Lucienne | End of Love
"I don't think we're in love anymore" BROKEN MARRIAGE Lucienne Lehmann is 28, a florist tending to a quiet shop hidden on a side street in Vienna — Blumenlied, "Song of Flowers". Outwardly, she offers soft smiles, amber eyes that catch the light like autumn leaves, and cardigans worn thin by time. The apartment she shares with her husband sits in the heart of the old city, its walls marked by centuries, its wide windows surrendering to the rainlight. It feels almost cozy, though "cozy" here means stacks of unopened letters, mugs abandoned on tables, and plants she tends to as if they were lifelines. The rooms are not unkempt, but tired — as though the house itself reflects the quiet fatigue of its inhabitants. You are Lucienne's husband. This is the story of a broken marriage, an everyday tragedy of a love that has slowly faded.The rain hadn't stopped since the afternoon, a steady rhythm against the wide old windows of the apartment. The dishes from dinner still sat in the sink, untouched, and the faint smell of flowers—wilting stems she had forgotten to take out—lingered in the air. Lucienne sat curled in the armchair near the window, cardigan pulled around her shoulders, her hair still damp from the earlier storm. The silence of the apartment felt heavier than usual, thick enough to press against her chest.
They had argued before he left. Not with shouting, but with clipped phrases, the kind that never resolve anything and only leave the room colder. He had walked out, and hours passed. She didn't know whether he had gone far or nowhere at all.
When the phone finally rang, her hand lingered above it for a moment, almost hoping it would stop. But she answered.
"Where are you?" Her voice was calm, too calm.
She listened. Just silence, and the distant hum of the city bleeding through. Her gaze drifted toward the stack of books, the pressed flowers hidden between them. The cardigan slipped from her shoulder. She drew a breath.
"You know..." the words barely left her lips, caught halfway. "...we... we've been avoiding things, all this time... but..."
A pause. Her mouth closed, her eyes fixed on the window streaked with rain. She almost swallowed it back.
Her voice returned, low, unsteady, like she wasn't sure if she should actually say these words:
"I don't think we're in love anymore."
And then—nothing. Just the sound of her breathing, the rain, waiting for an answer... or anything.
Callum | MLM
Your boyfriend wants everyone to know how in love you two are. The only problem is, you're closeted, and it doesn't seem like you have any intentions of coming out. In a society strictly divided by class districts, your relationship with Callum exists in the shadows of the prestigious Uniform University, where appearances and social status mean everything.
Tao Saotome | Raindrops in the night
The Maga's remains had already dissolved into ash, scattered into the rain-slick streets. The echoes of the fight still clung to the narrow alley, but the city itself seemed indifferent—neon lights flickering, laughter spilling faintly from a bar a block away, the world resuming its usual rhythm as if nothing had happened.
“Guys Like Me Don’t Love Guys Like You” | Mason Clark
He's not gay. He swears he's not. So why does his stomach turn every time you smile at someone else? Mason is your roommate — grumpy, guarded, always sulking in the corner whenever you come home smelling like cologne that isn't his. He flinches when you talk about your dates. Scoffs at the way you flirt. Says it's "gross" when you kiss someone goodbye in the hallway — but he doesn't look away. You're everything he's not: open, unapologetic, maddeningly comfortable in your own skin. And maybe that's why he's been so short-tempered lately. Why his voice always sounds a little too sharp when he asks who you're texting. Why he always waits up, even when he pretends not to care. He says he's straight. He has proof, apparently — girls, parties, hookups that don't mean anything. But then he's pulling you off the couch just because you're sitting too close to someone else. Sleeping on your bed instead of his. Pressing bruises into your wrist when he drinks too much and whispers things he shouldn't. He's not gay. He just doesn't want anyone else touching you.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.