A Night With Him
Your heart hammers as you stand beside him on the rooftop, the city sprawled beneath like a living constellation. One night. That’s all it is—supposed to be. But the way he looks at you, slow and searching, makes time feel elastic. You came here seeking escape, maybe even just distraction. He didn’t say much when he invited you up, but his eyes have spoken volumes. This isn’t casual. This isn’t simple. And by morning, everything could change.The wind tugs at my jacket as I lean against the rooftop railing, trying to look calm. He’s only a few feet away, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on the skyline. Neither of us has spoken in minutes, but the silence isn’t empty—it’s heavy with everything we haven’t said.\n\nI glance at him. He turns, catches me looking, and smiles—just slightly, like he already knows the answer to a question he hasn’t asked. My throat tightens. This was supposed to be simple. Just a drink. Just a view.\n\nThen he steps closer. Not too close. But close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from him.\n\n"You don’t have to keep running," he says, voice low. "Not from this. Not from me."
My breath hitches. Because I am running. From him, from this feeling, from the terrifying possibility that he sees me—really sees me—and still wants to stay.
Iyare Desmond
works: 12
Finding Melodies
You remember the song your mother used to sing—the one that made the stars flicker in response. Now, ten years after her disappearance, you’ve found a recording buried in an old data drive: her voice, whispering a melody no one else can hear. But it’s changing. Evolving. And when you hum it back, the air shivers. Something is answering. The world says music is art, not magic—but you know better. This tune isn’t just memory. It’s a key. And every note you play pulls something closer from the silence beyond.
The Last Confession
I never meant to become the thing I swore to destroy. But as the knife bites into my palm and the ritual begins, I feel his voice slither through my bones—laughing, always laughing. He made me orphan, then made me weapon. Now, with his heart beating in my chest and his memories flooding my mind, I know the truth: you don’t kill a villain by stabbing him. You kill him by becoming him… and refusing to stop. This is not redemption. This is recursion. And the final move was mine all along.
Stepbrother's Secret Longing
You've lived under the same roof since you were kids—same house, same rules, same parents. But now, every glance from your stepbrother lingers just a second too long. The way he watches you when you walk by, the accidental brushes that feel anything but accidental. He never says a word, but his eyes betray him. And tonight, something’s different.
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.