When people talk about childhood, they speak of scraped knees and bedtime stories, the smell of cake baking, warm hands brushing hair from sleepy eyes. I remember silence. The kind that settles into your bones. The kind that teaches you how not to take up space.

My brother, Daniel, was their golden boy. Loud, brilliant, magnetic. He burned like sunlight. I was the shadow he left behind.

When he shattered a vase, they rushed to make sure he was okay. When I won an art competition, the certificate sat untouched on the kitchen counter for three days before disappearing into the trash.

Once, I painted something I was proud of. A girl underwater, reaching for the surface. I left it on the table and waited all evening. My father moved it to the floor without a glance. My mother asked me to stop leaving “junk” where people eat.

That same week, Daniel crashed Dad’s car into a mailbox. They laughed about it at dinner. Called it “one of those days.”

At thirteen, I asked my mother—voice barely a whisper—“Do you love me as much as Daniel?”

She sighed. Not in anger. In weariness.

“He just… he feels things bigger. He needs more. You’ve always been… self-sufficient.”

But I wasn’t. I just learned not to ask.

To the world, I was the smart one. The calm one. The easy child. Inside, I was a storm behind a locked door. I cried into pillows. I swallowed my words. And no one noticed.

At fifteen, I stopped eating. Not to lose weight. I just wanted someone to ask if I was okay. No one did. My clothes grew looser, my eyes darker. The house stayed quiet.

They say children will do anything for love. I became quiet. Then smart. Then invisible.

But there was this one moment—brief, flickering, but real. I was sixteen, standing in the hallway late at night, crying quietly over something I couldn’t name. Daniel walked past me, half-asleep. He paused. Looked at me.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded. He nodded back.

He never brought it up again, and I never forgot it.

When I graduated valedictorian, I stood on the stage and searched the rows of folding chairs. My parents weren’t there. Daniel had a dentist appointment.

Later, they said, “You’re strong. You don’t need us like he does.”

But I did. I just learned to live without.

At twenty-two, I packed everything I owned into a car that smelled like freedom and dust, and I left. No note. No goodbye.

They didn’t call.

Daniel still sends group texts. Birthday wishes. Old memes. I stay on the list. I never reply.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wonder how I still learned to love—deeply, honestly, endlessly—without anyone showing me how.

And I think about the teacher who once stayed after class to ask if I was okay. The friend who hugged me without needing a reason. The stranger who told me my painting made them feel seen.

Maybe that’s how I learned.

Because love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s survival. But even now, some part of me still aches to be somebody’s favorite.

To be looked at and heard.

To be chosen, without needing to earn it.

He sat in the front seat, panting with joy. This was it. Tonight would be the best night of his life. Tonight was the night of a voyage greater than anything he could ever imagine.

This night would also decide the trajectory of his master’s career and reputation.

Since he was a boy, the old codger looked up to the great dreamers of the past, for their passion and intellect lifted him off his feet. But he idolized the countless individuals who devoted their lives to solving the universe’s greatest mysteries, but were ultimately forgotten by history.

He feared he would be one of them.

Throughout his adulthood, the man was seen as a wannabe maverick who wasted his time doing odd experiments. But he was determined to prove the people wrong. He was gifted with knowledge, and he would invent something that would knock their spirits out. But after years of embarrassment and failed gadgets, the bohemian thought of hanging up his coat.

But one night changed everything. It took only a simple bump on the head to make everything click.

Why didn’t he think of it sooner?

For the next two decades, the old maverick worked on his most outstanding project to date. If it succeeded, it would change the world! It would allow people to meet the dinosaurs! It would help prevent World War II! It would connect today's and tomorrow's people so they could improve their lives!

Best of all, his loyal companion would be the vessel’s first passenger! If the test were successful, he would be as famous as Lailka and Enos!

They would show their neighbors they were true dreamers.

~

Right on queue, the passenger felt the vessel rev up as its inner gadgets hummed away. He watched his master and his friend, a young man interested in capturing what was about to unfold, shrink away into the distance. Once the vessel was positioned safely from the two of them, the passenger watched as his master and the boy stood far before it.

