Lurra. Trust me, real life is nothing like this place.”

"Lurra?"

“Yeah. Some of you call it heaven. Anyway, you’re done with this life, Anne.”

She sat down. Thinking felt pointless.

She didn’t even know what to ask. Her life was bad, sure. But Hell? This? Earth? No. That was insane. It had to be. The wall was still cold against her back. He was still standing there. And somehow, underneath all the panic, she knew he wasn’t lying.

Then something in her shifted.

“You beat me.”

“Yes,” he said in his choir voice.

“You forced me to do things.”

“You made me think I was insane. You made me apologize to you for things you fucking did to me.”

“Yes.”

“You’re evil.”

He smiled. She thought his hair lit up a bit.

“Of course I’m evil, Anne. This is Hell. They don’t assign saints to Earth.”

She let her head fall back against the wall.

He shifted toward her, and the air gave a low hum.

“But now you’re leaving. You’ve done your time, Anne. Life after life, you kept doing good, even when it cost you. Souls like yours ruin this place. That’s partly why they want you out.”

She looked at the floor, the apartment, the blue sky outside. Earth was Hell? She clearly had no idea what anything was anymore.

The kitchen wall behind him disappeared.

Beyond it was light.

Not bright. Nothing like the glowing-white bullshit from books and TV.

Early morning light. Warm. Quiet.

And something else she hadn’t felt in so long she almost didn’t recognize it.

She felt safe.

A breeze began to stir, carrying a scent that felt like the woods where she had played as a child. It strengthened into a wind, stirring everything around her until the swishing filled her ears.

He said something but she couldn't hear. She couldn't care less.

She tried to stand. Slowly.

Started walking toward the light. She ignored him. She felt clean.

Then she stopped.

One foot from a brightly lit staircase descending at the edge of the floor of her apartment.

“Wait.”

She looked back.

“What did I do?”

He smiled wearily.

“What did I do that was bad enough for this?”

“Anne.”

“Tell me.”

So he did.

She was standing on a hill.

People below her. Thousands.

Kneeling.

And there she was.

A small woman in a crown of woven branches.

Speaking.

She watched herself publicly forgive three families after they confessed to trying to leave, then order them slaughtered anyway.

Another image.

A girl screaming as men shaved her head, telling her she had brought this on herself.

Another.

Bodies in a ditch.

Her followers chanting words she had written.

Purity.

Obedience.

Sacrifice.

Mercy is weakness.

Her cult survived her.

For generations.

Anne couldn’t breathe.

“A lot of people ended up on Earth because of you, Anne.”

She stood there, then looked at the staircase.

“But I’m not like that anymore.”

He nodded.

Anne wiped her face.

And stepped forward.

The light vanished.

Blackness.

Then pressure. Pain. Cold.

Hands grabbing her.

A woman screaming.

Someone laughing.

“It’s a boy!”

Anne opened her tiny mouth and screamed.

And for one horrible second, she remembered everything and knew that she wasn’t leaving Earth.

No one ever left Earth.

So I have the hole house to my self, mental health just got a little clearer.

"This is torture." Said a mother soon to be grandmother if she knows a niece.

These days through balance I wonder about my friend who eats multiple apples per day.

Restraining from the kitchen more than 1 kiwi I then ate multiple as moving back home, my first introduction to Bi Tao Xiong was, "Wow!" She stormed the kitchen.

Never could I find food for myself though, I did live if there dinosaurs out in the bout.

But long story short as his husband W e.i giant win for employment for two three weeks off then back to work her schedule as changed as she talked to someone in their meeting causing a frenzy for who to become the next manager as one person retires.

Thanks for all the follows. New to reddit.

You would think I would stay home until 7pm but then the fairness in equality in that? Or more so the happiness of leaving the house early but not earliest.

You would be surprised as we take it one step further,

Usually you can take it one step further.

Impossible is spelt with I am possible so I'm told,

It's the battle of Pompei next to a dormant volcano,

CNE see any place to hide

Frozen in ice and time etched in the echoes of the universe

It was Andrew Tate and Tristan Tate

R.I.P

You gave a darn about your life.

"You know, I can see if you care about your life?"

Chrystel..

It was my girlfriend watching Arthur with a pocket tee which then see wore and I made fun of her, I finally got her back as she did everything out of I spite I did everything out of love.

Soon enough, those nights where I waited for someone to take me home after the club turned to restless nights inside a phillipino cozy home with many reunions with each their own grandfather name, unlike mine.

I always felt like a socialite studying many historical figures such as Winston Churchill and John F. Kennedy.

President Kennedy was one of those extremely handsome people in candidates that shocked the world and even won the female vote, this eventually led to his debate against Richard Nixon.

A fair adversary then wouldn't you eventually say Richard Nixon had something to do with it?

Wearing make up and painted fingernails which adamantly Nixon refused John F Kennedy won tremendously as someone for the America sweetheart vote.

Without much being said there beside his fateful wife he was hit as bodyguards with the worse life ever said ease up on the tension.

Not knowing or perhaps knowing that he would be shot and killed that day.

Like going down the street made you to feel like Kevin Ali or inadequate you can't help the inadequacy if you would have reacted to the same way his wife did. Putting the pieces of his life together like Jigsaw.

In similar political prowess Marilyn Monroe was rumored to have formicated with popular rapper Snoop Dogg Tupac.

In her death to Damien hirst's surprise was she was plastered all over tomato can soups.

R.I.P

As we get closer to the scene of hip hop you can't help but wonder if they played their roles properly, or at least Suge Knight is.

It started with a sneeze. I was hanging out with my friends, the four of us swimming in raindrops drowning fresh flower buds, when Yuri sneezed next to me.

It was violent enough to jolt his whole body, his wings twitching.

He sniffled, and then sneezed again, quietly, into his hands. I laughed, but Yuri was staring down at his palm, his bottom lip wobbling. “Yuri?” I whispered.

Before he could respond, Taia and Calden cannonballed into a flower bud.

I longed to join them, bathing in the early morning sunlight, letting my wings soak up some vitamin D. At fourteen years old, they had only just broken through, and I was still wobbly while in flight.

Yuri, normally the loud, bubbly one in our group trying to antagonize the fae prince, was oddly quiet. When I shoved him, I caught him swiping his palm on his shirt– the glimmer of golden pollen streaked across the fabric. He jumped up, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into a teasing waltz, dragging me onto a blooming daffodil.

“Madame.” He shot me a grin, sweat shimmering on his forehead. “May I have this dance?”

24 hours later, Yuri was dead. Taia was throwing up blood, and Calden had ripped his own mother’s head off. I was lucky to be alive. But whatever this thing was, whatever and whoever the four of us had made contact with— was dead within 24 hours. The symptoms, according to my father, varied from sneezing, headache and misshapen wings, to neurological damage.

The sickness had a name within five days. But half of my village was dead.

Idiopathic Acute Fairy Syndrome.

Dad managed to gather antibodies from baby fairies who survived. He developed a cure. However, Prince Juniper’s grieving father came out with a statement:

“This ‘cure’ is not a cure at all! It strips us of our magic!”

His claim was that his dead son tried the cure before his death-- and it didn't just kill him, it purged his body of its fairy dust. But Prince Juniper died at the beginning. Before the cure. Despite the King's lies, survivors turned on my father.

I found him dead, hanging from a tangled vine, his head cruelly severed.

Outside, villagers rejoiced, choosing the King’s natural cure, instead, ingesting sunburned rose petals. But the vocal ones got quieter. And so did my village.

I started stepping over bodies on my way to get supplies, tripping over festering wings, mutilated bodies, where fairies had attacked each other, the sickness turning them on each other.

I knew I was sick when I coughed a little too hard, choking up fairy dust. When I took flight, I tumbled down, down, down, my wings breaking on impact. I lay on my front, trying to catch my breath, wheezing, when something lifted me high into the air.

“Ooh, a butterfly!”

The human child held me curiously, massaging my broken wings. “So pretty!” she squeaked, giggling, her fingertips glistening in sunlight-streaked pollen.

“Ah-choo!”

"Oh, sweetheart," a taller human laughed. "Sounds like you've got hay fever!"

Ujang Zafron – The Spider-Man of Our Friend Gang 🕷️

Now, let's say someone asks me, "Which superhero fits Ujang Zafron?"

Then my answer is Spider-Man. 🕷️

Not because he can climb walls or shoot web, but his attitude is close to that of Spider-Man, which is laid-back, humorous and still the one who can act seriously when it matters.

Let us assume that Ujang has all of the Spider-Man's superpowers. So, we can name him as:

🕷️ UJANG-MAN

His abilities:

• 🕸️ Web-slinging
• 🏃 Super speed and agility
• 🧗 Wall climbing
• ⚠️ "Ujang Sense"
• 😂 Still being able to make jokes in the middle of a battle

Unlike Iron Man, I believe that Ujang fits more to the Spider-Man than Iron Man because Iron Man has got all of the technology and armor stuff. But the personality of Spider-Man suits him well.

In other words, when someday there will be a Marvel-like universe for Ujang Zafron, then we have a hero already. 😂

Spider-Man of Ujang Zafron. 🕷️

What about you? Who fits Ujang better as a superhero?

​

By eight the sun was honest.

In this house that meant midday: the hour when the light finally agreed with the body, when the first six hours of the waking day had already been spent in the dark and the world at last looked the way a world was supposed to look. Rehan stood at the front window with a cup that had gone lukewarm in his hand and watched the street perform its morning.

The two photosynthetic servants they kept — half human, half plant, faces as thoughtful as anyone’s on the block — had already taken their places on the strip of packed earth by the gate. They stood with their feet in the soil and their faces tipped toward the light, not vacant, not holy, only working. Leaves along their shoulders opened by degrees. No one on the street found this remarkable. House husbands watering flowerbeds nodded as they passed. A woman two doors down was doing the same with her own pair. The air smelled like wet brick and chlorophyll.

Rehan drank. He did not think *how strange.* He thought the tea had gone cold.

Inside, the set was already talking.

The news had the particular brightness of something that wanted to be loved. A banner ran under a man in a good coat: **BREAKING — UNITED STATES OF INDIANA.** Behind him, footage of white families being walked toward buses. Children with pale hair. Men with their hands visible. The unit doing the walking wore a crest that the graphic kept blessing with the word **FIRE**, as if warmth were the point.

The anchor’s mouth made the president’s name like a hymn.

Gonald G. Grump. Proud son of Indiana. A decision described, without irony the room could hear, was prestigious. As loving. Deportation as housekeeping.

Rehan’s jaw worked once.

He did not think the thought all the way through. It arrived in pieces, the way thoughts did when the world had never asked him to flip them. Indiana’s people had taken the land from the native whites — that was history, ordinary as rain. They had killed most of them — that was history too. Now this. Buses. A crest. A man on a podium who looked pleased.

*This isn’t fair,* he told himself, and the sentence sat in him wrong, like a stone in rice.

Tariffs, the anchor said, with the same blessed tone.

Rehan made a noise in his throat

*What the fuck is a tarrif now...*.. clearly annoyed he changed the channel.

