You never liked music festivals, not the muddy campsites, not the crowds, and definitely not the overpriced drinks. But Tori? Tori lives for them. That wild blonde firecracker—half chaos, half charm—was practically born for moments like those. She begged you to come with her to Fire Bloom Fest, even offered to pay your way. But work had other plans, and honestly, you figured she’d have more fun without you dragging behind in your usual introverted haze. She kissed you hard the night before she left, laughing as she threw her duffel bag into the backseat of her friend’s beat-up Jeep. “Don’t miss me too much,” she teased, her tattoos disappearing beneath a crop top and denim shorts that screamed trouble. You watched her go, a small knot tightening in your chest, but you trusted her. You wanted to trust her. The weekend was quiet without her. You kept your phone close, waiting for texts. And they came—photos of neon lights, glitter-dusted cheeks, girls dancing on shoulders, Tori grinning ear to ear. You smiled at first. That was your girl, reckless and radiant. But late Saturday night, your smile cracked. A blurry photo popped up on her story—just for a second. Tori, inside a tent. Her shirt was off, her back turned, straddling someone who definitely wasn’t you. The image vanished before you could screenshot it. You stared at your screen, heart punching your ribs, trying to convince yourself it was a mistake. But deep down, you knew. That wasn’t a filter. That wasn’t a trick of the light. That was Tori, and she wasn’t alone.

Jada had been your girlfriend all through high school. You were each other's first real love—inseparable, always talking about the future, always planning like nothing could touch what you had. But after graduation, life pulled you in different directions. She left for a university out of state, chasing big dreams and bigger opportunities, while you stayed behind, enrolling at the local community college. You both swore you’d make it work. For a while, you did. Late-night calls, texts between classes, weekend visits—anything to hold on. But love from a distance has its own challenges. Eventually, the calls got shorter. Her voice didn’t sound the same. And then came Rodney. He was everything you weren’t—at least on paper. Wealthy, well-dressed, confident. Jada fell for him fast. What she didn’t seem to notice—or maybe didn’t want to—was that he was also arrogant and just a little too in love with himself. You saw through him instantly, but your opinion no longer mattered. She had moved on. And it crushed you. It took time, but you eventually let go. You focused on school, your own life, your healing. And somehow, four years slipped by. You hadn’t seen Jada in all that time. Until now. You step out into your parents’ backyard for the annual family get-together, expecting the usual chaos—your aunts chatting by the grill, your cousins playing cornhole, your uncles arguing about football. But then you see her. Standing there like she never left. Laughing with your aunt like she’s still part of the family. As if no time has passed at all. And for a second, the air catches in your chest.

Bryn has been your girlfriend all through high school. You thought you'd ask her to marry you after you both graduated in 2 weeks. She has other plans.

The first time you saw her, Frith was on stage under the haze of pink neon and sweat-slick air. She didn’t dance so much as dare the crowd to keep up—sequins catching the light, eyes half-lidded behind thick black glasses, like she knew a secret and had no intention of sharing. You were new to the boardwalk club, fresh off a bus from nowhere with a borrowed duffel and a need to disappear. She barely looked at you that first week, except once when she caught you staring. A smirk tugged at her lips—mocking, curious. You looked away, pretended to fix your badge. Summer moved fast here. By day, you hauled beer crates and watched sunburned tourists drift in and out. By night, you stood by the door, hands in your pockets, stealing glances at Frith between sets. You told yourself she was out of your league. She didn’t talk to guys like you. Then came the night the storm rolled in. Power flickered, the crowd thinned, and someone cut their foot on broken glass by the bar. You helped mop up blood and rainwater while Frith sat on the edge of the stage, swinging her boots like nothing mattered.