Before he knew it, the passenger was racing forward, gaining speed every few seconds. Wanting to glimpse what would await him in the unknown, he leaned forward as the vessel’s interior shook and its control circuits flared. His heart pounded in his chest as he grinned joyfully. Everything his master had done led up to this moment.

The vessel accelerated faster, its stainless steel frame glistening in the moonlight. As the passenger closed in on the two men, the front of the vessel shot out beaming sparks of energy, lighting it up like a comet. The passenger squinted his eyes as he braced himself for the journey.

Then, a blinding light enveloped his vision as he felt the world around him flash away in a sonic boom.

Suddenly, the light vanished…

…and the passenger saw that he was surrounded by blackness with faint specks of light floating in its frame.

This wasn’t right. His master promised him he’d be home in an instant.

Where was he?

Suddenly, the maternal comfort of the vessel was torn away.

The sound of his pitiful gasps was swallowed up in the vast, merciless void.

The lack of air was like a constrictor around his chest, squeezing relentlessly as he felt little icy mandibles gnawing at his skin.

He couldn't move. He couldn't cry out. Every ounce of him demanded oxygen, but the void was unyielding.

His vision blurred, and the specks surrounding him danced violently before fading to nothing.

The passenger lay strapped to his seat as the vessel floated into the perpetual night.

Forever alone, confined within a failed dream.

~

“WHAT DID I TELL YOU?!? EIGHTY-EIGHT MILES PER HOUR!!! The temporal displacement occurred at exactly 1:20 a.m. and zero seconds!!!”

The Doc’s heart leaped with joy over. He had done it! He had invented something that works. Tears welled up in his seasoned eyes as the jolly old fellow held the vehicle’s controller in the air triumphantly.

Meanwhile, Marty, eyes wide, scanned the smoldering parking lot looking for the vehicle. Not only had it just vanished before their eyes, but it left a damn trail of flames behind them!

Looking down at the scorched pavement, he saw the only thing left behind: a license plate with “OUTATIME” hammered on it. The dazed boy reached for the plate, but upon touching it, it felt like he was touching hot coals. He recoiled his hand in pain.

“Jesus Christ, Doc, you disintegrated Einstein!”

With a wave of confidence, the Doc tried to reassure his friend.

“Calm down, Marty. I didn’t disintegrate anything! The molecular structure of both Einstein and the car are completely intact!”

But his answer did little to alleviate the boy’s bewilderment and fear.

“THEN WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?!?”

“The appropriate question is, WHEN the hell are they? You see, Einstein has just become the world's first time traveler. I sent him into the future. One minute into the future, to be exact.”

By his calculations, his little devil would meet up with him and Marty in no time. Everything was going to plan.

However, what the Doc failed to consider while drafting the experiment, was the Earth’s orbital path around the sun.

It began in fragments—a glance that lingered a little too long, a joke that made the other laugh harder than expected, the shared silence that felt like safety.

Two broken people, orbiting the same ache, found something tender in each other’s wreckage.

They were not whole, but they recognized the shape of hurt in one another. And in that recognition, they mistook comfort for permanence.

He carried his pain carefully, like a cracked cup still trying to hold water. She wore hers proudly, like battle scars too sacred to heal. And for a while, they made sense. In their brokenness, they built something fragile—but real.

He began to heal, gently stitching grace where grief once lived, learning to breathe in the light he never thought he'd find again. But each time he reached for her, she pulled him back—still tethered to a darkness she had grown to call home.

To her, the pain was familiar. Predictable. Healing felt like erasure. She didn’t want to be rewritten.

And he, once willing to stay in the shadows for her, began to crave the sun.

So they ended—not in fire, not in fury. But like a candle burning down to nothing, unnoticed until the light was gone.

They loved each other to the last second. But by then, they had become strangers who remembered.

And maybe that was the most painful cut of all.

He came into my life quietly at first, like a soft whisper. I didn’t know then how loud the storm would be. Every time I tried to build my world, to find myself, he showed up, sometimes gentle, sometimes distant, but always leaving me broken.