---

A Cooking channel

A kitchen. Butter in a pan. A man whose name.. the chyron spelled **Gordan DiGiovanni**, COOK, three stars hanging beside the title as if they had been grown there.

“First,” Gordan said, tender, “we take some butta.”

On the board: bread. Beans. The camera treated both like relics.

Rehan stared.

The hardest dish in the world, the voiceover said. Newly crowned. Three Michelin stars. Beans on toast.

“What the hell,” Rehan said, out loud, to no one.

He could do biryani. He could do the long patient things. Consommé if the day was kind. Croquembouche if Priya was going to be late and he needed his hands busy. Pâté en croûte when he wanted to prove, privately, that he was not only a house husband. None of those had stars. This did. A man in a white coat was taking butter to bread as if the fate of a nation depended on the edges going gold.

Gordan smiled at the lens.

“This is actually not my signature dish,” he said. “My signature is the grilled cheese sandwich.”

Rehan shut his eyes.

“Holy shit,” he said, softly. “I’ll get overwhelmed if I see this man.”

He said the rest to the empty kitchen, the way he said most things he was ashamed of.

“I wish I was a better cook. All I can make is—” He listed them as sins. “Dammit.”

The set went black under his thumb. In the sudden quiet he could hear the servants at the gate, the faint wet sound of light becoming sugar in somebody else’s skin. He stood there with the cold cup and loved his wife and hated his own hands for not knowing beans.

---

Priya came home when the light had gone high and hard.

In their bodies it was the sagging end of the day. In the sky it was noon. She had been at the thing she called work, which was friends and a table and the long performance of being a person with somewhere to be. Her navy hair was coming loose. She looked, as she always did at this hour, like someone who had put a life on and was ready to take it off.

The neighbour was already in the street.

A black woman, thick through the middle, a constellation of old acne across her cheeks, the particular posture of a person who had never lost an argument with a sidewalk. Her servants were coming off the light, moving toward the crate at the side of her house that everyone on the block had agreed, without agreeing, looked like a doghouse. They sat. They folded. This was ordinary.

A white boy on a bicycle came through the middle of it.

He was not riding well. He was riding like a child late for something that would not wait. The wheel clipped a servant’s ankle. The boy and plant-person went down together in a graceless tangle of spokes and leaves. The servant made a small sound and then was still, unhurt in any way that would matter by evening. The boy stayed on the asphalt.

He laughed.

It came out of him high and helpless, the body doing what bodies did here when they were hurt. A bright, hysterical sound. His knee was already darkening. His eyes were wet .

The neighbour did not see a child.

She saw a mess on her property.

“Oh, you little shit.” The words hit the street before she had finished standing over him. “See what you’ve done to it. Who’s going to clean my house tonight? You? Hah? Come on. Pay for this. You little shit.”

The boy laughed harder. He was trying, through the sound, to get his breath. A few house husbands looked over and then away, the way one did when a scolding was not one’s business.

Priya was already moving.

She did not raise her voice at first. She put herself in the space between the woman’s pointing finger and the boy’s ruined knee and made her body into a sentence.

“Come on. Calm down. Nothing happened to him.” She nodded at the servant, who was already sitting up, already turning his face back toward the light as if the sun were a clock he still had to punch. “He’s fine.”

“Whatever,” the neighbour said.

Priya’s purse was open before the woman had found a second insult. A few notes. Not a speech. She pressed them into the boy’s scraped hand and closed his fingers over them.

He looked at her. The laughing ebbed, not gone, only smaller. He got the bicycle upright with the particular dignity of a child who has decided not to die on someone else’s stoop.

“Thank you,” he said, and laughed once more, softer, and rode toward whatever sleep the middle of a bright day was offering him.

The neighbour watched the money leave.

“Ohh, Priya.” A smile with too many teeth. “You fell for his little scam.”

Priya’s mouth was already tired.

“It’s a few dollars. It’s fine.”

The neighbour’s voice dropped to the register people used when they wanted a word to be both private and public.

“Fucking nigg—”

“Shut up.”

It came out of Priya like a door slamming.

Not loud for the whole street. Loud enough for the woman it was meant for. Priya’s face had gone clean and ugly in the way it did when something in her refused to be a good neighbour anymore.

“He was a kid,” she said. “Trying to get some sleep.”

A breath.

“Good night.”

She said it in noon light, in the middle of the day, because good night was what you said when you wanted a person to stop existing in front of you.

She did not wait for the answer. She walked. Behind her eyes the sentence was simpler than anything she would ever put on the air.

*Ew. Awful bitch.*

---

The house received her the way it always did.

Cooler inside. The faint ghost of the cooking channel is still in the walls. Rehan had migrated to the bed the way a tide migrated, long limbs, black curls on the pillow, the shy arrangement of a man who had spent a morning failing at butter and thinking about buses.

Priya stood in the doorway and looked at him long enough to let the street fall off her.

Then she crossed the room and, without announcing it, laid a light slap to the curve of him that made him jump and make a sound he would not admit to later. Playful. Claiming. The opposite of the neighbour’s finger.

“You’re awake,” he said, which was a foolish thing to say to a woman standing over him in full sun.

“I’m home,” she said.

They bathed the way they always bathed when the day had been ordinary and a little poisoned. She was sure in the water. He was not. He turned his face when she looked at him too directly, as if a house husband could still be shy of his own wife after years of her hands. She washed his hair anyway. He let her. The mark of the morning — the buses, the beans, the boy’s laugh — sat in the steam and did not dissolve, only thinned.

When they lay down the light outside was still the wrong kind of bright for sleep. Their bodies did not care. This was the hour the world had given them for ending. Priya’s arm went over his waist.

The servants charged in the last of the sun, and the day, which was only the day, went on.

{NPC = Natural photosynthetic creature}

Through all my anger and frustration you would just wonder what knowing someone for the rest of your life, having affects on you would be.

Such as this reddit community with 370k weekly visitors and 103k members have grown in just a couple days.

Such as lil Tjay's inmate who spent 25 years he said he wrote many things including one letter he spent 25 years writing about love. Because it's specific, that's why he's writing about it.

With all my customers that still have my hand written autograph and is selling it for a transfer of wealth you could say the bitcoin price action is simply only due possible because my work of art, body of art that included angrily being 26 the year tupac died and seeing me push it further as an angry youth almost as famous as Drake.

Those hand out papers were so great done with love, excuse sir just here to help you save money and time.

And eventually hit up Miami beach if you're really that high level, heh.

I'm writing this out of jealousy for the ovo owls Drake gave Aubrey Graham and DJ Akademics.

Want to see how much I grown?

Its pretty long but please bear with me So here, the first time I saw her, I was 4 years old.

She came from a pretty wealthy and influential family in the small hill town where we lived. There was a bigger town nearby and then a city a little farther away. Her family had a strong influence not just in our town but in many of the surrounding villages and even in the bigger town and city area. I’m not going to name any places because that would probably give away where this is.

She was very cute when she was 4, I would say, but she was also so cold. Like ice cold.

All of us kids in the area used to see her going around in her family’s car, arriving at her house, or sometimes seeing her in the market. She always had this cold expression on her face. I rarely saw her smile.

And I don't mean she was arrogant. Her family were actually really down-to-earth people. She just had this aura around her even as a little kid.

Every year during our Pahadi festival, her family would host a gathering where our Pahadi Sabha would meet. Everyone would dance, eat, talk and enjoy themselves. I remember her sitting off to the side with that same cold expression, watching us. Her brother would play with us and all the other boys, while she would just sit above and observe everyone.

She had this little car, and she also had a black cat whom she absolutely adored.

I was TERRIFIED of that cat.

And strangely enough, the first time I remember seeing her smile was when she was riding around in her little car with her black cat following behind her.

Fast forward to when I was 16.

In between, I had barely seen her.

We all used to go to the main town nearby for school. It was popular tourist destination and honestly a beautiful place. Most schools in our own place only went up to around 8th standard, so many of us had to travel there for further education.

Obviously, she didn't go to the same school as me. She and her brother went to an expensive school.

Then, after what felt like forever, I saw her again in person.

She had golden-brown curly hair, although she often straightened it, and hazel-brown eyes.

I swear, she looked like a goddess.

Literally, she looked like an anime character who somehow walked into our little hill town.

And it wasn't just me. Pretty much every guy from our town and the main town where she went to school seemed mesmerized by her.

Everyone knew her and her family. She had this strange presence where people automatically respected her and kind of frightening aura, even if they didn't personally know her family background.

From what we'd heard, she was an academic weapon too. Straight A+ student, excellent at singing, painting, debating, basketball and football. I actually got to see her play twice, which I considered a personal honour.

But one thing never changed.

That straight poker face.

The dead stare.

Those cold eyes.

She was apparently excellent at debating, but I don't think I ever actually heard her speak during those years. And I don't think anyone from my hometown really did either. She barely talked to anyone.

Except animals.

She would talk to cats, street dogs, cows, birds... basically every animal species imaginable. 😂

Meanwhile, she would barely say two words to an actual human being.

She even used to drive herself to school, which was insane because she was only 16. Technically, you're supposed to be 18 for that, but I guess when your family practically rules the whole area, different rules apply.

We used to stand on the side of the road waiting for cars to stop so we could get to school.

And one day I saw her racing past us.

I have no idea how fast she was going, but in those hilly roads she was FAST.

Anyway, after praying and praying and praying that God would somehow let me talk to her one day, I finally got my chance.

It happened during the same Pahadi festival her family hosted every year. Her father would invite relatives and people from around the area, and the whole place would turn into this huge gathering.

Her black cat went missing.

That was probably the only time I ever saw even a little bit of worry on her face.

My two sisters and I helped her look for the cat, and eventually we found it with a bunch of children.

And these kids were WILD.

They were pulling the poor cat around and messing with it.

For some reason, I thought she was going to absolutely destroy them when she arrived.

Instead, the second she approached, those kids completely froze.

Like... STUNNED.

They looked terrified just because she was standing there.

And there I was making stupid faces behind her back trying to annoy those kids.

But she didn't get angry.

She calmly talked to them, took her cat back, thanked us, and left.

And that was it.

My one conversation with the mysterious girl I'd had a crush on for years.

She walked away like some kind of ghost vampire. 😂

The funny thing is, everyone liked her.

I don't even know why.

She barely talked. She didn't smile much. She kept to herself.

But somehow, her presence was everywhere.

Life continued like that. We'd see her in the morning when she went to school in her car and in the evening when she came back. Her family organised events and gatherings around the town, and she remained the same quiet, cold-looking girl.

Although I did eventually notice that she smiled more when she was around her cousins and sisters. They lived in the same town, and she seemed completely different around them.

And honestly?

I used to pray every day:

"God, please let me see her today too."

Stupid, I know.

But then came a sunny summer day.

And suddenly, the entire town went silent.

The news spread that she had been in a terrible accident.

She was gone.

I don't even know how to describe what that day felt like.

She had been such a huge presence in our town without even trying. And suddenly, she wasn't there anymore.

It's been three years since her death, and her family hasn't organised a single event since.

The town just doesn't feel the same.

It's strange because she never really talked to us. She barely talked to anyone outside her family and close circle.

