#sad short story

[boimann]

Beans is how

everyone always asks "bean is how" but no one ever asks "how is bean" ಥ_ಥ

[luna-azzurra]

The little girl pressed her small palms against the chilled windowpane, her breath fogging the glass as she gazed out into the wintry wonderland beyond. Fluffy snowflakes floated gently from the sky, their delicate forms swirling and twirling in a mesmerizing dance. It was Christmas, a day filled with enchantment and joy, yet a tinge of longing lingered in her eyes.

She stood there, her wide-eyed innocence juxtaposed against the backdrop of a world painted in white. The snowflakes transformed the familiar landscape into a magical realm, where dreams seemed within reach and miracles were whispered by the wind. The little girl's heart raced with anticipation, each passing moment an echo of hope, for today was the day she yearned for her father's return.

With every gust of wind that swayed the barren branches, she imagined his footsteps crunching on the snow-covered path, his laughter carried by the frosty air. In her mind, he was a hero, a figure of strength and warmth who had been gone for far too long. She clutched the frayed edge of her faded Christmas dress, a reminder of happier times, and silently prayed for his presence.

The room around her, adorned with ornaments and twinkling lights, seemed to hold its breath in solidarity. A solitary candle flickered on the windowsill, its gentle glow casting a soft halo on the girl's hopeful face. The warmth of her mother's love enveloped her, an anchor in a sea of unanswered questions. Her mother had shielded her from the truth, protecting her from the harsh reality of abandonment, but the girl's heart still yearned for her father's return.

As the snowflakes continued their delicate descent, the little girl's eyes welled with tears. Her belief in the magic of Christmas threatened to waver, as the passage of time weighed heavily upon her fragile shoulders. She fought against the growing doubts, clinging to the flickering flame of hope that burned within her.

In that moment, as the world outside transformed into a pristine canvas, the little girl made a silent promise to herself. She would never stop waiting, never stop hoping for her father's return. The snowflakes whispered secrets of perseverance, of the strength found in a child's unwavering love.

As the day stretched on, the little girl's eyes never left the window, searching the horizon for a sign of his arrival. The snow fell steadily, painting the world in a blanket of white, while the girl's heart beat with a quiet resilience. And though she did not yet know the truth that lay hidden beneath her mother's gentle smile, she clung to the belief that someday, somehow, her father would find his way back to her on a snowy Christmas morning.

[siredash]

The cracks in my heart were evident, 

Fragile and heavy, it laid alone but okay.

I wasn't ready to be healed but you came and patched the broken cracks with Band-Aids and laughter. 

You held my heart in your palms feeling it start to beat again. 

I felt the warmth of your hands against my heart, in my mind, on my face. 

We were perfect until the seizing in your hands started.

Slowly squeezing until the first drop of blood drips from a reopened crack. 

You liked the way the blood dripped down your fingers so you kept squeezing.

Every crack reopening, some forming new ones.

New cracks leading to the center of my heart splitting it into a million pieces. 

I watched you squeeze harder everyday, staring into your eyes as you destroyed me. 

Staring at those beautiful eyes as the light from mine faded. 

You stood in a puddle of my blood and pieces of me scattered, 

And yet all I could think about was how handsome you looked destroying me. 

[vmvnart]

Trabalho da faculdade

[hindishayari01]

Pyar Ki Had Ko Samajhna Mere Bas Ki Baat Nahi, Dil Ki Baaton Ko Chhupana Mere Bas Ki Baat Nahi, Kuchh To Baat Hai Tujhme Jo Yeh Dil Tumpe Marta Hai, Warna Yun Hi Jaan Ganwana Mere Bas Ki Baat Nahi.

more shayari visit- gamezhost.com

[lilbeebelle]

Even before I open my eyes I can feel it clawing it's way up. Up my chest, making it's home there. It gets bigger and bigger, leaving almost no room for my breath.

I try to close my eyes again, wishing for it to just go away. "Come back, to a different time", I beg but it will not listen. It never does.

My eyes are tired and on fire, holding tears back which I don't want to waste. Not on it. Not again. "Let me live", I yell to no one but my reflection in the mirror. I get no answer.

Slowly it got a name. Anxiety, it's called. I feel shame crawl with it up my bones but it won't leave. A parasite inside my head, chest and heart.

I am nothing but a slave to my fears. My eyes are still red when I turn away from the mirror.

[personally-published]

A ghost appeared above me.

It was the ghost of a girl.

About my age.

She looked strangely familiar.

That's when I realized.

It was me.

"I'm glad you were strong, love." She said floating above me with a smile of great relief.

I look at her shaking my head in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"I was doing so well."

"Really I was."

"I was getting better."

"Please, I can still be strong."

I feel tears streaking down my face.

"Please. Please. Please. Please."

I beg with the ghost of myself.

She shakes her head.

"You don't have to hold on anymore, love." She tells me, pushing my hair behind my ear.

"You were the strongest you could've been." she says.

"I have to go now. But I am so proud of you." She silently disappeared.

I never saw her again.

[angelofhell323]

𝙴𝚕 𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚘

a/n: just wanted to post a little short story to get back into the groove of writing, i have a few stories planned out

TW: family death, mourning

————————————————————————

As you approach Texas the dread of seeing his corpse takes over. “He’s not dead,” is what you say to yourself, but he is, you know he is. But he can’t be? He sounded so strong, so much better on the phone, that’s what you were told. You didn’t even get a chance to say hi.