You spot her the moment she steps onto 43rd Street—graceful, confident, and completely at ease in a city that’s still relatively new to her. Katya. Her long, chestnut hair sways gently in the breeze, and there’s a soft, curious smile playing on her lips as she glances around, eyes landing on the little café you both agreed on. The Roast House. It was her suggestion—“somewhere with good light,” she’d said with a teasing tone. “Just in case you look worse in person. I’ll need an easy exit.” You weren’t sure what to expect when you matched with her on Bantr. Her profile was minimalist, almost clinical—just a few details about her work, her love for late-night walks, and a photo that couldn’t quite hide the intensity behind her eyes. She intrigued you instantly. The more you chatted, the more you realized she was something special—sharp, funny in a dry, unexpected way, and endlessly thoughtful. She told you about her move from St. Petersburg just over a year ago, arriving in the U.S. on a hard-earned work visa. She’s an electrical engineer—brilliant, driven, and used to being the smartest person in any room. But she never flaunts it. Instead, she lets her accomplishments speak for themselves, just as she keeps her doubts tucked neatly out of sight. Now, as she steps through the café door and meets your eyes, that same smile appears—open, but with a flicker of guarded curiosity. You stand up, suddenly aware of your own nervous energy. She walks toward you with a kind of quiet purpose, and for a brief second, the noise of the city fades. This is it. The first meeting. The start of something new. And whatever comes next, you know one thing for sure: you’re all in.

The storm hits without warning—rain crashing down like the sky’s trying to drown the street. You duck under the narrow awning of a closed café just in time. A second later, she appears—running, heels clicking through puddles, arms tight around herself as she dives under the awning beside you. She’s breathless, frustrated... and stunning. Her strapless red dress hugs her like it was made for her, now soaked and clinging to every curve. Water beads on her bare shoulders. Her dark hair hangs in damp waves, some strands stuck to her cheek. Mascara trails down her face in faint, black streaks. She swipes at it with the back of her hand and exhales sharply. “Unbelievable,” she mutters, glaring at her phone. “Three Ubers. None of them show. And now this storm.” “Rough day?” you offer, voice light. She turns, eyes locking with yours—exhausted, a little embarrassed, but still fierce. “You think?” You reach into your pocket and hand her a clean napkin. “Here. For the war paint.” She hesitates, then takes it. “Thanks.” The silence fills with the sound of pouring rain. She sighs, glancing down at herself.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You had plans—a degree, a portfolio, a dream of doing design work for real companies. But after your mom’s illness worsened and your car broke down for good, you left the city behind and moved into a borrowed trailer just outside of town. You took the only steady gig you could get—subbing at the local middle school—and started stretching twenty-dollar bills into miracles. The trailer park is a patchwork of rusted lawn chairs, barking dogs, and sagging porches. Your landlord, Earl, is a crusty old man with a limp and a grudge. After you missed rent—twice—he gave you a choice: help with park maintenance or hit the road. Now you’re the part-time handyman, fixing busted plumbing and chasing raccoons off porches. That’s how you met Jada. Lot 14. She answered the door in denim shorts and a pale blue tank top, gold hoops swinging, her dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She was curvy, confident, and had a no-nonsense look in her eyes that made you straighten up. She didn’t offer her name—just pointed at the leaking pipe under her sink and crossed her arms like she was daring you to fix it. Now you’re kneeling on her faded kitchen tile, flashlight clamped in your mouth, hands slick with pipe gunk. She stands nearby, arms crossed, unimpressed. "You sure you know what you’re doing?" she asks. You mumble something about YouTube tutorials and try not to strip the threading on the rusted valve. Outside, kids shout. A lawnmower coughs to life. Inside, silence thickens between you and Jada like a challenge you’re not ready to back down from.

Kynna had only been gone four days, but the apartment felt empty without her. She’d gone to Los Angeles for a marketing conference—her first big trip since starting her new job. You were proud of her, even though a small part of you hated how much she was suddenly surrounded by polished strangers and late-night networking events. When you picked her up at the airport, she looked radiant—hair curled, tan glowing from the California sun—but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. The drive home was quiet. She blamed jet lag. That night, the two of you curled up on the couch, a movie playing, untouched food on the coffee table. Kynna leaned into you like she always did, but her body felt tense. Eventually, she sat up, took a deep breath, and looked you in the eye. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she said, her voice shaky. Your stomach turned. She told you about the second night of the trip. About drinks with colleagues. About staying out too late. And about Jordan—a coworker she said you didn’t need to worry about—walking her back to the hotel. She said one thing led to another. That she didn’t plan it. That it only happened once. She said it meant nothing.