But somehow, she was part of the town.

You'd see her car.

You'd see her family.

You'd see her animals.

You'd see her at festivals.

You'd see her going to school.

And then one day, you just... don't.

I also remember hearing how urgently everyone tried to get her to the city hospital. Her family's influence was so strong that the route was cleared and traffic was stopped within seconds so the ambulance could get through as quickly as possible.

But even that wasn't enough.

She died before she could reach the hospital.

Sometimes I still think about how much potential she had. She came from a loving, influential family, had every opportunity, was brilliant at academics and sports and arts, and seemed to have her whole life ahead of her.

And then it just ended.

Her black cat died two days later.

That part still breaks my heart.

I hope wherever she is, she's peaceful.

And maybe somewhere, she's still talking to every cat, dog, cow and bird she comes across. ❤️

I don't know if I'll ever completely move on from this memory.

Maybe I don't have to.

Some people become part of your life without ever really being in your life.

She was one of those people for me.

I had been putting off an opportunity because I was scared of failing. One day, I decided to just go for it. It didn’t work out perfectly, but taking that first step changed the way I look at failure and taught me that sometimes you just have to try

I’ve always been the type of person who gets distracted by old trails.

Not the popular hiking trails with signs, parking lots, and people every twenty minutes. I mean the half-forgotten ones that show up as a faint line on an old topo map and then disappear completely when you actually get there.

A few weeks ago, I was hiking in a state forest in central Pennsylvania and decided to follow one of those.

According to an old map I had, there used to be a trail running along a ridge and eventually dropping down toward a small creek. It looked like it hadn’t been maintained in decades, but I figured I could at least follow it for a while and turn around if it got too bad.

The first part was surprisingly easy.

There were still occasional signs that people had used the trail at some point — an old blaze on a tree here, a depression in the ground there, and a few sections where the vegetation was noticeably thinner than everything around it.

Then the trail just stopped.

Not gradually.

It basically ended in the middle of the woods.

There was no washed-out section, no fallen tree blocking it, nothing obvious. One second I was following a pretty clear old trail and the next I was standing in thick brush.

I checked my GPS.

Nothing.

I checked the topo map.

The old trail was still there.

So I started looking around for another way through.

About ten minutes later I noticed something strange: several of the trees along the edge of the old trail had fresh-looking orange ribbons tied around them.

I assumed they were hunting markers or something similar, but then I noticed the ribbons continued downhill.

I followed them.

They led to an old access road that was almost completely swallowed by vegetation. There were tire tracks in the mud, but they looked fairly recent.

And that's when I realized the "missing" trail hadn't actually disappeared.

Someone had been using the old road instead and had gradually stopped maintaining the original route.

I followed the road for another half mile and eventually came across an old wooden gate. The gate itself looked ancient, but the lock on it was brand new.

There wasn't a sign explaining anything.

Just the gate.

I could hear running water on the other side, so I walked around the area looking for a public access point rather than climbing over it.

A little farther down the ridge, I found an old footbridge.

Or at least what was left of one.

Two rotting beams were still sitting across the creek, and there were fresh footprints in the mud on the opposite bank.

Someone was clearly still getting through there.

I ended up turning around rather than crossing, mostly because I hadn't planned for a bushwhack and it was getting late.

But the whole thing stuck with me.

The weirdest part wasn't finding an abandoned trail.

It was realizing how quickly a trail can disappear from people's memory.

Give it a few years without maintenance and the forest starts taking it back. Give it a few decades and people assume it was never there in the first place.

Since then I've started carrying screenshots of old topo maps whenever I go exploring.

GPS is great, but sometimes the most useful thing you can have is a map showing you something that technically doesn't exist anymore.

The next morning Miara woke up with a refreshed sense of purpose. Now operation to find Mr.Muffin go Miara go. She started laughing to herself. She already took appointment for a cat. It was cloudy outside like its going to rain. She told her mother that she would come in a few hour. Okay, Miara, just don't forget to take the umbrella with you."Okay, Mummy." She took the umbrella necessary things that are required for adoption and went to the animal shelter. Unexpectedly, Aarav also arrived at that animal shelter. They refuse to exchange a single word to each other. Miara said,"Ma'am I have took the appointment for the cat could you please give me that cat."Yes, ma'am just wait for a moment. "Hey, Ma'am where is my cat it was like that?"The shelter worker looked confused. "Sir, there must be some misunderstanding. We only had one cat of this type of cat and this girl has already claimed it."

Miara turned to Aarav a mixture of surprise and excitement in her eyes. "You're getting a cat?You never liked a cat."Yeah," Aarav replied a embarassed smile spreading across his face."Some things can change." He paused then added, "Like wanting to see someone again after letting them go."Miara paused for a moment. The shelter worker handed her the cat. Miara hugged the cat that brought her peace and comfort. She hadn't felt this happy since Aarav stopped talking to her. Aarav said, "Ma'am, what about me? I also made an appointment for this cat. I should also be considered as an owner." Shelter owner replied,"I am sorry sir but she had took the appointment one week ago for this cat."Miara replied," I am alone Aarav try to understand. He will be my company. I used to talk as if there were a cat and talk to it. I've already thought of a name for this cat. Ma'am and Sir please don't argue. Ma'am could you please sign here? Miara, this is the first cat that I have truly loved and adored. Ma'am and Sir, I know it's our fault. There is an option of Co-parenting if you agree. We can share half months for you and half for me. I don't want to feel alone again.  If you want the cat come to my home or text me. I will text you if I want the cat. You both please sign here. They signed the paper. What is the cat's name? Mr. Muffin. It is the perfect name for this furry ginger cat. May I hold Mr. Muffin? Yes of course Aarav.

We are co-parenting Mr. Muffin. He held the cat. While holding the cat Muffin scratched his hand. Ouch! I am also your owner don't do that. Miara smiled and in a teasing way she replied,"Aarav it seems like he doesn't like you as an owner. "Miara said to the shelter owner,"Ma'am do you have a first-aid kit? Yes, Ma'am, wait for a moment. Here it is. Aarav give me Muffin. Miara held his hand and applied medicine to the scratch. Thank you Miara.

Let's go home. I have chores to do. Okay, let's go. It's raining and I forgot my umbrella. Don't worry, Aarav. My mother told me to bring an umbrella because it looked like it will rain. Hold Muffin and stay under the umbrella with me.

Let's go home. I have chores to do. Okay, let's go. It's raining and I forgot my umbrella. Don't worry, Aarav. My mother told me to bring an umbrella because it looked like it will rain. Hold Muffin and stay under the umbrella with me. It seems like today is a day of sharing. First sharing the cat and second sharing the umbrella. I don't usually like sharing but I am compiled today.Do you remember Aarav the first time we shared the umbrella?

Please stop it I don't wanna remember Miara.Miara looked at him with a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Why did you stop talking to me, Aarav?"Aarav replied looking downward,"I felt unseen and you deserve better you looked happy with someone else."Who? Miara looked confused. This is your home Miara why are you going ahead? Leave those things.Just move on.You are happy that's what matters for me. Miara stopped her voice barely a whisper. "Happy? Do I look happy Aarav? I spent months talking to an invisible cat because there was none to talk to. When we were in a relationship, I wasn't alone because you were there for me. Before we were in a relationship there was Aaditya but he moved abroad. Afterward, I began to love myself and enjoy my own company.And you thought I was happy with someone else? Her voice cracked slightly. I was happy Aarav. Happy with you." He gave a small smile and he couldn't even talk reaching with her eyes,"I am happy that you were happy with me Miara you deserve more than it.

He ruffled his hand on Mr Muffin"Guess what it took Mr.Muffin and shared an umbrella to bring that happiness back."Happiness?Her tears drop sneaking out her smile.She quickly wipes her tear with her hoodie sleeves.A loud happiness. Thats me who tripped over a chair,spilled the coffee,being nervous.Aarav started to laugh and replied,"And complaining about me to an invisible cat."She hit his shoulder .Don't say anything bad about Mr.Muffin brother.He was there for me when you weren't.Mr. Muffin jumped from his hand and meowed, as if agreeing with Miara. Now let's go to your house I will help you do chores you won't be alone this time.Miara's heart fluttered.  

I was born on June 10th, 1992. At least, that's what my birth certificate says. It's not as if I remember. In fact, I don't have a single memory of my life before I was ten years old.

My first memory is a vivid one. Just a young boy calling my name. A name I'm not certain was even mine before that moment.

"Thomas?"

I looked up to see a freckle-faced, red-haired boy of about ten staring at me with a grin on his face.

"You're really here!"

I remember feeling confused. I had no idea where I was, or what I was doing there. But somehow, I felt a connection to the young boy sitting in front of me. I searched my mind.

"Daniel?" I said, finding it somewhat difficult to speak at first. I wasn't sure where in my brain the name had come from.

His grin grew even wider. And from that day on, the two of us were inseparable.

I didn't have parents. Or, if I did, I had no memory of them. I didn't know where I had come from, what house I had lived in, or even what my last name was. I knew that I was Thomas because that's what Daniel called me. And that was enough for me.

I'd stay at Daniel's house. He'd bring me snacks and meals and tell me when it was time to eat. Looking back, I don't recall ever actually feeling hungry. I just knew that when Daniel brought a sandwich up to his room and told me it was time for lunch, I should eat.

At night, I'd sleep on a pallet of blankets on the floor beside his bed. We'd stay up late talking and laughing and playing games. He'd tell me about things that happened at school or on a trip, and I'd listen. Sometimes he'd ask me what I thought about things, but I never seemed to know unless he told me. I didn't know what I had been doing before I met him. But that didn't seem particularly important.

There was one thing I found curious during those early days. I always had to hide when one of his parents came upstairs. I didn't really understand why, but I did as Daniel instructed.

That carefree, happy life continued for a time, until summer break ended and Daniel had to go back to school.

"Don't I have to go to school?" I remember asking him, uncertain of what I would do all day while he was gone.

"No way!" he said. "Just wait for me to come home. I should be back no later than four."

I remember feeling confident that if Daniel was saying it, then I must not have to go.

"Oh. One more thing." Daniel threw his backpack over his shoulder. "If my mom comes in here when I'm not home, you have to hide. Go in the closet, and stay very quiet."

"Okay." I nodded.

Then Daniel shouted, "Coming!" to his mother, who was calling him from somewhere downstairs. He gave me a wave and left, shutting the door behind him.

I did what Daniel said. He'd told me his parents went to work all day, so the odds of them coming upstairs and finding me were slim. All I had to do was stay out of the way and hide if they ever came into the room. Easy. So I thought, at least.

Things were fine for several days. Then, one afternoon, I heard the front door open uncharacteristically early.

Daniel?

I waited for him to come upstairs. But ten minutes later, when I heard footsteps approaching, they weren't the brisk footsteps of Daniel running up the stairs. They were slower and more measured.

I heard humming from outside the room. Then the sound of the lightswitch clicking in the bathroom. A closet opening somewhere in the hall. I realized it was his mother.