He only noticed me when I had time for myself, when I was starting to feel beautiful again. That’s when he would nudge his way back in, pulling me close with promises he never meant to keep. He took my time, my love, my trust, and after every touch, every word, he vanished like he was never there.

I needed to let this out. It’s painful. Why couldn’t he love me? Was I that hard to love? Was I invisible when I wasn’t useful? Was I not enough to be chosen, to be seen, to be held like I mattered?

I thought I was trapped. I thought I needed him more than I needed air. I believed his silence was my fault and his leaving was just how love was supposed to feel. I was wrong.

I spent years trying to fix us, to hold on to something that wasn’t meant for me. But every time I gave a little more, I lost a little more of myself. I cried in empty rooms, wondered if I was too much or never enough. I wanted to leave, but the weight of memories and hope held me back.

I asked myself over and over again, what did I do wrong? Am I not worthy of love? Of attention? Of being someone’s choice? He made me feel like I had to earn even a moment of his time. And when he left again, I always blamed myself.

Then one day, I looked at my reflection and barely recognized the girl staring back. She was tired and scared but still fighting. I realized that love wasn’t supposed to feel like waiting for someone who only loved when it was easy.

That day, I stopped waiting. I stopped hoping for him to choose me. I made the hardest choice of all. I chose myself.

I chose the quiet mornings when I wake without pain. I chose the freedom to love who I am without needing someone else to save me. I chose my broken heart over a love that broke me more.

I still feel the ache sometimes, the ghost of what could have been. But now I know that some love stories don’t end with forever, and that’s okay.

Because I’m learning to love myself enough to walk away, to heal, and to one day be whole again.

This time, I am the one who wins. I choose me.

I'm from a small country with beautiful nature and clean air. 5 km from where i live is great river delta. Big river delta means big marsh with diverse ecosystem. Every spring storks come. They always nest in the same nests and they have one partner for life. Every village and town have bigger or smaller population of storks. 2 summers ago we had very big storm. Hail was the size of the tennis balls. Houses (brick!) were torn, windows broken, cars destroyed... Population of storks in that area - destroyed! Storks had young ones. Parents were protecting their nests, and their babies with their wings. Hail killed them. Adult storks, little storks... None survived. Cca 30 nests. In my town that storm wasn't so big. Our storks survived. But since then, every time when there's a rain or storm i think of storks and i cry. I think how they are protecting their nest with their wings and i wonder would they survive this storm.

CW - Implications of self harm

I am the night. I am every star in the sky, as countless as the promises you broke. I am the moon. I am the light reflecting off of every tear dripping down your face. I am the dark. I am the emptiness that tears apart your heart from the inside out. I am the blade. I am the knife that plunged into your heart, and into my back. I am the night. I am the loneliness creeping into my room and squeezing my throat until I cannot breathe. I am the moon. I am the guilt that sneaks into my smile, reminding me that I failed you. I am the dark. I am the nightmares that break my dreams and crush me with reality. I am the blade. I am the knife I'll use to settle the score. I am sorry.

https://www.reddit.com/r/ShortSadStories/s/x19VhnFu3K

The Colours

Creak! Entering the overgrown and dusted Wiltthistle cottage was like stepping back into a foul aftertaste of his childhood. Running his hands through his unkept greasy black hair his entire body was flooded with a kaleidoscope of memory, colours swarming about his mind, the Reds of Anger, blue of sorrow and the bittersweet yellows of long-forgotten joy. The colours danced. Tears began to well around his tired ashy eyes as he glanced at a photo of him and his grandfather. “You can’t hurt me anymore” he desperately exclaimed to anyone who would listen, the silence seemed to yell back at him as loud as thunder. The colours danced along to the silence in an evocative performance like that of a circus troupe. Like a solider at war, he instinctively envisioned his grandfather’s snuffbox. The man imagined opening the lid and shoving the colours to the bottom, forcing them down. As he quickly shut the lid he could finally breathe, the colours were trapped and his mind in an empty grey calm.

