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Discover weekly, the best short stories

Looking for a steady supply of sad short stories? Every week thousands of writers submit stories to our writing contest.

150+ Sad Short Stories to read

Submitted by writers on Reedsy Prompts to our weekly writing contest. Do you ever need to break your own heart? We see you. Grab a tub of ice cream or a box of tissues and settle down with some of the best, really sad short stories to make you cry.

Sad Short Stories – Page 6 of 10

I Don't Always Like You

Weekly Contest #339

For the first time in their marriage, Tenley Bloom wakes up before her husband. In the bathroom, she lights the Pumpkin Devil candle that's been on the counter, unused, since buying it at the Syracuse Farmers' market, two years earlier. The flame crackles, burning through a layer of dust, before the sickly-sweet aroma permeates the room. It's September and Tenley is momentarily embarrassed by how obvious it all feels. She's never been the candle type. And yet, she'd been possessed to light it that morning, to what, encourage a sense of calm?...

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Only Those With A Watch Are Late

Nova Jane

Weekly Contest #339

In order to tell this tale, I must first admit it’s been a while since I last shared it. The details are a little foggy, and I advise you not to believe everything I say. This tale is one of Time himself, and therefore cursed to get lost one way or another. I, however, will try my hardest to let you in on the beautiful but heartbreaking history of Henry. Henry lived his life with an unmatched zest for it. He was a husband to a wife he adored. Many believed he was planning to build her a statue in their garden, his way to keep her beauty ali...

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Till Death Do Us Part

Nova Jane

Weekly Contest #339

Good. No problem. No problem at all.I was just about to leave anyway. His eyes make my back itch. With the last shiver of self-respect I have left, I clutch my hands together and shield my watch from the snow. The cold bit even more than the merchant’s words, which is weird because I should be used to the cold by now. As I carry myself across the ice-covered crossroads, my eyes trail the mass of people around me. They are smiling. Sharing stories. They are already showing each other what they bought. They are pointing at the beautiful deco...

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Bitter

K K

Weekly Contest #339

K.K. Bitter 01/28/2026 It was a warm and beautiful spring Sunday morning. Rose awoke to the birds singing and the sun shining in her face. She decided to stay in bed a bit longer and watched her husband, Joe, still fast asleep. Rose loved Joe more than life itself. Her heart still fluttered when he looked at her. The two were high school sweethearts. Joe was on the football team, and Rose was a cheerleader. They met at a game and quickly knew, at the tender age of sixteen, that they would spend the rest of their lives together. They mar...

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What She Can Reach

Weekly Contest #339

She learned early that the safest homes were the ones that looked ordinary.Not clean in a way that asked to be admired, not messy in a way that invited worry. Just ordinary. A pair of shoes by the door, a dish in the sink, the fan turning on low like someone had left it running without thinking. Ordinary meant no one stopped to listen.Rima kept the apartment ordinary.She did it the way her mother had shown her, in small pieces picked up over time. Things said while the kettle heated. Rules spoken lightly, as if they weren’t meant to be frigh...

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Planet Solitude

Weekly Contest #339

I’m hurtling through the atmosphere in a capsule barely larger than a washing machine. My gut feels like it’s been blasted with a cannonball, and no one’s cared to remove it. My ears are useless. Not for lack of sound, more like all sounds have been forced into my ear canal and held there by some invisible power. It’s enough to make a guy puke – if he wasn’t trained for this sort of thing.There’s not much to do but hang on and wait it out; the trajectory is set and controlled by the computer. So, I press my hands against the capsule walls, p...

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The last cup

Weekly Contest #339

The winter sun is casting its last rays over the freshly snow-covered ground. He watches the rays until they fade, then turns back from the window as the aroma from the kitchen pulls him from his memories. The old phone on the wall rings. He looks at it and smiles. Only a few people call that number, and he never misses the chance to talk with them if possible. “Hello,” he answers, warmth in his voice. “I’m so glad you all came today,” he says, settling slowly into the well-worn rocking chair. “It was wonderful having everyone here. I’m tir...