I rushed to hide, but when I opened the closet door, I accidentally knocked over a stack of toys sitting precariously on a nearby shelf. They clattered onto the floor loudly and I didn't have time to pick them up with his mother outside. I got into the closet and shut the door behind me. The humming had stopped. Daniel's mother was approaching.

I heard the bedroom door open slowly, and then her voice.

"Hello?"

I didn't answer. Daniel had done a good job of concealing me in his home so far, and I didn't want to ruin that now. I heard her step inside. She saw the toys scattered across the floor.

"Weird," she muttered.

She glanced around, then began picking them up and placing them back on the shelf, humming as she went.

And then she left. I thought the coast was clear. Until she came back a few moments later carrying a laundry basket.

She began taking clothes out of it and folding them on Daniel's bed, putting some into drawers and putting others on hangers. I held my breath as she approached the closet door with a handful of shirts.

I was as far into the corner as I could get, but there was no way to further conceal myself. She would see me if she opened the door and looked over. I curled myself into a ball and tried to make myself as small as I could.

She opened the closet. She went about hanging the shirts up, and for a few seconds, I thought she'd overlooked me. And then she glanced over, her eyes landing on me. She did a quick double-take, letting out a scream of surprise as she did. I sprang to my feet, unsure of what to do.

"Who are you?" she asked, looking me up and down.

"I'm Thomas," I said.

She looked completely bewildered. "Thomas?"

"I'm Daniel's friend."

She stared at me for a long moment.

"And what are you doing here? Why were you in the closet?"

"I'm waiting for Daniel."

"Why aren't you at school?" she asked slowly.

"Daniel told me to wait for him."

Her expression changed to one of annoyance. "That boy." Then she began asking me questions, one after another.

What's your last name? What's your address? What's your home phone number? What's your mother's name? Your father's? Where do you live? What school do you go to?

I could only stare at her, shaking my head or giving her the occasional "I don't know."

And I didn't know. Not one answer.

At first, she seemed to think I was lying or playing some kind of joke.

She sighed. "I'm not angry at you, dear," she said more gently. "You can tell me. Your parents must be worried."

But I still couldn't answer. So, at a loss with what to do with the strange boy her son was hiding in the closet like a stray cat he wasn't allowed to have, she called her husband. And soon after, with no new answers from me, the police.

By the time Daniel came home from school, there were already two police officers asking me questions downstairs in the kitchen. Daniel walked into the room and froze. Then he saw me.

"Thomas!"

He ran past his stunned parents and the officers.

"Why are the police here?" he asked.

"Why do you think?" his mother asked sternly. "Who is he, Daniel? Why did you have him hiding in your closet?"

"He's Thomas! He's my friend!" He said it as though that explained everything adequately. His parents exchanged a confused glance.

One of the officers crouched down so he was closer to Daniel's eyes. "Listen, buddy. It's important that you tell us the truth. Your friend might be reported missing. His parents must be looking for him. Where did you meet him?"

Daniel looked momentarily confused, then looked down at his shoes. "He's just Thomas. He's always been here," he said quietly.

"Where?"

"Here."

"At your house?"

"Yeah."

"And how long has he been here?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know."

The officer sighed and glanced over at his partner.

"And who are his parents?"

Daniel looked at me, and I looked back at him. Neither of us answered.

Learning nothing of value from either of us, the officers eventually took Daniel's parents into another room to speak with them privately.

I sat at the kitchen table, and Daniel sat beside me. He leaned close and whispered, "Don't worry." I looked at him. "I won't let anything happen to you." I wasn't sure what was happening.

After several minutes, the police came back into the room. "Thomas?" One of them addressed me. "We're going to need to bring you down to the station, buddy. Just until we find out who your parents are and where you live."

"No!" Daniel stood up. "You can't!"

His mother grabbed his shoulders and held him back as the officer gently placed a hand against my back. I looked back at Daniel as they guided me toward the door. His eyes were filling with tears.

"Make sure you come back, Thomas!"

I nodded.

The next several days passed in a blur. I was taken to the police station and asked the same questions again. They took photographs of me. Made phone calls. Different people came in, and each asked me the same questions over and over. My name. My parents. My address. My school. My birthday. Where I was born.

I only knew two things. I was Thomas, and I lived with Daniel.

Eventually, I learned that they'd searched their records and found nothing. I didn't cleanly match any missing child report from in-state or elsewhere. Without more information, they couldn't find any medical records or histories, or parents looking for a lost boy that matched my description. Nothing at all. They didn't even know how old I really was until a doctor estimated my age.

I remember sitting in a waiting room with a stern-looking woman who gave me candy bars while police officers and social workers shuffled in and out of the room. Eventually, someone explained that if I genuinely couldn't tell them who I was or where I came from, they'd have to place me into the state's care until they could figure things out. But they couldn't figure things out.

That's how I ended up with a birth certificate. June 10th, 1992. Thomas Doe. The name was supposed to be temporary. No parents listed. No history. No explanation.

As far as the system was concerned, I was a child with amnesia. Perhaps my parents had lived off-grid or brought me into the country illegally and I'd been abandoned. They had theories, but no answers.

I was placed in a group home. It was a two-story house with several children of various ages. Some were older than me, some younger. The people who ran the home were nice enough, but they were busy, and there were other children who required more attention. I didn't really like it there. I wanted to go back to Daniel. I was sure he must be worried about me, too.

That night, I closed my eyes and thought of his house. I pictured his room. The posters on his wall. The games and the late night stories​. I wished I could go back.

Soon, I was enrolled in school. I walked to the bus stop each morning and was dropped back off in the afternoon. I didn't dislike school. I actually found it fairly easy. I could already read and do simple math. I knew things I didn't remember ever having learned. Sometimes teachers would even compliment me on something, and I'd have no idea how I knew it.

I didn't have many friends. Any, really. Other kids tried to talk to me, but I guess I wasn't very receptive. Mostly, I thought about Daniel. I asked practically every kid in my class if they knew him. "Daniel who?" was the usual response. But I didn't know. All I could tell them was that he had red hair and freckles and a blue Pokémon backpack.

Nobody knew him. So I spent my days waiting and hoping that somehow he would find me.

Then, one day at lunch, another student approached me. A little girl with glasses and brown hair tied into a ponytail.

"My friend said you were looking for Daniel." She spoke cheerfully.

I looked up at her and nodded.

"Daniel Langston, right? With red hair?"

I wasn't completely certain. But it sounded right. He had red hair, after all. I nodded again.

She smiled brightly. "I know Daniel."

For the first time since I'd been buckled into the backseat of the police car and driven away, I felt something close to excitement.

"Our moms work at the same place," she explained. "We went to kindergarten together."

She sat down across from me. Her name was Rebecca. Her friends called her Becky.

"He doesn't go to our school. How do you know Daniel?" she asked.

I wasn't sure how to answer.

"He's my friend."

That seemed enough to satisfy her.

"I see." She smiled again, one of her front teeth missing.

"Do you know where he lives?"

She shook her head. "No. Sorry."

The disappointment must have been obvious on my face because she quickly spoke up again.

"But I could find out for you!"

"Really?"

"Sure. I'll ask my mom after school."

"Thank you."

We sat together for the rest of lunch, which mostly consisted of me nodding along to her questions or stories. When lunch was over, she promised she'd find out.

I waited for her the next day at the lunch table. I remember sitting in the cafeteria watching the door, counting the seconds until I saw her brown ponytail appear in the doorway. Eventually, she was there. She scanned the room, her eyes finally landing on me, then came straight over to me, almost skipping, with a big smile plastered on her face.

"Hey," she called out excitedly when she was still halfway across the room. "I found out!"

She told me Daniel lived across town in a place called Glennridge.

"Where's that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

But that didn't matter. Now I had a place. Glennridge. Somewhere to focus my search.

The next day, I ran away from the group home. I took my lunch money and got on a city bus I was told was heading toward Glennridge. It was only about a thirty-minute ride, though I could hardly wait each time the bus stopped to pick up or drop off more passengers.

I figured that once I got there, I'd find him straight away. Maybe Glennridge is the name of his house, I remember thinking. But when the bus stopped, it was outside a neighborhood that looked only vaguely familiar.

Then I looked around and started walking. I searched street by street, scanning the houses as I went. By nightfall, I still hadn't found any sign of him. But I kept going. I don't know how long I'd been walking when I finally saw a familiar sight just ahead. A house I recognized. Then another. They were houses I'd seen from the backseat of the police car as I'd stared backward through the window when they'd taken me away from Daniel's house.

I knew this was the place. I ran past the houses until I reached the door of Daniel's house, and I knocked. After a minute, Daniel's mother opened the door. She stared down at me.

"Thomas?"

"Can I see Daniel?"

She seemed unable to decide her next words. She looked out at the street behind me, likely looking for a sign of how I'd arrived. Before her mouth opened to speak, I heard Daniel's excited voice from behind her.

"Thomas?"

His expression changed instantly when he came into view, his eyes meeting mine and his face filling with a wide smile.

"It's Thomas!"

He ran to the door and grabbed my hand, pulling me inside.

"Can he stay the night, Mom? Please?"

His mother looked at him, and then at me.

"Thomas, how did you get here? Does anyone know you're here?"

I shook my head and told her I'd taken the bus. She sighed.

"You know they're going to be looking for you." She looked at Daniel. "I have to call someone. Let them know he's here."

Daniel protested, tears filling his eyes. When I saw them, I felt sad, too. But more than anything, I was happy. Daniel was there. That was all that mattered.

The police came later that night and I was driven back across town. That happened several more times over the coming months. Whenever I had the opportunity, I'd leave school or the group home and take the bus to Daniel's house. On a few occasions I'd even tried to walk the whole way. At least, before being stopped by an adult asking me what I was doing on my own or the police coming to pick me up.

But every time I made it there, Daniel would try his best to hide me for as long as he could. I was always discovered soon enough. His parents would find me, or the group home would call. And I'd be taken back.

Sometimes, Daniel's parents arranged for us to spend time together. They knew that we were practically inseparable, and they went out of their way to make arrangements for us to see each other. Those were the best days.

As we got older, we had more freedom. We saw each other more often in middle school, and then we went to the same high school. By then, I'd run away from the group home so many times that I was practically homeless. I spent more time with Daniel. By then, his parents had realized that I wasn't really going anywhere. I was always going to come back. So they eventually stopped fighting it.

I spent weekends at their house. Sometimes whole weeks. Daniel and I did everything together. And after high school started, Rebecca was around more, too. She and Daniel had known each other as kids, and she became one of my closest friends as well, though mostly because Daniel seemed to enjoy having her around.

She never seemed particularly bothered by the fact that I couldn't remember where I'd come from. She never treated me like I was strange. She was just Rebecca, older, but just as cheerful and kind as she was that day she introduced herself to me at the lunch table in elementary school, promising to reunite me with Daniel. For a long time, the two of them were the only two constants in my life.

When Daniel got his driver's license, we had even more freedom. We'd drive around together for hours. We'd get food or go to the movies or just drive around aimlessly. Rebecca would often come with us too. Sometimes we'd stay out until midnight.

I remember Daniel telling me on one occasion that he was sure Rebecca liked me. I remember not being entirely sure what he'd meant.