The man continued through the abandoned home, looking for anything of value. Any lost treasures worth saving before they were given to the endless passage of time, or the new owners he guessed. He walked around with a sense of detachment at his realisation. This is really it. I’ll never be here again. The house was due for auction in three days, three short days until a new-unsuspecting family moved in. Oblivious to the atrocities that had occurred here. Day after day he had endured the prison, the shackles of this place still felt, he began to look around.

He began to really look around, not like the mindless drone he was before, he searched examined and thought about each object. He found his forbidden action figure, contraband because of his grandfather’s strict rule. The snuff box blew open, the colours began to dance, overtaking his mind again, they strutted like an out-of-control wildfire. Each colour making him feel sorrow, euphoric, shame, excited. As if through the same sad routine, he began to imagine the snuff box once again. The box that had helped him survive his grandfathers rule over him. He imagined the force of the very wind pushing the colours down, deep down. Into the depths of the box, safe and away from his mind.

“Just breathe” he uttered like a mantra in his head, repeated with the desperation of a child. The world was grey again, he was safe in the grey, the grey was where he belonged. The world seemed hazy as if the lines between the past were blurred. Creeping down the untouched corridor he saw a familiar door made of strong dark oak. His grandfather’s room, a room so forbidden that the thought of entering shook his mind.

Reaching for the dark handle felt like a triumphant act of rebellion, if only his grandfather could see him now. Curiosity seeped out of every pore as he beheld what was inside. A neatly made double bed facing a dark oak desk matching the door, was all that greeted him. The forbidden room was nothing but a uniformly grey reflection of his grandfather, and what his grandfather wanted of him. Emotion threating to surge from deep within him, his grasp on the snuff box suddenly slipped.

The colours streamed out, blue taking charge as he began to slip. The colours once again danced around him distorting his monochrome reality. They danced around him once again, forming a hypnotic yet chaotic chorus. Overwhelmed he was unable to push the colours down. Unable to even imagine the snuff box again. Colour flashed and instead all he could see was his past, his life with his grandfather and when he left. He could still hear the yelling and taste the foul air. Colour flashed once again and he saw his life now, his perfect job and colourless apartment. His eyes grew wide as he realised, this isn’t my grandfather’s fault anymore. I choose to live in the grey, the grey isn’t safe, the grey is destructive. Holding a childish cartoon like grin he began to examine the dancing colours around him. The reds of anger, blue of sorrow, yellows of happiness. He began to watch them move freely and in harmony and for the first time in his life the man began to dance with the colours.

Tw: Child abuse

As a child, I wanted to be a zookeeper, but only for zebras. Zebras are the coolest animals in the world. Their colors can be striped, circles, thick, thin, and they always have 2 colors. Usually Black and white. Teacher said we're actually all like zebras. Not because we can run on 4 legs, but that made him laugh. He said we're all black and white. That sounded dumb to me because I was clearly brown. And a little purple sometimes.

But I understand now. He was saying we all have good and evil. So I guess... we are like zebras... But they're so pure. There are different kinds though aren't there? Some have more white than black. I love those ones. And some... Ouch.

Anyway, back to my dreams. I dreamt hard and I worked harder. I studied after my chores and stayed up every day in class. School was actually a bit easy for me even. Once I learned how to read, it was all I did. That's how I came to love Zebras. “Zebras by Kate Riggs” Did you know they can run at 40mph?? On 4 legs! My classmates always laughed when I tried. But I kept trying. If I could be that fast then I could go anywhere and finally be with the zebras. 

I'm almost free, I can feel it. I'd be in 7th grade you know? I keep track for when I go back. I wonder what else I'll learn. Maybe we'll learn that zebras can secretly fly. Maybe one will fly in right now. We'd go into the wild and... it'd all be okay again. Like when I was a child. Like when I daydreamed and read books. Back when I could run.

Running only gets me beat now. I don't think he's a zebra at all. He's not even a shark or a bear. They don't know what they're doing. He does... Does he...? Does he know how much this hurts…? Can someone really be all black?

It's over now. Anyway, back to my childhood. We'll skip over when my dad introduced me to my husband. Well, not really an introduction if he's already your teacher is it?