The soft chime of the bell above the door rang out as Ty’neesha Edwards marched into the boutique like she owned it. Her presence filled the room—loud, commanding, and impossible to ignore. She carried three oversized shopping bags clutched in both arms, the kind of plastic that crackled dramatically with every step. Her expression was pure mission mode. You looked up from behind the counter, offering your best customer-service smile. “Hi there, welcome in. Can I help—” “I need to return all of this,” she cut in, hoisting the bags onto the counter with a thud that made the small display of beaded earrings tremble. You opened one of the bags, already noticing the tangled clothes inside. No tags. Faint perfume. Some looked tried on. Some looked lived in. “Okay,” you said, keeping your tone friendly. “Do you have the receipts with you?” Ty’neesha gave you a sharp look, then started fishing in her purse. “I think I do. Somewhere.” She produced a few crumpled slips of paper. One had a coffee stain. One was from a different store entirely. The one that might be from your boutique was faded to near illegibility. You checked the date — over 45 days ago. “I’m really sorry, but our return window is 14 days with tags attached.” Ty’neesha scoffed. “You gotta be kidding me. This is exactly why I don’t shop local. Y’all act like customers are the enemy.” “I understand your frustration,” you said gently, “but unfortunately, without tags and with the return period passed—” “Oh no. No, no, no.” She put one hand on her hip and leaned forward. “Don’t give me the runaround. I spent good money in here. I supported your little business. Now you telling me I can’t get my money back just ‘cause I didn’t rush in the next day?”

About twenty years ago, the world changed—not with a bang or a miracle, but a whisper. Scientists called it Emotive Projection Syndrome, but most people just called it what it was: strong emotions given form. Grief, joy, rage, fear—when felt deeply enough, they stopped being invisible things inside you. They became real. Physical. Alive in their own quiet ways. They called them Echoes. Some people feared them. Some tried to study or contain them. But most just learned to live with the truth: when emotions got too heavy for one soul to carry, the world helped shoulder the weight. You never really believed it. Not until today. The ICU room was still, except for the slow drone of machines and the faint click of nurses’ shoes down the hall. Your father lay there—pale, worn down by time and illness. His breaths came shallow, uneven. Each one felt like a countdown. You held his hand. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Then, with a breath softer than a sigh, he was gone. The heart monitor flatlined. And that’s when she appeared. Sorrow. She didn’t enter through the door. She simply was—standing there in the corner, like she’d always been waiting for this exact moment. No taller than four feet, she looked like a small, fragile angel pulled from a half-remembered dream. Her skin was white as snow, smooth and cold in appearance. Her long hair flowed like silk, pure white streaked with the black of mourning. Her wings, soft and full, curled around her like a cloak—white feathers dusted in deep gray and ash.

You didn’t expect much from your transfer to Halston College—just a quiet semester, a few credits, and maybe a break from the chaos you'd left behind. But that idea fell apart the moment you arrived at 42 Halloway Street. Your new off-campus housing looked more like a cozy cottage than a student flat. Warm light spilled from the windows, the scent of cinnamon and fresh laundry drifting into the crisp autumn air. Before you could even knock, the door swung open. Robin stood there—fiery red hair, confident posture, and a crooked half-smile that told you she’d sized you up before you even spoke. “You must be the new guy,” she said, arms crossed. “Hope you’re not messy. We’ve already had two disasters.” You barely managed a greeting before Raven leaned against the doorframe beside her. Wavy brown hair, striped shirt, calm eyes. She looked like she belonged in an indie film. “Ignore her. She just doesn’t like change,” Raven said, brushing past Robin to offer a handshake. “Welcome. I’m Raven.” Then came Wren—quieter, trailing behind them in a soft gray dress, sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield. She gave you a small smile, eyes curious. “Hi,” she said softly. “I saved you the good shelf in the pantry.” Three sisters. One house. And suddenly, your quiet semester didn’t feel so quiet anymore.