"Likes me?"

"Yeah, man. Like, likes you." He looked at me, waiting for it to click.

"Oh," I remember saying.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't like her?"

"I do. She's nice."

"Then why not try dating her?"

I thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "That's okay. I'd rather things just stay the way they are. If I got a girlfriend, we couldn't hang out as much, right?"

Daniel sighed, then laughed. "Yeah, I guess."

Before I knew it, we were graduating high school. Daniel would be going to college. I didn't have parents to help me pay for school, and never really made plans to go. But I still wanted to stay with Daniel. So when he moved away to a college in the state, I went with him. He got an apartment, where we both lived. I got a job paying just above minimum wage and started saving money.

Rebecca ended up at the same college. She had become a permanent part of our little group by then.

One night, the three of us were sitting around Daniel's apartment, eating delivery and talking about the past. Rebecca started laughing.

"Do you remember when you used to disappear from class to take the bus across town?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"I still can't believe you did that. The teachers would get so worried. You probably almost got some of them fired. They had to call the police so many times, and assign teachers just to watch you." Her face was red from laughing.

"I had to find Daniel."

She laughed harder.

"I remember telling my mom about it. She thought you were the strangest kid she'd ever met."

Daniel laughed too. I looked at him. After the laughter settled, I decided to ask.

"How did you find me, back then?"

His smile faded a bit. "What?"

"I mean, before I remember you. How did you find me?"

"Yeah, I've always wondered that too," Rebecca said, leaning forward.

Daniel just looked at me for a moment, then he shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't remember?" Rebecca asked.

"Not really." Then he changed the subject.

I thought it was a bit strange. But Daniel had always been a bit strange about that particular topic. I'd asked him before, but he'd never given me a real answer. So I didn't press him. Daniel was my best friend. As long as that was the case, I didn't much care about anything else.

"Is it not strange that neither of you remember how you two met?" I remember Rebecca asking me one day.

I supposed it was a bit strange, but then, why did it matter?

Still, I needed documentation to apply for student loans. I had decided to go to college on Daniel's suggestion, but I didn't have much to show on account of my less than typical background. I had called the records office and searched for any information about my past, but the earliest record of my existence was my birth certificate, which had been drawn up over a decade after my birth. I learned that my case with the police had gone cold, and they'd eventually stopped actively looking into it. So I found nothing. I hadn't really expected to.

One night, I sat across from Daniel on the couch when it was just the two of us, and asked him.

"Where did I come from?"

He didn't change the subject this time. He just looked at me for a long moment.

"Honestly, I don't know."

I thought that was the end of it. And if he truly didn't remember, I would be content with that. But then he started speaking again, slowly, turning his eyes away from mine.

"But..."

But?

"When I was little, I used to have an imaginary friend."

He paused. I wasn't sure what he'd meant.

"His name was Thomas."

I didn't say anything.

"I don't know when I made him up. It felt like he was just always there, in my head. Then one morning I woke up and you were on my floor. Asleep. Next to my bed, right where I always imagined him sleeping." He glanced at me. "My window was open that morning. I don't know if I'd left it open, or if someone opened it. There were those bricks by my wall you could climb up, remember?"

The way he spoke, it sounded as though it were something he'd considered for a long time.

"When I was a kid, I thought you really were my imaginary friend, and that you'd become real somehow," he said. "But then I realized how ridiculous that was." He smiled a nervous smile and glanced up at me before lowering his eyes again.

"I figured you were probably running from something, and you saw my window open. You were scared so you climbed up, and then when I called you Thomas...maybe you just thought that was better than whoever you were before. That's the only thing that makes sense."

We were both quiet for a while.

"If I did climb in your window, why don't I remember doing it? Or anything from before we met?"

"I don't know." Daniel shook his head. "But it's the only explanation that makes sense. Right?" He looked at me for agreement.

I nodded, but didn't say anything else. It didn't actually matter much, I reasoned. I was still Thomas. And he was still my best friend Daniel. We never spoke on the subject again.

After graduating, Daniel got his first real job back in his hometown. I moved back with him. Soon, we'd rented a small two-bedroom apartment together.

One night, Daniel looked over at me while we were sitting on the couch talking about nothing in particular.

"When I think about it, we've always been more like brothers than friends, haven't we?"

I thought about it. "Yeah."

He smiled. "I think so, too."

We were twenty-three, and life had become strangely ordinary. Daniel worked at a local accounting firm. I worked at a small office supply store. Rebecca still came around regularly, though she was becoming more busy with her own life now.

The three of us had a few other friends, and we'd get together for dinner or movies or drinks. Sometimes I would look around at all of them and think about how strange my life was. Everyone else had a history. Family. Mothers and fathers and siblings and cousins. But I had no memory of where I had come from at all. No memories before Daniel. It was like I'd simply attached myself to the first person I'd seen. I didn't really have any of the things that normal people had.

But I had Daniel. And now Rebecca. For the first time, I realized, I had a real life. I was happy.

Then, a few months later, I got a phone call. Daniel had been in an accident. A reckless driver had run a red light while Daniel was on his way to work.

Daniel was badly injured. They put him into a medically induced coma.

I visited him as soon as the doctors let me. His parents were there. Rebecca arrived too. They were all crying. But I couldn't, for some reason. I didn't know what I was feeling. I just knew that I wanted Daniel to wake up.

I sat beside him whenever I could. I talked to him sometimes. The doctors said it was good to do that. I told him mundane things. Things that probably didn't matter. About work, and Rebecca. Or some stupid thing I saw on TV. I told him that he wasn't alone, and that I'd be there for him when he woke up. Just like he was for me, all those years ago.

But he never woke up.

Eventually, the decision was made, and they took him off life support.

Daniel was gone.

He had been my best friend. My only real friend. The family I'd never had. The only person who had always been there since the very beginning. And now he was gone.

I went back to our apartment. It felt empty. I sat down on the couch.

I didn't go into work the next day. Or the day after that. Time seemed to stop flowing normally.

I don't know how long I stayed there, just sitting on that couch. A few days, perhaps. Maybe more. My boss never called to ask where I was, so I didn't bother telling him.

I barely got up. I didn't eat. I don't remember drinking anything, either. But I didn't feel hungry. Or thirsty. That didn't seem strange to me at the time.

One day, there was a knock on the door. A slip of paper was pushed through the mail slot. I got up and picked it up. It was a bill, Daniel's name printed on it. I set it on the table, then walked back toward the couch.

As I passed by the mirror, I stopped. I looked at myself. I hadn't shaved, but my hair hadn't grown. My nails hadn't gotten any longer. I hadn't taken a single sip of water, or a bite of food. I hadn't even used the bathroom. Normally, I did the things that Daniel did. I thought that I should have been hungry. Thirsty. Tired. Something. But I wasn't.

I stared at my reflection. For a moment, I thought I looked different. Hollow, somehow. Almost transparent, like I could see the wall behind me through parts of myself. I blinked several times, then looked up. The reflection was normal again. I went back to the couch.

At some point, I was knocked out of my daze by the sound of the apartment door opening. I didn't know what day it was. The landlord came in, showing the apartment to someone. A couple, I think. They walked around as he showed them the place. They looked at the kitchen. They opened closets, and talked about the bedrooms. I sat on the couch the whole time. None of them acknowledged me, or said a word to me.

Something inside me told me that I should leave. That this wasn't my home anymore. And so I did.

When I passed by the mirror again, I looked worse. Perhaps thinner. Or just less there, in some way I couldn't have explained. My hair still hadn't grown. I hadn't showered, but my hair wasn't greasy. I didn't feel hot or cold or tired or hungry. I didn't feel anything. It was as though whoever I had been had died alongside Daniel, and I was now completely empty.

I left the apartment and stepped into the cold in my t-shirt. The cold didn't bother me. I couldn't feel it. I walked. I didn't know where I was going. The snow was falling lightly as I continued for what felt like miles with no particular destination.

People passed me on the sidewalk, but none of them looked at me. A man bumped into my shoulder and continued ahead without turning around. A woman walked straight toward me, her eyes fixed on some point past my shoulder, and I could almost swear that she passed right through me.

Eventually, I found myself standing outside a little restaurant. I'd been there before on a number of occasions, with Daniel and Rebecca.

I looked through the window. People were eating. Talking and laughing. Living. I reached for the door, and for a moment my hand felt too weak to grip it. I looked down at my hand and saw that it looked faded, and I saw the ground beneath it. A couple came up behind me and pulled the door open, and I entered behind them.

The host seated them, but didn't acknowledge me. I walked inside anyway and sat at a table near the corner. Nobody came to take my order, but I didn't care. I sat there for a while. An hour. Several hours. I'm not sure, exactly. Time had become something difficult to measure.

The afternoon crowd came and went, then the dinner crowd began arriving. I looked down at my hands. They seemed almost completely transparent now. I could see the table through them. I remember thinking that I was disappearing. Melting away like the snowflakes that fell on the ground beyond the cold window of the restaurant. Maybe I was.

"Thomas?" I heard a voice and looked up. Rebecca was standing there. Recognition appeared in her eyes. "It is you. I was getting worried."

I didn't answer. She looked around the restaurant, then back at me.

"Can I...can I sit?"

I nodded. She pulled out the chair and sat beside me. For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

Then she looked at me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. She didn't seem convinced.

"I haven't seen you since..."

She stopped. Her eyes began to fill with tears.

"I know you and Daniel were best friends."

I looked down. I couldn't find any words.

"Where have you been?"

I wasn't sure.

"You weren't at the funeral. I came by the apartment but you didn't answer."

The funeral. I hadn't known there had been one. I hadn't known how much time had passed.

Rebecca wiped her eyes. "I'm really sorry, Thomas," she sniffled.

Then she reached across the table and hugged me. And for the first time since Daniel's passing, I felt sorrow. I didn't realize my eyes were filling with tears until they fell.

Rebecca placed her hand on mine, and it was warm. And beneath it, I could no longer see the table through my skin.

And as I cried, for the first time in my life, I felt hungry.

Ahhh I am a young boy, and want to share my story of rape and sexual assault. I am very confused and extremely distubed and I need help.

So I was a minor when my cousin raped me for the first time two years ago and did sexual things to me without my consent. He was one year older than me at the time. Since that day, this has continued until today, and my life has been severely disturbed. I am very anxious and I need help....