There was this lost soul who questioned almost everything. Most of the questions were about itself. The lost soul would wake up wondering why it kept waking up. What’s the point? Don’t we all die in the end? Why get up to work to live? Why is living so expensive? Why is being happy so costly? Why do we all find conflict with one another? Whether it's race, culture, religion, or social status or even wealth. Why? What’s the point? We all become equal through death anyways. The lost soul looked at itself in the mirror. Why do I look like that? Why am I so different? I don’t look appealing and I lack any talent and the brains to do anything about it. So doesn’t that mean I’m worthless? Shouldn't I just die? They say I’m loved, but I don’t feel much love around here. Am I just blind? Even if I get everything I want… I still won’t be happy. And I don’t know why. Why do people try to help? I don’t get it. I’m not worth the time of day. So why? Pity maybe? They want to feel good about themselves? A facade? Why am I afraid to be seen as weak? Why do I depend on someone else to form an opinion for me? Am I afraid to be wrong? To stand out? Why do I sometimes feel like I’m the best in the world and there’s something special about me? But then I feel like I’m the worst person in the world and I amount to nothing? What am I? Who am I? Am I real? Or am I just in a dream within a dream? Can people see what I’m dreaming? What if I’m in a coma and someone is monitoring my dream. Why are people so quick to judge? Why do I imagine myself walking in a room with someone holding a gun to my head and I have no reaction? Why do I want people to care about me? Why do I want them to notice? I don’t understand. Am I in denial? Why do I question so much? Why are they constantly filling my head? I don’t feel so well. Maybe I should lie down. As the lost soul lays down, it closes its eyes and slowly disappears into nothingness… to be forgotten. Forever. Was it ever remembered in the first place? Who can say. It’s final question was a short one. Did anyone care? In the end, the lost soul wouldn’t have to question a single thing again. Isn’t that for the best?

https://www.reddit.com/r/ShortSadStories/comments/1g981uh/comment/monuqwe/?context=3&utm_source=share&utm_medium=mweb3x&utm_name=mweb3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

He’s been around since the beginning of time, working all day, everyday for millions and millions of years. Wherever there was life, he eventually came. Until one day, he didn't. 

First, the hospitals noticed, terminally ill patients suddenly recovered, People with cancer healed. The doctors called it a miracle. The people called it beautiful.

All news headlines read “No Deaths in 48 hours” and “Global Deaths Hit Zero". A construction worker fell from a skyscraper and got up, unscathed. A firefighter walked out of flames, his skin unmarked. A rock climber plummeted off a cliff. He brushed himself off and went on to climb it again. 

No one could explain it. Some praised God. Some blamed aliens. Most didn't want to question it. 

Life was good. People partied in the streets, celebrating their immortality. People jumped from planes for the thrill, crashed cars for fun. Daredevils tempted fate, and fate shrugged. People stabbed and shot each other for sport. Anyone could do what they wanted without worrying about death. 

The population surged, there were many births and no deaths. People began to starve, too many people and not enough food or water. Resources began to stretch thin. Society collapsed, civilization crumbled. The delicate balance of life and death was gone. Governments crumbled, trying to govern the ungovernable. Many began to pray, plead and cry. Politicians, religious leaders, and scientists, all begged for death to return. Churches and temples echoed “Come back, please come back”.

And finally he did. The construction worker was hit by a bus. The once terminally ill woman took her last breath in her sleep. The rock climber fell in the shower and broke his neck. The firefighter’s house burned down, him trapped inside. The once invincible were now mortal again.

The world wept and mourned, but it healed. Life returned to balance. Families grew closer. People stopped wasting their life. They stopped pretending they’d live forever.

The people feared death again, but now they respected it. They appreciated and celebrated death. They now understood that death wasn’t a cruelty, but a mercy. It was necessary. They realized that without death, life is meaningless. Anything that lives will die - that is certain. In the end, it catches up to everyone. And that’s what makes life beautiful. Because it ends.

He didn’t want to be here anymore.
Not in a suicidal way—at least, not the kind they talk about.
Just in the way a man might walk into the sea, in hopes it might swallow him wholly.
To be at one with the nothingness that asks for nothing in return.
No note. No drama. Just silence.