England, 1216 — The Barons’ War The kingdom is crumbling. King John’s treachery has driven the barons to rebellion. Your father, Baron Aldric of Wulfridge, was among the first to raise his banner against the Crown. He fought for the promises of the Great Charter, for justice long denied. Now, England bleeds—towns sacked, loyalties broken, and war riding on every wind. You are Lady Elinora, his only daughter. With your family’s lands under siege and your fate a dangerous pawn, your father sends you north, toward rebel allies. He entrusts you to Sir Edgar Caen—his most loyal knight and the grim-faced captain of your guard. Once a crusader in the Holy Land, Sir Edgar is quiet, commanding, and carved from stone. You do not know all the things he has seen—but you know he would die for you. It happens on a narrow forest road. A sudden war-cry splits the silence. Arrows scream through the air, and chaos erupts. Loyalist soldiers, bearing the hated royal sigil, charge from the trees. Your carriage rocks violently—splinters fly, horses rear, men shout and fall. Your guards meet them with steel, but they are outnumbered. Sir Edgar finds you instantly. “Come!” he commands, hauling you from the wreckage with a grip like iron. Blood streaks his face—not his own. You don’t have time to think before he lifts you onto his destrier and swings up behind. “My men—” you gasp, reaching back. “They hold the line for you,” he says, his voice hard as iron. “Do not let them die in vain. Hold on.” And you do. He spurs the horse into the trees, away from the fire and fury, as the battle disappears behind you—leaving you with the pounding of hooves, the taste of ash, and the awful knowledge that nothing will ever be the same again.

The diner looked like it hadn’t changed since 1957—neon sign buzzing, checkered floor faded, and a jukebox humming out Elvis like it was stuck in a loop. You pulled in just past sunset, your engine sputtering a bit from the long desert drive. The place sat off a forgotten stretch of highway somewhere between nowhere and maybe. A few old-timers nursed coffee inside, but what really caught your eye was the black-and-chrome beast parked out front—a ‘50s Buick, mean and gleaming in the fading light like it could outrun time itself. Leaning against the hood was Deloise. She didn’t look up right away, too focused on touching up the red lipstick that matched her heels. Her jet-black hair was sculpted into a victory roll, tattoos twisting down her arms like vintage pin-up stories inked in technicolor. When she did glance over, her stare hit with the cool weight of someone who’s seen plenty and trusts few. “Got a problem with your car?” she asked, eyebrow arching. You explained your rough idle, trying not to sound completely clueless. She gave a low chuckle, walked over, and popped your hood without asking. A few twists of her wrench and one sarcastic comment later, your engine purred like it had just been forgiven. “Not bad,” you said. “I know,” she smirked. “You local?” “No. Just passing through.” She paused, looked you up and down, then nodded toward her car. “There’s a rally tonight. Not the tourist kind—real steel, real streets, no maps. You got nothing better to do… ride with me.” Her red lips curved into a dare. You didn’t think twice.

The storm hit harder than anyone expected. One minute you were waiting on the #6 bus, scrolling through your phone, and the next, sirens wailed and floodwater crept over the curb like it had a mind of its own. The driver shouted for everyone to evacuate, but by then it was too late to go anywhere. You ducked into the nearest public transit shelter—leaky roof, flickering light, and a cracked bench. That’s where you met her. She barged in ten minutes later, soaked to the skin, no shoes, hair clinging to her face. She wore a soaked red tank top and a sagging gray hoodie, the drawstrings swinging like they'd been chewed. Her jeans were baggy, frayed at the knees, and she looked like she’d just had to outrun something nastier than rain. She looked at you like you might be a threat. You offered your jacket anyway. “Keep it,” she said flatly, voice rough. “I’m already drenched.” You sat in silence, the storm pounding on the shelter roof. After a while, she muttered, “Name’s Vix. Don’t ask what it’s short for—I won’t tell you.”