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One Cup At A Time

Chastity Holloway

Weekly Contest #339

*TW: Contains brief language and references to addiction I’ve never liked the taste of coffee. Too bitter. But this morning, I needed something with a little more bite than tea. Something to carry me over the finish line of a day I’ve dreaded for the last eleven years: going through Mom’s belongings.As the scorched taste of Louisiana chicory slid down the back of my throat, I couldn’t help but smile and think of her. Coffee was always her thing, and the stronger the better. It was usually Colombian roast accompanied by a splash of milk, a pa...

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The Medium Setting

Weekly Contest #339

Content Warning: The story contains a slur and bigoted views in the context of a character's recollection of the past. “Nancy!” He pushed the working button on the kettle; the other was worn through and busted. The red electric light glowed to life. Medium setting was fine enough. There was a low; didn’t do anything except think about heating water. That untouched button didn’t count. Be better if the hot button worked. Maybe a new kettle, but this– The beep startled him. Damn fast, worked like new. Ha! The carafe tipped, gurgled hot water i...

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Memories of Cinnamon

Melissa SG

Weekly Contest #339

This kitchen is perfectly, sterilely decorated and organized. Blobs of abstract paintings fill the walls; the dishes have their own cupboards and drawers; and the counters shine despite the crumbs from food and the droplets from drinks. The low murmur of talking, crying, and laughing gets drowned by the bubbling of my coffee being brewed. Pouring probably too many French vanilla creamers into my dark roast, my dad always tells me–I mean, he used to tell me that my grandma did the same thing. She’s resting in a glossy, wooden casket just a fe...

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Even The Curlews Cried.

Floella Nash

Weekly Contest #339

I had no idea of the emotional storm brewing, just the feeling of impending doom and then it happened. I'd woken up that morning feeling strange, not right. What unfolded that day will forever ricochet inside me, just a scratch under the surface. I inherited Jake when my nineteen-year-old daughter died. It was a miracle that he had not been in the car with her that day, normally she took him everywhere. He knew she wasn’t coming back; he knew that we had lost her. Dogs grieve too. In the aftermath, we struggled through some very dark days to...

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MudPuddle

Weekly Contest #339

Freya was the only one who showed up to work that day, but she wasn’t surprised. There had been flash flood warnings all week from the continuous rainfall and her coworkers were quick to take any excuse for a day off. The little bell on the cafe door jingled as someone entered and she didn’t even look up from decorating a small macaron as she greeted them. “Welcome to the MudPuddle, where the coffee is fresh and the- oh…” she paused as she looked up. “It’s you.” Freya’s smile turned sour as she watched Nick approach the counter to order. H...

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Mishka, the Twenty-Year-Old Maltese Mix, and the Blessing of the Animals

CC CWSCGS

Weekly Contest #339

Mishka tinkles without noticing. A warm spot spreads through the fabric of my sleeve, and I adjust my hold, turning slightly away from the people behind me. Mishka is a Maltese mix, over twenty years old, more than a hundred in human years, and so light I sometimes forget she’s there until I look down. She fits into the crook of my arm without effort. “It’s okay, Mishka-girl,” I say into her ear. She lets out a small yawn and a quiet bark afterward, more breath than sound, like a whisper she wasn’t sure she meant to make. Her fur is thin and...

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Thirty-Seven Years Told In Six Mornings

Weekly Contest #339

The cafe had the particular scent of a college town in late autumn: burnt espresso and ambition. Harold stood at the counter, twenty-two years old and regretting his decision to order for both of them.“And for the lady?” The barista waited, pen hovering.Miriam was already seated at a corner table, watching him. He’d met her three weeks ago in a philosophy seminar where she’d dismantled Descartes with the casual efficiency of someone swatting a fly. He’d been in love ever since, though he hadn’t told anyone, least of all her.“She’ll have... u...

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I'll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll do it.

Tristan Collins

Weekly Contest #339

SaturdayEvery Saturday me and my buddy Mikey always go for a walk together in the park as long as it doesn't rain. It started a few years back with us both happening to walk our dogs at the same time in the same park each week. Eventually we started talking to each other on our walks. Neither of our dogs remain, but we still take our walk together every week anyways. Over time, these walks have started meaning more and more to me. When my dog Henceford passed away, I figured that would be the end of the silly walking ritual Mikey and I had. ...

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