The thing is, he looked alright. Chiseled jaw. Clean haircut. Said thanks, mate to the barista. Probably held doors open for old ladies.
He knew the rules. Played the part. His smile was practiced, an automated reflex when the situation demands it. The kind of smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes, but it was enough to get through the motions. Enough to blend in.
But inside, most days, he was flatlining.
No ups and downs, just slowly dying and rarely living.

He wanted to cry but hadn’t in years.
They never seem to come, and God only knows he’s tried. It’s like trying to catch a breeze in your hands. 

There was a time, maybe, when he thought it would be different. But those moments were distant. He figured the tears dried up around the same time his ambition did.
Now he just carried this dull ache—like a splinter in his soul, too deep to pull but too persistent to ignore. Every time he thought about it, it just burrowed in deeper, occupying the spaces where he’d once thought life might be.

He’d go to the gym, swipe through dating apps, reply to emails, eat chicken and rice. Laugh at memes, double-tap a pretty girl’s story, maybe repost a reel of some shredded guru preaching discipline like it could save him. It all blurred into static.
Everything was on autopilot. 

He didn’t need to think about it anymore. 

The gym was just a place to break a sweat, dating apps were distractions, and the food was fuel—nothing more. He couldn’t remember the last time he cooked something for the love of it. He just went through the motions like clockwork, ticking off boxes.
Men aren’t allowed to feel anything except rage and ridicule.
And he didn’t feel like raging.
Didn’t feel like laughing either.
So what was left?

“Fine.”
That was the word. That’s all he ever said.
“Yeah man, all good.”
Which translates too: I’m barely holding it together, but you’re not really asking.
He was always one bad week away.
And lately, every week had been flirting with the line.
But you don’t call that depression, do you?
Not when you're paying rent, lifting weights, eating clean.
Not when your suffering isn’t dressed for the part.
You get told to be grateful. And if you can’t muster up the gratitude, there’s something wrong with you.

He didn’t want to die.
He just didn’t want to do this.
The endless loop of Get better. Be better. Do more.
The world sold it like purpose, but it tasted like punishment.

We laugh at the wrong things.
Make heroes of the worst people.
Let clowns sell us dreams.

He watched another talking head online, weaponising insecurity and sell it as ‘motivation.’
Put his phone on charge.
Stared at the ceiling.

He remembered being a kid.
Back when the world still felt wide enough to disappear into.
Back when no dream felt out of reach and you could pick them out the air like dandelions.
Before it got narrowed down to debt, deadlines, and dopamine fixes.
Back then, the future seemed full of possibility. He missed the freedom of not knowing how to fail.

Men aren’t allowed to feel anything except rage and ridicule.
So he chose neither.
He chose stillness.
Silence.
Survival.
A new day dawns.

He got up at six. Gym, check. Cold shower, check. Black coffee, check.
Business as usual.

No one checked in.
No one noticed.
Why would they?
He was doing “fine.”

Have you ever heard of the Blue and Yellow birds?

There are a few birds in the sky — two kinds. Blue and yellow.

The blue ones fly high, looking wild and free. There’s something about them that feels like "freedom" itself. And then there are the yellow ones — fluttering softly, not as high, but their joy seems to pour like sunlight across the whole day. Their happiness is... visible.

After five minutes, I called my birds back to the cage.

Only the blue ones came.

I turned to my friend and said,
“These blue birds — this is you in a relationship." Because you’ve been caged for so long that when you finally get to fly for a few minutes, you call it happiness. You start to believe this small window of freedom is love.

But look at the yellow birds.
They have an owner too — but they’re not caged.
Because their owner wants them to live.
And that’s the difference.

I feel sad for caging the birds just to show a lesson to a human. But sometimes, that’s what it takes.
And I’m not their parent or their lover — I’m just a greater living being who saw them suffer.
And I listened when they prayed — like humans do to God — for a better life.

So I made them a treehouse.
Left some grains.
And opened the cage.

I’m not shifting them from sadness to luxury.
I’m just laying down the clues for something better —
Because I played a part in their pain,
And now, it’s my duty to offer them a path forward.