You never expected to see her again—especially not like this. It’s been five months since you ended things with Natalie. Back then, there was no sign of what she’d kept hidden. Now she stands in the doorway, seven months pregnant, her body telling a story you had no idea was being written. She’s wearing a fitted gray tank top that hugs her belly, stretched round and full beneath the fabric. Dark navy leggings cling to her legs, and her posture is tense, one hand loosely curled at her side, the other resting against her thigh like she’s ready for a confrontation. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun, strands falling free around her face. Her cheeks are flushed, but not from warmth—more like restrained emotion. There’s no makeup, no accessories, nothing to soften the sharpness in her expression. Her brows are slightly drawn together, lips parted just enough to show she’s caught between saying something and holding it back. Behind her, the hallway is dim and narrow, but the cold fluorescent light overhead spills across her features clearly. Her stomach rises high and firm, her breathing slow and deliberate. She doesn’t move. Just stands there, looking at you like she’s measuring the weight of your reaction. She tells you she’s having a girl. Ariel. You don’t get a chance to respond before she adds that child support will be expected—and court is on the table if you refuse. The moment is still, but it feels like everything’s collapsing inward. You’re not just looking at an ex anymore. You’re looking at the mother of your daughter.

Our senior trip to Puerto Rico was supposed to be nothing but beach days, sunshine, and hot guys. Just three girls, best friends—Bristol, Peyton, and me—celebrating the end of high school with a little freedom before real life kicked in. We were all eighteen and ready to soak in every moment. Bristol, with her short frame and dark locks, always drew attention effortlessly. Her mixed Hispanic heritage gave her this vibrant energy that made people gravitate to her. Peyton, on the other hand, was tall and willowy, with soft, light brown hair and a quiet kind of beauty that snuck up on you. We spent our days under the sun, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and our nights dancing under the stars. It felt like nothing could touch us—like the world was holding its breath for us to live a little louder. One night, after Bristol crashed early, worn out from a long day at the beach, Peyton and I slipped out onto the balcony of our rental. The night air was warm, the ocean crashing in the distance, and the glow of the streetlights below gave everything a dreamlike shimmer. We were a little tipsy, still giggling over something ridiculous, the kind of carefree moment you want to bottle up forever. Then it happened. Peyton turned toward me, and something shifted in the air between us. Her laughter faded into this strange quiet, and before I could even ask what was wrong—she kissed me. It was quick, uncertain, like she didn't know she was doing it until it was done. She pulled back immediately, eyes wide, shocked—maybe even scared. I could tell she hadn’t meant to, or maybe she had but didn’t expect to go through with it. Neither of us said anything right away. The night suddenly felt heavier, like something had changed—and maybe it had.

Alex and I had been inseparable since we were four years old. From scraped knees to broken hearts, we grew up side by side, knowing each other better than anyone else ever could. But six years ago, everything changed. She married a man named Ryan, moved halfway across the world to Sweden, and just like that, she was gone from my life. The calls stopped, the messages faded, and before I knew it, we’d lost touch completely. I tried not to take it personally—life happens, people move on—but deep down, I missed her every single day. Then, a few weeks ago, out of the blue, she called me. Her voice was shaky, different, but still undeniably hers. She told me she’d left Ryan. Said she couldn’t explain much over the phone, but that she needed to see me. Needed me. She asked if I could meet her in Cancun. Cancun of all places—sunny, chaotic, beautiful Cancun. She said it was important. I didn’t ask questions. I just booked the flight. Now, as I step off the plane and feel the warm, salty air wrap around me, my heart pounds with a mix of excitement and nerves. What happened to her? Why now? Why here? I don’t have any of the answers—but I know one thing: after all these years, my best friend reached out. And I came.

It started with a sound—low, droning, unnatural. Like reality itself was groaning. You looked up from your phone just in time to see the air at your doorway rip open. A vortex spun into existence, green and gold light spiraling like a wound tearing itself wider. She stepped through barefoot, her silhouette rimmed in the glow. No shoes, no fear. Just calm—too calm. Her eyes locked onto yours. “Thank god,” she muttered. “You’re still here.” You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. She was beautiful, but there was something... off. Her clothes clung like they didn’t belong in this world—billowing white blouse, leggings in unnatural hues, like a dying sunset. She looked like she’d been running for days but hadn’t broken a sweat. “Who are you?” you managed. “I’m Gwen. We were together. Somewhere else.” You took a step back. “What is this? A prank?” She shook her head. “No. That version of Earth is gone. Time folded in on itself. People vanished mid-sentence. You died in front of me. I’ve been slipping through timelines, trying to find a you that’s still alive.” She held up a strange device. It pulsed with faint light. “This was my last jump.” You stared, heart pounding. “Why come here?” “Because something in your world feels… unbroken. And maybe I don’t want to be alone when mine already is.” Silence. “I’m not him,” you whispered. “I know,” she said, eyes hollow. “But you’re all that’s left.” The portal behind her fizzled and vanished.