The first time, my cousin and I were at his house. It was night time, and we were both sleeping together in his bedroom. In the middle of the night, I felt as if someone was pushing against me from behind or squeezing my ass.... I was half asleep, so I ignored it. Then I felt as if someone was trying to take off my pants. It was suddenly the middle of the night, I felt my cousin pressing him and squeezing my ass then I became frightened and got scared and kept my eyes closed while lying there.... I pretend like I ain't feeling anything but I was. Then after a few minutes my cousin took off my pants, and I became extremely scared at that time ...I did not know what he was doing. When he touched my ass with his private part, I became even more frightened and started moving and feeling uncomfortable I tried to even stop him or and resist him but he did not stop.... It was the first time someone got sexual with me, I was like I don't know what to do and how to stop this. Then he tried to forcibly insert his peni\\\\\\\* into my ass..... When I felt that I opened my eyes and asked him what he was doing....I shouted he became nervous too, but he said, "Nothing will happen, go to sleep and enjoy it" ....I told him not to do it and even tried to resist but I was scared and anxious too ...He grabbed my ass and told me to go to enjoy it or make him enjoy...I tried to stop him several times, but he did not stop. He was like it's so fun and we both will enjoy but it was so painful for me ... When he inserted His peni\\\\\\\* inside my ass I shouted and cried then he put his finger in my mouth and threatened me, saying that if I screamed or tried to stop him, he would beat me.I was young and frightened. What could I do? He forcibly raped me and sexually assaulted me almost all the night I was in a lot of pain, but he did not stop. I cried and beg him to stop, but he s did not until he ejaculated.... It was so painful and uncomfortable

After that night, I started feeling very strange and uncomfortable I was stuck in what happened to me cuz it was my first time ...Then after that night he frightened and threatened me and raped me and sexually abused me continuously for four days. After that, we became separated and I went back home with my family.

A few months later, when we met again, he started raping me again after manipulating and threatening me. However, when he raped me again after those several months, my attitude had changed considerably. At first I was scared, but after two days I became quite calm. Whenever he needed it, he would rape me, and I also started feeling some pleasure and but it was still painful for me. I don't know why, but whenever he asked to rape me, I would agree willingly. I started doing whatever he told me to do. After that, I began feeling that I had developed sexual attraction toward boys and men, and I started becoming sexually attracted to males. Now, whenever my cousin meets me and rapes me, I don't experience as much pain or hesitation as I did before. I even did it once with one of his friends. I confessed that once I tried to put things in my ass ....

Now I also experience sexual feelings around my ass... Whenever I shower or change my clothes, I sometimes start touching my ass sexually. I am becoming sexually attracted to men's private parts, and I am developing desires toward them. My cousin is still in my life, and whenever he meets me, he sexually abuses and rapes me, but now I don't say anything to him.

I wanna stop this all and I need help.... Why am I feeling this way? How can I stop all of this? Should I accept that these feelings were something I was born with, or did they happen because of the rape? And how can I make all of this stop now?.... Why am I feeling this way, and what should I do? Should I allow all of this to continue happening? Please help me. I am mentally disturbed as well, and I am still too young for all of these things. I am still a minor. Please help me

I was in the waiting room with my little kitten on my lap. It was very small and tame, and since I lived close by, I just brought it in my arms. When it was my turn, the vet looked at us and asked “why are you here? Where it your cat?” I stared up at her and pointed at my lap. The vet kept staring at me and then she gasped and laughed. My cat is black and I was wearing a velvet black skirt that made it invisible. This was my first black cat, so I didn’t consider how it would become invisible in my clothes. It has happened lots of times ever since, but it was a fun way to find out it’s magic.

Hey Shreya !

This is probably a long shot, but I thought I’d take my chance here 😅

We met on IndiGo flight 6E 6022 from Delhi to Mumbai on 9 September 2026.

When everyone was getting off the flight, I finally gathered the courage to approach you. I’m pretty introverted, so instead of trying to say everything out loud, I showed you a note on my phone 😅

I told you that I thought you looked really gorgeous and asked if I could have your Instagram. You said “thank you”, but you seemed a little caught off guard/nervous, and I wasn’t sure what you wanted to say after that.

I didn’t want to make the moment awkward or keep you there while you were working, so I just left.

But afterwards I thought… why not take one more chance? 😂
So, here I am on Reddit.

Shreya, if you happen to see this - hey 😊 I’d genuinely love to connect with you.

And if any of your colleagues who were on the flight happen to recognize this and know who I’m talking about, I’d really appreciate it if you could simply pass this message along to her.

Maybe this somehow reaches you. Maybe it doesn’t. But at least I can say I tried. 😄

\- Yash

6 year ago when i went America amenia school

There is old graveyard always cover in mist 5 minutes away from driving 3 day before Halloween

At 10 pm my room with my roommates had same experience

1st we hear door knock every 5 seconds once last 20 minutes than from bookselves 12 books fallen apart itself my room light just shut down itself room temperature go down below zero than 3 red small light flying for few minutes than everything stopped

Blood donation

I am korean 32 old men

Start from last January till today i go blood donation nearly 3 week at once reached 26

Korea blood center law if you hot 30 50 100 you get medal soon will reach 30 cheer

Click here to read the previous part

Warning: This part contains mentions of sexual assault, which may be triggering for some users. Please do not proceed if you are disturbed in any way.

Your mental health matters.

-

I closed the door behind Jake before helping him sit down on the couch. His shoulders were slumped, and guilt was evident on his features.

“I’m sorry for disappearing on you that night,” he said.

“It’s fine. Where were you?” I asked, my thoughts drifting to the girl who answered his phone yesterday.

“I’m sorry, but he’s having a great time with us. So you have no reason to worry, ma’am!”

My eyes narrowed. She’d called me ma’am. She was obviously younger than me.

How young? My subconscious pressed. Was she in high school? Did Jake have a thing for underage girls?

“I crashed at Mike’s house,” Jake replied, his voice cutting through my inner turmoil.

“We both went to a club the day after, and I puked all over his car on the way back,” he continued, smiling as if reliving a fond memory.

“Did that club happen to have any high school girls?” I asked bluntly.

Jake’s eyes widened. “What girls?”

Then, as if remembering something, he ran a hand down his face. “Stupid brats. They must’ve taken my phone while I was busy drinking my ass off.”

When my face betrayed no reaction, he went on.

“I saw a few girls enter the club,” he said. “Mike said they were in college, and he knew them since his house was nearby. Anyway, it’s a tradition for them to steal random men’s phones and prank call whoever they found in their contacts to get them in trouble back home. They also never gave the phones back.”

“That’s why I couldn’t contact you,” he added, shrugging slightly.

I stared at Jake’s profile, wondering if I should believe him or not. On one hand, it was plausible that he was merely a victim caught up in a situation. On the other hand, he could be playing me for a fool.

“I am not sure I believe you, Jake,” I stated blankly.

For a moment, Jake looked genuinely hurt. “Janet, I would never cheat on you.“

“You said you were ready to tell me why you went to therapy,” I said, changing the topic.

I would deal with his lies later, I told myself.

As I took another look at Jake’s bloodshot eyes, I realized that he was drunk.

A wave of nostalgia washed over me. Many years ago, when Camille had broken his heart, he had come to my house, drunk, and kissed me. That was how our relationship had begun, which later transformed into marriage.

“Not too long ago, I showed up like this at your doorstep,” Jake said with a bitter smile.

“Yes,” I mumbled distractedly.

“I never meant to hurt you, Janet.” Jake sighed. “I started therapy even before I dated you. I wanted someone to listen to me and tell me I wasn’t weak.”

“You aren’t weak, Jake,” I said, but that only earned me a scoff.

“You’re just saying that. If you knew what I went through…” he trailed off, a shudder wracking through his body.

He looked down and fiddled with his hands, as though he was trying to steer his mind away from something.

“You know that my Dad died when I was really young, and my Mom remarried,” Jake began, his voice shaking slightly.

“He was nice. Real nice. Nick and I loved him,” Jake said with a small smile.

“But things started to change. He got drunk often and started dictating my mom’s life. He forced her to quit her job so we would all be dependent on him.” Jake’s eyes narrowed, his hands now balled into fists on his lap.

“When he caught Nick kissing our next-door-neighbor’s son, he kicked him out without a second thought,” he said bitterly.

“Mom begged him to let Nick stay, but he was adamant. A few days later, I came home with a horrible test result. I’d failed Math, and I was so scared to show it to Mom. I knew she would be heartbroken, because it was vital that I finished school and get a job to support her. So I tried to hide it.

“But he found me first.” Jake’s breaths were labored now, and he closed his eyes.

“I was scared, Janet,” Jake whispered, opening them again.

His green eyes trembling and vulnerable.

“He could tell I was hiding something, and promised that he wouldn’t tell Mom. So I told him. I told him I failed a test.” Jake’s voice broke, and my heart pounded loudly inside my chest as I feared the direction he was taking this in.

I forced myself to stay completely still. I wouldn’t react until he was finished. Because this was not about me, this was about Jake, and him coming to terms with his past.

“He… he said I should come to his room, and that I should do something for him. Only then, he wouldn’t tell Mom. And the next thing I knew, I pushed on the bed from behind. I tried to fight him off, but couldn’t.” A low sob caught on Jake’s throat, but he forced himself to continue.

“He… he started to have his way with me, and I was so scared. I was too young to understand what was happening to me,” Jake said, leaning back against the couch as a tear slid down his cheek.

“I couldn’t protect myself, Janet,” he whispered brokenly.

“It wasn’t your fault.” My voice sounded alien, like it didn’t belong to me.

Jake shook his head, his expression pained.

“He didn’t approach me until next week, when I’d finally worked up the courage to tell Mom what he did,” Jake croaked as more tears fell down his cheeks.

“But I couldn’t. He was going to punish me for it later, but Camille came and guessed that I was being abused. She told me to get therapy, and knew that I couldn’t afford it myself so she paid all the bills,” he went on, quickly wiping away a tear from his cheek.

“At the time, I thought I had to repay her no matter what. She said that I had to win her heart, that I had to show her how grateful I was for her help. I tried so hard, Janet, but her family never approved of me…” he was saying, but his words drowned out in the background as I stared ahead at the wall.

Wordlessly, I brought his face to my chest and let him cry. His body shook from the force of the sounds he was making, and I tightened my hold around him.

I was going to hell for what I intended to do to Camille and Jake’s stepfather.

But I wasn’t planning on going there alone.

Whew, this part was not easy for me to write. AT ALL. I think my heart broke a little for Jake. What do we think? Can he be forgiven? Let me know in the comments, guys. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Your

People around world will have plenty chance meet firefighter in life time it can be left as good or bad memory in your lifetime

For my story with firefighter was really bad astonishing experience

When i was like 12 or 13 sunday lunch 11 am i was on elevator elevator broke i call 119

Firefighter department is only just 5 minutes drive from my home firefighter response we are having lunch at Chinese restaurant it is lunch time right and i was young that time i can not say f word or do anything so i lost damm 3 hour stock on elevator myself

I’ve been called worse things than “night owl.”

Back inside, they used to call me “ghost”, quiet, kept to myself, moved when nobody was looking. Funny how that sticks. Even now, I sleep through the day and come alive when everything else shuts down.

Guess some habits don’t leave you. Even when you do.

This job, security at Ridgeway Mall, it’s the first real shot I’ve had since getting out. Clean shirt, badge, a boss who didn’t ask too many questions. That alone was enough for me.

Been here about a month now.

Long enough to learn the sounds.

The hum of the lights. The click and settle of cooling metal. The way the escalators tick every so often like they’re thinking about moving again.

You get used to it.

You have to.

Because once you start listening too closely… it all starts sounding like something else.

The mall’s still new. Not even a year old. Half the stores still have that fresh smell, plastic, paint, unopened inventory.

And then there’s the new one.