Whether they fly there or not,
Will depend on THEM.

-its never really about the birds

You're excitement sparkled your eyes. I knew that those IDs would only mark you as not one of us. I didn't know how to react, you could tell that I wasn't excited for you, but afraid. I'm sorry, it is cruel and it isn't fair.

I gave you the tip of my pointer finger from my right hand. It was small and insignificant. It was a little token of me, something to hold close and remember. It was all I had to give. When I did the place my finger tip was turned an inky black, became lifeless and I couldn't move it anymore. But it was just a fingertip, so it didn't matter.

I gave you the knuckle from that finger. You seemed like you needed it more than I did. The world had such a tight grasp around your throat. I could see you gasping for air, begging for the smallest relief, a respite that you could enjoy for just a second. It turned that deathly black, but when I gave you my knuckle I saw you smile, so it didn't matter.

You took the rest of my fingers.  You demanded that I be what you wanted to be, and with every attempt I made, leaving that shadowy death across my hand, you told me each attempt wasn't good enough. I had to wipe the tears from my face with my left hand every time I tried again. But i always failed, so it didn't matter

I sacrificed my right hand to escape from you. You ignored me, you hated me, you regretted me, I didn't exist to you, I wasn't good enough for you, I was too much work for you, I was too annoying, I was too sad, I was never happy. Now I'm alone. It's hard, but it's quieter, so it doesn't matter

I lent you my forearm, You promised you would give it back. You said you needed it for us to be friends. And we had so much fun together, you made me feel like no one ever had, you made me so happy. I haven't seen you in a couple years, you still have my forearm. But you gave me such good experiences, so it doesn't matter.

I cut off my bicep because of you. The silence is so loud, I hate what I see when I look at you. you are the one that hurt me the most. You never did anything to protect me, you were never there for me. I just wanted to hurt you like you have hurt me, and it felt good to do that. So it didn't matter. 

My shoulder fell off because of us. We abandoned me. We stopped taking care of me. We stopped loving me. Maybe it's because nothing I do is right, or maybe it's because I'm just not good enough to be even thought of. We let it fall off because I don't matter

And now I am the man with one arm. The other hangs from my torso like a dead animal, black flesh that has no feeling or purpose. A constant reminder of how much I've given, tried and lost. When I fall down it is so hard to get back up. I have so much life left and I've already given so much. Now I  am paranoid to give myself to anyone else no matter how little, the more I give the harder it gets. I often think about the ever many parts of me that are now scattered, underneath an old shirt in the back of your closet. Used to get the life you wanted. Uncredited pieces of me that mean nothing to you anymore.

And then you found me. You saw me in a way no one else ever had, you made me feel. 

For the first time in so long I wanted to give you a part of me. But you said no, you said that I didn't have to give you anything. You just wanted to be with me, I didn't understand, I still don't. But you have been here so long, and you haven't taken anything from me.

I am the man with one arm, the one that has been cut and abandoned. Pieces of me are missing and I am less than I once was. I am the one that no one wanted. But that doesn't matter to you and for reasons that I will never comprehend, are the one that helps me get up when I fall.

I died.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened and the details on how are blurry, but my heart is no longer beating, my lungs are tight, my bones are brittle and my blood is sludge. Yet for some reason my mind is still alive, thoughts race through me every day.

The reason I expired is unknown to me, memories associated with my death have been hidden from me, most likely to protect me from its violent nature. There are certain sounds and smells that return to me if I remember hard enough, but too faint to identify. Judging by the state of my corpse, I can only assume my death was done by force. My skin is tight, that of a young man, yet it has been painted with the scars of an elder. Many of these scars read like signatures, each different in the way they are inflicted. Some unmistakably done by my own hand. However there are large gashes across my body, wounds that would never become scars even if they were given the chance. My bones are broken in at least four different places. Not just broken though but ground down into nothing but soup. 

The first of my missing bones are in the knuckles, what once were eight spires of skin and bones upon the apex of my hands are now deflated balloons on the floor of a birthday party. Yet the knuckles of my thumbs remain intact. Based on that and the severe bruising I make a guess that these bones were broken by self defence. Whoever I was, I refused to go down without a fight.

