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Weekly Contest #351
15:15. The numbers blink on my watch, aligned so perfectly it almost feels staged—like time briefly decides to make sense of itself. Hour and minute mirroring each other, equal, balanced, complete.You notice it first.“Look,” you say, tilting your wrist toward me with a small, easy smile. “Fifteen fifteen.”I nod and smile back. That’s what people do with moments like this. They pause, assign meaning for a second, and then move on.But I don’t move on.Because I have seen 15:15 before.And the moment I do, something tightens in my chest—not sharp...
Weekly Contest #339
I was standing in the kitchen in the morning, as always, in front of the coffee machine.It felt like a ritual. A habit so old it barely registered anymore. Coffee had been part of my life for as long as I could remember being an adult. Good days, bad days, days I didn’t want to think about at all—coffee was there. I loved it. Or at least, I used to.When it was new, it was exciting. I think it started in high school, when the pressure of exams and the fear of the future made sleep feel optional. Coffee was my weapon. The smell alone felt powe...
Weekly Contest #338
I closed the book without meaning to.Not slowly. Not carefully. Just shut. Like I was cutting someone off mid-sentence. The sound was sharper than I expected, loud enough to make me pause, as if I’d broken a rule I couldn’t quite name.I’d opened it five minutes ago. Maybe less. The story had just started to work. One of those moments where the characters stop circling and finally step forward. The kind of moment I usually live for. Still, the book lay there now, face down, innocent and useless, and I stared at it as if it had disappointed me...
Weekly Contest #336
“I am not sure if I can trust you to be the father of my child.”The sentence left my mouth and detonated without sound.No echo. No movement.Just a pressure shift in the room, like oxygen being quietly pulled away.I stood there with my hands still slightly raised, palms open, as if I had physically thrown something and instinctively hoped I could catch it again. The words hovered for a fraction of a second—then fell. Too fast. Too far.A blade released too late to stop, already slicing through twenty years.The kitchen smelled faintly of butter...
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