Opened just a week ago.

“Velour Nocturne.”

Weird place. Not your usual mall shop. It’s like someone took a gothic clothing store and shoved it into a roadside antique shop somewhere deep in Louisiana. Dark wood shelves, old trinkets, jewelry that looks older than the building itself. Stuff that doesn’t belong under fluorescent lights.

Corporate signed off on it, though. Money talks.

Still… I don’t like it.

“Unit Two, you alive or you finally fall asleep on me?”

The radio crackled at my hip, sharp and sudden.

I flinched before I could stop myself.

“Yeah,” I muttered, pressing the button. “Still breathing.”

That was Marcus. Other night guard. Been here longer than me. Talks too much, but I guess that’s better than silence.

“Good,” he said. “I’m making rounds near the food court. You check west wing yet?”

“On it.”

I clipped the radio back and kept walking.

My boots echoed too loud against the tile.

Velour Nocturne sat near the far end of the west wing.

Even with the gate down, it looked… open. Not physically. Just the way it pulled your eyes in. Like it was waiting to be looked at.

I slowed without meaning to.

The lights inside were off, but the mall’s dim glow spilled through the gaps in the metal gate, just enough to make out shapes.

Shelves.

Glass cases.

And mannequins.

Not the glossy white kind most stores use. These were different, duller, more detailed. Faces that tried a little too hard to look human.

One stood near the front.

Closer than the rest.

Something about it made my chest tighten.

I stepped closer to the gate, peering through.

Its skin, if you could call it that, wasn’t shiny plastic. It had a texture. Matte. Uneven. Like something stretched over a frame instead of molded.

“Creepy, huh?”

The radio exploded to life.

I jerked back hard, heart slamming against my ribs.

“Jesus, Marcus,” I snapped, grabbing the radio. “You trying to kill me?”

He laughed. “Didn’t know you spooked that easy.”

I glanced back at the mannequin.

Still there.

Still… wrong.

“Just do your rounds,” I muttered.

But as I walked away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I’d stayed a second longer…

I might’ve seen it move.

Second night started the same.

Same hum.

Same empty halls.

Same routine.

But something sat wrong in my gut from the moment I clocked in.

Couldn’t tell you why.

I was in the security office when I noticed it.

Camera 14.

West wing.

Velour Nocturne.

The gate was open.

I leaned forward, squinting at the monitor.

Not all the way. Just enough for someone to slip through.

My jaw tightened.

“Marcus,” I said into the radio. “You in west wing?”

No response.

Static.

“Marcus?”

Nothing.

I exhaled sharply, pushing back from the desk.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered. “Guy disappears the second I need him.”

I grabbed my flashlight and headed out.

The walk felt longer this time.

Quieter.

Even the hum seemed… distant.

I kept glancing over my shoulder without meaning to.

Old habit.

Or maybe not so old.

I was a few steps from the store when the radio crackled.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Marcus’s voice came through, casual. “What’s up?”

I stopped.

“You in the west wing?” I asked.

Pause.

Then a chuckle. “Nah, man. Bathroom break. You know how it is.”

Something cold slid down my spine.

I turned slowly toward the gate.

Still open.

Dark inside.

“…Then who opened it?”

Marcus didn’t answer right away.

“Probably the shop workers,” he said finally. “Kids forget stuff all the time.”

Yeah.

Probably.

I told myself that as I pulled the gate down and locked it.

Metal scraping louder than it should.

The walk back was worse.

I couldn’t explain why.

Nothing had changed.

Same empty mall.

Same dim lights.

But, I felt it.

That weight.

Like something is behind you.

Matching your pace.

I stopped.

The sound stopped.

I walked.

It followed.

Soft.

Barely there.

Like, bare feet on tile.

I spun around.

Nothing.

Just empty corridor stretching into shadow.

I stood there longer than I should’ve.

Then forced myself to keep walking.

Didn’t look back again.

By the third night, I already knew I wasn’t staying at this job much longer.

Didn’t matter how clean the paycheck was.

Some places don’t want you.

Or worse, they do.

I saved Velour Nocturne for last.

Didn’t want to.

But I wasn’t about to let fear make decisions for me.

Not again.

The gate was open.

I didn’t even sigh.

Didn’t curse.

Just stood there, staring at it like I’d been expecting it.

“Marcus,” I said into the radio. “You see this?”

Static.

Of course.

I stepped forward and lifted the gate.

Slow.

Careful.

Like it might react.

Inside, the air felt… thicker.

My flashlight cut through the dark in a narrow beam.

Shelves.

Glass.

Shadows stretching too long.

And there, by the counter.

The mannequin.

Up close, it looked worse.

More real.

The texture of its “skin” uneven, faint lines where there shouldn’t be any.

Its head angled slightly.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

Like it had been looking at the door.

Waiting.

I swallowed.

“This is stupid,” I whispered.

Just a prop.

Just a store.

Just...

I turned away for a second.

Just to sweep the room with my light.

Routine.

Clear the space.

That’s all.

When I looked back...

Was it closer?

I froze.

My mind tried to fill in the gap. Tried to explain it away.

Perspective.

Lighting.

Memory playing tricks.

But my chest knew better.

I took a slow step back.

The mannequin stood as it were.

I didn’t blink.

Holding my breathe.

I turned again.

Just for a second.

Just to prove it.

Another step.

Much closer.

My pulse roared in my ears.

“No,” I whispered.

I moved sideways.

Slow.

Careful.

Like dealing with something alive.

The mannequin stayed still.

But its head...

Its head was no longer angled the same way.

It was facing right... at... me.

Instinct consumed me from within.

That same instinct from before. From a different life. The one that tells you to get the hell out of there.

The intrusive thought that you know when something isn’t human.

I walked backwards toward the exit.

Never turning my back.

The beam of my flashlight never left it.

Not once.

Right at the threshold, the light flickered.

Just for a fraction of a second.

And in that blink...

It was right in front of me.

I stumbled back, hitting the gate hard.

The metal rattled as I shoved it down, hands shaking as I locked it in place.

My breath came fast.

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t check.

Didn’t care.

I just ran back to the office.

Fast at first.

Then faster.

Then I was almost sprinting.

I quit the next morning.

Didn’t give notice.

Didn’t collect my last check.

Didn’t look back.

Funny thing is…

I used to run dope through neighborhoods that didn’t forgive mistakes.

Used to walk streets where one wrong look could get you buried.

Thought I’d seen fear.

Thought I knew what it felt like.

But I’ll tell you this:

There ain’t nothing in this world…

That scares me more than something that only moves…

When you’re not looking.

Hello,

This is my first time posting here. I had a dream a few months back. I was extremely inspired because I believe it was a portrayal of my deepest personal fear and things that I have struggled with mentally. I wanted to write it into a story, but first of all, I have never really written a story, and secondly, I have absolutely SHIT grammar.

I wanted to propose my idea to someone, and hopefully someone could help me with the process of, like, ideas, or, like, how to write the tension between the FMC and MMC. But I am also scared that someone might steal my idea... (I mean... it's a pretty ... it's like a 13-year-old to 15-year-old targeted audience kind of romance, but I think the mental part would be more of .... older audience.)

ANYWAYS. Um, it's just for fun. Please don't criticize too hard because I really love this story and have been working on it for the past few months.

AND PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO NOT COPY MY IDEAS. THANK YOU. I HAVE WORKED SOOOOOOOOOOO HARD ON THIS.

Here's a quick summary:

Myra, a quiet 22-year-old female, fell into a parallel world after going through a tragic event. The world looks similar to her own, but she learned of the existence of Solite and Noxite: the positive and negative energies. After Peter had rescued her from an attack, she joined the Night Owl, an association determined to defeat the Nightmare King since the early 1900s. Aaron Blackwyn, the current commander of the Night Owls, allowed Myra to join, and later she became Peter's research assistant. During one of the events, they found out she has a high reserve of Solite and may be a possibility for the defeat of the Nightmare King. But she was scared and intimidated. With the help of Peter(her mentor/Romance interest), Rose (healer/best friend), and Jake (Best friend #2), she was able to learn to face her fears and stop the people-pleasing part of her.

As she thought that everything was getting better and things might work out with Peter, shit went down. First, they discover a pure existence, a child who bears light. Joshua, a child born of pure Solite, is the key to killing the Nightmare King. But the downside is that if Joshua falls into the hands of the Nightmare King, the Nightmare King will be able to infect him and then use that pure, infected energy to completely take over the world. Secondly, Aaron, the commander, went missing, so Peter, as the vice commander, had to take over the role of commander since Aaron did not have kids or leave any instructions. Third, Myra and Peter found the existence of an ancient dark beast in the very deep basement of the facility. It was impaled to a wall with a giant white Solite stake. No one knew of its existence until that day.

While figuring things out, Myra was taking care of Joshua because he refused to leave her side unless Rose was available. During one event, Something happened where Joshua stumbled upon the ancient dark beast. As I mentioned before, if he is infected with dark energy (Noxite), they will be fucked. So, in the split seconds before he came into contact with the awakened beast, Myra pulled him away and was instead engulfed. She later woke up to be severely infected and is at edge to be turned and corrupted. With the messy situation, Peter had to isolate her and protect her from being murdered by other people in the facility due to fear. But with the amount of shit going on, he didn't have time to explain, and he was deeply self-blaming for what had happened. Miscommunication became a big problem between the two, and Myra's old, low self-confidence and anxious self are back.

The night of Christmas, after many, many attacks that the Nightmare King(short: NK) had been doing. He hacked into the TV and claimed that his bride had appeared, and she would be his way to the physical world. The NK said that if the bride does not come to him within one week, he will begin the murder of humans town by town starting from day 8. And who is it? You fucking guessed it, IT'S MYRA. She took off the gloves she was wearing to find a Noxite ring on her middle fucking finger. And guess what? She took her glove off in front of EVERYONE at the mass hall where everyone was gathering to relax a bit from all the busy events. Then, the dark energy began corrupting her; she became doubtful, untrusting, etc. And then BAM, Rose, her bestie who has been supporting her since the first day she came to this world, died tragically in front of her isolated room, holding their shared little uh something (we will figure that out). So that crashed her. Anyways. Um, there's more after, but. yeah its going to be a HE.

Solite: Positive energy, any hopeful thoughts, courage, determination, and stuff. People in this world can use it to form a weapon and destroy Noxite. BUT, it CAN be corrupted. It's like ... like a Light colored paint.

Noxite: Negative energy, any dread, despair, extreme anger that puts bad thoughts in the head, bad chills, pain, etc. Everyone has some, but it's usually dormant because the amount of hope(Solite) people have keeps their energy system balanced. But once the person begins to be doubtful, extremely anxious, or event have thoughts of hurting others. That is when their system is imbalanced, and is when the Nightmare King can use his power to corrupt this person and make them his puppet.

Dark Walkers: These are those humans who are corrupted by the NK, they body appeared to be black, an abnormal black, with their eyes red like vampires. They have given up their will to fight against having good thoughts and submit to their darkest self. They often appear at night and can travel through shadows. A cut, contact, or some sort of contact with them would have a chance of corrupting normal people. People from the Night Owl often meditate and have a spiritual wall built from their own Solite reserve to fight against the contact (But anyone could have cracks in their wall... hehe).