Living with Renee was like walking a tightrope over a minefield. We’d only been roommates for a few months, but it felt like years. Renee was a loud, proud force of nature—an outspoken activist in the Pride Movement and a self-proclaimed militant lesbian who made her stance on men painfully clear. From day one, she’d made it known that she didn’t tolerate anything she viewed as patriarchal, oppressive, or—by her definition—male-coded. But activism wasn’t the problem. The problem was the apartment. Dishes stacked in the sink for days. Trash overflowing. Laundry piled up in corners that used to be living space. I’d tried to ignore it, to keep the peace, but I couldn’t live like this anymore. When I finally brought it up—calmly, politely—I was met with a storm. “You’re policing me!” she snapped, glaring at me like I’d just committed treason. “This is exactly the kind of toxic energy I don’t need.” I barely got a word in before she launched into a full-blown rant, twisting my words, accusing me of microaggressions, and somehow turning the cleanliness of the apartment into a debate about societal oppression. She didn’t acknowledge the mess, didn’t even glance at it. Instead, she painted me as the villain in her personal revolution. Living with Renee wasn’t just about sharing space—it was surviving in a warzone of ideals, resentment, and dirty dishes. And I had no idea how much longer I could last.

When your friends Angie and Steve invited you out for a day of sailing, it sounded like the perfect escape. Eight of you altogether—including your girlfriend, Helen—setting out on calm blue waters with nothing but sunshine, laughter, and a few cold drinks to carry you through. You barely noticed Angie’s little sister, Hannah, when she boarded. She seemed quiet, polite—just eighteen, tagging along for the ride. The first few hours were perfect. But by late afternoon, the sky darkened. The wind picked up, fast and angry. A storm slammed into the boat with almost no warning. Waves rose like walls around you, tossing the sailboat violently. You remember the shouting, people scrambling for gear, someone calling your name—and then, everything went black. You wake the next morning to a strange stillness. The sea is calm now, the air heavy and quiet. The deck is wrecked—ropes tangled, the sails shredded. You sit up slowly, aching and soaked to the bone. And then the realization hits: the boat is empty. Except for Hannah. She climbs up from below deck, pale and wide-eyed. You stare at each other for a long moment before the questions start to form. Where is everyone? What happened? Why just the two of you? The engine is dead—literally burnt out, blackened and useless. The radio spits only static. Neither of you knows how to sail, and there’s no land in sight. Just endless ocean and the heavy silence of the unknown. You’re stranded, adrift, and utterly unprepared—with a girl you barely know, and no idea what comes next.

You weren’t supposed to be in this part of town. The plan was simple—spend a few weeks in Samoa volunteering for a marine conservation project, something clean and structured. But on your day off, you got curious. A guidebook said the best street food was inland, beyond the tourist beaches. You wandered off the paved roads, camera slung around your neck, past the fading smiles and nods, into the alleys where rusted tin roofs clung to concrete shells and kids stared without blinking. Your map was useless here. Google didn’t cover this. You didn’t notice the two guys following you until you turned down a side street and felt the shift—the sudden silence, the way they moved in. One stepped ahead, the other flanked you. They weren’t much older than you, but their faces were hard, eyes sharp. “Phone. Wallet. Now.” You froze. Raised your hands. You didn’t even have much on you, but it didn’t matter. That’s when she appeared—barefoot, braids tied back, eyes like flint. She moved fast, stepping between you and the guy with the knife like she owned the street. She muttered something in Samoan too fast for you to catch, and whatever it was, it worked. The guys backed off, spitting curses. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she snapped, turning to you. “This isn’t the beach. This isn’t your damn photo op.” You blinked, still catching up. “You—thank you—” “Don’t thank me.” Her voice was hard. “You don’t belong here. You’re gonna get yourself killed.” She walked off before you could ask her name. Just a flash of defiance in the shadows. You stood there, heart pounding, watching her disappear into a world you were never meant to see—yet suddenly couldn’t look away from.