The mountain ranges of El Paso hypnotize you the moment you see them. The desert feels like home. You feel the call of your ancestors, the Tarahumara of Chihuahua. They’re calling you home. The heat felt good on your skin, not a burning sensation, just pure warmth. Being here feels right, it’s as if a missing puzzle piece has finally been found. Yeah it feels right, however a sinking feeling in your stomach takes over and you feel your body tense. The border, and la migra driving along the side road. One stop by them could tear your life apart.

You walk up to the casket with your parents and siblings. He IS gone, the life of the party. He was the kind of man anyone could get along with due to his quick wit and wide sense of humor. He made everyone feel as if they’d known him for years. He’s gone.

You feel paralyzed as you see everything fall apart on you. Fuck.

[boimann]

Why?

because i ran out of apple juice :[

[the-light-music-clubb]

Michael's Letter to Santa

Dear Santa, My name is Michael and I’m 22, but you already knew that haha. I’m writing to you after Christmas because I’ve been having a really rough time lately. I’ve been trying to get in the Christmas spirit but all my friends are such Santa deniers that they bring down the jolly mood. Like it's not my fault you were all so naughty that Santa never gave you presents! Anyway, I’ve known that my friends don’t believe in you for a few years now but this year they’ve been extra annoying about it. I usually spend Christmas with my parents but unfortunately they are no longer with us. Its all because of a stupid irresponsible asshole that was drunk driving that night, so now I have to celebrate for all three of us, but for some reason my friends kept trying to convince me not to leave out cookies and milk for you or to put away the elf on the shelf. When Christmas got closer I went to our family home to celebrate. I decorated the house and put up our old tree. It was a little lonely by myself but I had like 20 Christmas movies and snacks I picked up from Target. It was a strange feeling, sleeping in my old bed waiting for the morning but not hearing the laughter of my parents in the other room. When I went downstairs I immediately knew something was wrong. There was not a single present under the tree, and the milk and cookies were untouched. To say the least I was shocked, I had no idea what was going on, I thought something might have happened to you so I checked on social media but nobody was saying anything about you, in fact they were all posting like everything was normal. This leads me to the reason I’m writing to you today. Was there a mix-up or issue of some kind? Were you not able to make it due to some emergency? I’m quite honestly worried about you and would appreciate a reply soon.

Thanks,

Michael.

[ajokefrombirth]

The wounds are getting deeper. Blood covers my room. A drop here. A dry clot there. I drop to the floor and look around. The pain swelling up in my chest. I small sound escapes my lips. I want to die but would I make it to heaven? Unsure, I stand up and one by one holes are added to the wall. None smaller than my fist but some bigger than my body’s width. The doors are next. I rip them off the frame and the hinges holding it so secure. Where are my hinges? Broken? I’m unstoppable. Crazy. Unloved. Unheard. Suicidal. Broken. XajokefrombirthX

[charlesoberonn]

When you were young, your mother used to read you an old fairytale every night before bed.

It was a sad story, about lovers who walked through hell to reunite with one another and almost succeeded, only to be separated again forever in the last moment. It made you cry, and the next night you would beg your mom to read it again.

"You know it'll be sad, right?"

"This time they'll win, mom! This time they'll have a happy ending!"

But they didn't. Nor did they win in the next night, or the night after that.

Deep down, logically, you knew it'll always end the same way. The story is done. It's been told long before you were born. But when mom was telling it, you could pretend that maybe this time it'll work out. This time will be different.

When you grew older you didn't stop pretending, even though you knew it was silly and getting sillier. When you learned to read and write, one of the first things you wrote was a new ending. It was bad, about you as an all-powerful angel coming down to help the lovers reunite and then you get invited to their wedding.

"It's not real, it's fanfic." a friend told you when you showed them. They explained the word, and you saw what they meant. But you didn't care, seeing the words on the page helped you pretend.

You read voraciously as you grew. All kinds of stories with all kinds of ending. But you kept coming back to that one. Reading from your mom's old copy which her read to her from.

You didn't need mom to read to you anymore, but sometimes you asked her to anyway. Occasionally she'd do it, but more often than not she was tired.

Soon she stopped reading. Then she stopped speaking altogether, her voice too weak and throat too sick to speak aloud. That's when you started reading the story to her.

It was hard at first, your tears choking you up. It was hard pretending that the story will end differently.

"The diagnoses are just estimates, probabilities." your dad said. And when he spoke, you could pretend there was a chance. But when the doctors spoke, their words felt as final and unchanging as the old words in the storybook.

Eventually, mom was no more. Your dad read something personal and touching in her funeral. Everyone thought you would, too. Everyone knew how much you loved writing since you were little.

You thought you would write too, imagined it in your mind as your mother's end drew near. You had so much to say, but the words wouldn't come out. The only words that would come to you were from the story. You tried to bat them away, but you knew you couldn't. You couldn't change this ending.

When it came your time to eulogize, you pulled out the book and without preamble started reading from the second-to-last page. This time there was no pretending.

Everyone knew the story, even the people who didn't know mom personally. Everyone knew it will end in tragedy. The lovers will not get a happy ending.

Except this time they did.

You didn't notice the change until you were halfway through the final page, so out of it you were. But the reactions from the mourning crowd clued you in. Your stoic dad choking down a chuckle.

You looked closely at the book and saw the words were written in your mom's neat handwriting.

You kept on reading, a smile on your face.

It wasn't the real ending. It was fanfic.

But just for a little while, seeing the words on the page helped you pretend a little longer.

[mustaphi]

[vomitingwords]

and then I learned

how to cry

without tears

falling from my eyes

behind clouds // ma.c.a