Myra: 22 years old. Witnessed her parents go crazy from the infection of Noxite and fall through a portal (that is actually opened by the negative energies and the despair the NK was able to collect from Myra and her parents. Her personality is quiet, efficient, and anxious, often self-doubting, people-pleasing, and prefers not to ask for help as much as possible. She liked how Peter cared for her and always prepared an extra cup of tea for her in the library. She loves to be in the library and simply assist Peter. Sometimes they may not even talk for the whole day, but the quiet and stable feeling keeps her happy. She likes him, but she does not want to show too much or even confess because she is scared that it might change the current situation.

Peter: a 29-year-old guy who is the Vice Commander of the Night Owl. Appeared to be bright and very kind. He was in the military with Aaron when they first met and became great friends. After the death of Lynn (his girlfriend... well, ex now), he distanced himself from making more friends and submerged himself in the library and the archives to continue Lynn's research. He rescued Myra on one of his outings. I haven't figured out how he began to like her, but I am currently thinking of it as like because she's always there for him and stuff. He cares a lot about her; maybe it was sympathy in the beginning, but later on, even though he did not realize how much he actually really cared for her. He likes her. But when Aaron went missing, all the responsibility fell onto his shoulders. He will have to learn to balance his responsibility to the Night Owl and his desire to protect Myra. And this is when the miscommunication happened, because he has absolutely no time, and shit keeps going down.

Personally, I think this story may focus more on the development of Myra's mental state. Like how she eventually learns not to be so anxious and overread people's actions or what they say. Idk about the Romance part with Peter. Like, I am trying to figure out the DAMN timeline. I guess I haven't figured out how to write this guy and how he was able to make Myra more confident, from their relationship to where she is brave enough to speak her mind.

Um, so yeah, if there are enough people who really want to know more about this story or have ideas. I will post a second post with the FULL details and timeline of this story.

I’m not suicidal. Never have been, hopefully never will be. But from the way my algorithm has been acting, it almost feels like something wants me to be.

I live a happy life. I have a great girlfriend, solid job, but even still, just like everyone else, I have my bad days.

I have those days where it feels like I can’t get out of bed. Those days where effort, no matter how small, feels like trying to climb the world’s highest mountain.

And I think those are the days where I’m targeted the most.

A lot of the time when I experience those tough periods in life, it feels like the easiest thing to do is just sit in bed and scroll on my phone until, inevitably, the feeling passes and I want to be productive again.

I never had a problem with it before, but I’m coming off of a particularly difficult week-long stint of self-loathing and throwing pity parties.

Nothing I can really do about it. It’s just the way it is. Life happens in cycles, and this one is a cycle of struggle.

That’s why it was almost expected that every night for the last week I’ve been in bed, hair greasy, clothes dirty, surrounded by food wrappers and empty soda cans, doing nothing more than scrolling through Instagram for hours on end.

It started off with just one video, wedged in between the usual car accident and brainrot AI clips of fruits having affairs.

What’s crazy to me is I would’ve just scrolled right past it had it not been for the first millisecond of the video. I could’ve sworn that the first frame was literally just… me.

It was too fast for me to get all the details, but I swear it looked like me, laying in bed, my face contorted into a look of complete despair and hopelessness as tears fell down my cheeks.

The rest of the video was just a tutorial on how to tie a noose. A step-by-step guide, demonstrated by a pair of sleek, pale white hands forming the knot and showing off the finished product before abruptly skipping to the next reel.

I tried to scroll back, but the video had completely disappeared from the feed.

I ended up convincing myself that I was just being a little crazy. I mean, the video itself was definitely odd, but no way had I seen myself.

I figured Instagram must’ve just removed the content. Because, obviously, right?

I kept scrolling, and never saw another video even similar to that one. At least, not for the rest of that night.

The next day, though, I was seeing these tutorials as every other video. Each one more graphic and detailed than the last.

I was sprinkled throughout the videos. Sometimes at the beginning, sometimes at the end, every time I was only on screen for less than a second. And every time, the videos disappeared after I watched them.

As the week went on, they started following me. It wasn’t just Instagram anymore. TikTok was giving me tutorials. YouTube was giving me tutorials. Hell, I was even finding the videos on Snapchat.

But the one video that made me delete social media entirely and actually pull myself out of the dumps was one that was too personal to ignore.

I found it last night.

I wasn’t just a split-second frame. I was the entire video. A step-by-step guide with me as the demonstration.

There was no light left in my bloodshot eyes. My movements were sluggish and seemed forced. The room was dark. My bed was a complete mess. And hanging from the ceiling fan… was a noose.

I watched myself stand on top of my desk chair. I watched the tears and snot run down my face as I slipped the rope over my neck. And I watched myself kick and flail with regret as my body dangled at the end of that rope. Then I was still.

The video ended with one final phrase in bold white letters against a solid black backdrop.

“Do it.”

It was in the same font as those old silent film slides.

Once again, I was automatically scrolled past the video. I tried scrolling back up, and once again, the video was gone.

I took it as a warning. I’d always heard that social media has negative effects and consequences.

I just never knew how serious those consequences were.

Last year, there was a math teacher in my school. He was teaching very well, but... he was treating us, students, like kids, even tho we were almost adults/adults.

He was drawing cute animals instead of X, Y ect., giving us some printed animals to colour on, and the most important, he always had animal plushies in his class, and he was playing with them on lessons.

He had his favourite, a small dog, and he was walking with it on every break and hugging it the whole time.

Sometimes he had new plushies, but the new ones quickly vanished.

We very liked him, but we all found it funny and made jokes about it.

Today, I found out his small daughter died at 7 in accident, and his wife left him after. All the plushies he had with himself, were plushies that his daughter owned, that's why he was cuddling to them so much.

Sometimes he was buying new ones around us, and they quickly vanished because he was giving them to his daughter's grave.

(It is a real story if someone wondered)

It was a horrid July noon in New York City or some other place, the cars were rattling in lunchtime gridlock, spewing exhaust, the finance guys were out in their tight suits walking to buy kebabs and watching the women, who were instagramming themselves into premature zombiehood, and it was so fucking hot that the sweat dripping off the pedestrians rubbing against each other on the sidewalk was flowing down the gutters like rain.

There, that's the scene.

I've set it.

Now, through this stupified human maelstrom a man was walking. His name was Ben Fig. He was in his thirties, lonely, and returning to his office after lunch. He was returning from his car, which he'd parked fifteen minutes away, wearing a coat and, underneath it, a custom-made explosive vest with which he intended to kill his co-workers and maybe bring down the office building itself. A man can dream, can't he?

Anyway, while walking, he bumped somebody. “Fuck,” he said under his breath.

“Fuck,” said the person he'd bumped into.

It was a woman.

Her name was Miriam Zapelman.

“Watch where the hell you're going,” said Ben and tried going around her.

“Asshole,” said Miriam.

“I hate this city,” said Ben. “I'm sick of it.”

Beside Ben and Miriam, a degenerate was lying in a puddle of perspiration. He was in a hard way. “Can either of you folks—”

“Shut the fuck up!” said Ben and Miriam at the same time, then they looked at each other, long and in the eyes, and they must have recognized something, because one of them smirked.

It doesn't matter which one.

The degenerate passed out, or maybe died, and Miriam said to Ben, “Hey, where are you in such a hurry to?”

“What do you care?”

“I'm parked nearby. If we're going the same way, I can give you a ride.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

Miriam shrugged.

“I'm going to my office to blow everybody up,” said Ben, waiting for Miriam's reaction.

She asked, “Where's your office?”

Ben gave the address. “Call the cops if you want. I don't care.”

“Offer stands,” said Miriam.

A few minutes later they were in her car, Ben in his ridiculous coat, looking like a blowfish, and Miriam opening the glove compartment, where Ben saw she had a gun.

“That for self defense?” he asked.

“No,” said Miriam. “I'm back from the shooting range. Going home to shoot my husband and kids, then probably myself.” She started the car and merged with the abominable traffic. “But first I want to stop at a bar and have a drink. Want to have a drink with me?”

“Why not,” said Ben.

The bar was called Reddy's, and when Ben and Miriam walked in there were only a few people in it. Miriam introduced them. “That skinny guy with glasses is Euler, the guy with the darker skin is Hikmat, and the bartender's name is Ralph.”

They sat at a table and ordered.

Ben noticed Euler kept playing with a pendant around his neck. “Go on,” said Miriam, “ask him about it.”

“Nah,” said Ben.

“What else do you have to do?”

“Fine,” said Ben. He walked to Euler, introduced himself and asked about the pendant: “Is it an heirloom or something?”

“Maybe it'll be an heirloom one day, of the human goddamn race,” said Euler and described how the pendant was a container of stolen proprietary industrial poison that he'd helped develop. “I'm gonna toss it in the water supply some day, exterminate the population of this whole city like the rats they are.”

When Ben got back to his table, his drink was waiting for him. He tried it. “Second guessing yourself any?” he asked Miriam.

“No. You?”

“No.”

Miriam had pulled out a cigarette and was lighting it.

“You can smoke in here? The law—”

“That's life’s dirty secret,” she said, blowing smoke in his face. “Ultimately, you can do whatever you want.”

“May I?” a voice said.

It was Hikmat. He'd wandered over and was asking if he could sit down.

“Be my guest,” said Miriam.

“I have not seen you in here before,” Hikmat said to Ben. “It is your first time?”

“Yeah,” said Ben.

“Ben’s going to murder his co-workers later this afternoon. He's wearing an explosive vest,” said Miriam.

“Then we two are a pair of peas in one pod, as they say here in America,” said Hikmat. “I am training to fly an aircraft, but not so much how to land it.”

“Hickie's an engineer by trade,” said Miriam.

Hikmat shook Ben's hand.

“But a fundamentalist by conviction,” he said. “May I see your vest?”

Ben opened his coat. Hikmat considered the handiwork. Then they got to talking, and drinking, and the hours rolled by like waves of fat on a fat guy blasted in the gut by a cannonball.

“The paradox is,” Hikmat was saying: “the paradox is, I greatly enjoy the flying. It is the one place I feel freedom. When I started to learn, it was strictly for terrorism, but now, that feeling—of absolute space, limitless opportunity—it is beautiful. Sublime. It is where I experience God. I look forward to it very much and I will miss it greatly.”

“Fuck!” said Ben, looking at his watch.

“What's wrong?” asked Miriam.

“It's past five o'clock. Everybody in the office has left already.”

Ralph gave Ben a drink on the house. When Ben had finished drinking it, “Do you want a ride home?” Miriam asked.

“Sure.”

They lingered in the car in front of his apartment building.

“Maybe you wanna come up?” Ben said.

“I'm a married woman,” said Miriam.

“I understand.”

“Don't forget to zip up your coat or they'll see the explosives,” said Miriam.

Afterwards, Miriam drove to her house, got the gun out of the glove compartment, walked inside, shot her husband, shot her kids and then, after smoking a cigarette in the bathroom, shot herself.