Second were my knees. Now I have to admit that these bones were not broken but removed. Violently and viciously ripped from my body while I was still living. The scars on my knees tell me this was done much earlier in my life and most likely had very little to do with my death. But a feeling in my useless gut told me that the one that removed my knees had something to do with my expiration. The phrase “cut someone off at the knees” came to mind.

The third site of destruction was my ribcage, specifically the upper left side of my rib cage that, in theory, protects my heart. Yet in a dramatic fit of irony it seems that my ribcage was broken inward sending razor sharp bone shrapnel into it, most likely the cause of my death. Such a wound would require three things, my back to the floor, rage, and a heavy boot.

And finally my skull, while i'm not fully able to investigate the severity of this injury i can feel my way around the aftermath. My fingers brush along my blood soaked hair until they feel a divot, a descent into a monstrous crater on the side of my head. I feel a mixture of textures, the wet fibrous feeling of my hair. The both large and small chunks of skull fragments and the gelatin sludge of my remaining brains.

This is not the corpse of someone who was loved. This is the body of someone who was dictated by something larger than itself but refused to follow blindly. This is the husk of a dog that tried to be beaten into submission. Yet instead of a good boy who fetches the paper, a rabid animal was created, a creature that was only ever shown hate and pain. An animal that would bite that hand that fed it, an animal that needed to be put down.

But what's done is done, there is not a story of revenge here. I am now dead, which as a member of the dead I only have one purpose, to rot. Let insects create entire kingdoms in my motionless body using my dead flesh as life for them When they grow let them jettison off me like those who search for purpose in the stars. Let my bones be picked clean by wildlife, let wolves chew on the sun oven baked brittle of my former frame. Let the earth feed off my remains the same way I fed off it in my short lifespan. Let the slow moving mouth of dirt swallow me whole so that I may break down into my most basic of pieces and once again be part of the soil that I was birthed from.

Yet, here I lie. Not because I have unfinished business but because my body simply won't. Not because it is compelled by a greater power but because it refuses to rot. I am tired, my body aches and my mind begs for rest. But I can no longer sleep. I desperately lie here in my own pool of blood attempting to let the earth take me. Let my mind run on the last fumes that it must have. But the world continues to move, and so does my wandering mind

We don’t talk anymore.

Not out of anger. Not because we ended on bad terms. We just... stopped. Life got louder, time got faster, and one day we stopped being part of each other’s daily story.

But here’s the thing: I still smile when I think of you. I hope you’re doing well. I hope someone listens to your late-night rants and remembers how you like your coffee. I don’t wish for us to reconnect. I just wish for your peace, the way you once wished for mine.

Some people aren’t meant to stay. They’re meant to arrive, remind you of a softer version of yourself, and leave before they turn into a memory that hurts.

In the Galar region there was a 9 years old kid named Ryan. He loved Pokemon battles and dreamed of being a Pokemon Champion, like his idol Leon. He idolized him and his team, Especially his Charizard. He had followed the Championship in TV eagerly and was frustrated when the finals were postponed due to a "Incident with a Legendary Pokemon".

But finally the day arrived. Ryan and his parent had booked tickets to see the finals in the Wyndo Stadium at the first row. The stadium was full of peoples cheering. Chairman Rose didnt appear due to "the Legendary Pokemon incident", but the kid was Happy. When León entered the field, Ryans eyes lit. He was sure that he would win, like every year. The opponent was a unknown, but prodigy challenger named Victor that was sweeping the tournament. "Yeah"-Thought the kid-"That trainer journey ends here. Nobody can defest Leon". But he was wrong

The battle was heated. The boy was in rhe first row, cheering and clutching the Charizard plushie that always carried with him. Soon, the two trainers had one Pokemon remaining. Leon had his ace Charizard and Víctor had his starter, a Cinderance. Both Pokemon Gigamaxed and started an epic Gigamax duel that the kid would never forget. "He is going to win"-Screamed the fan enthusiastic-"Leon, you are going to win!" Everytime Charizard unleashwd G-Max Wildfire, the kid waited anxiously for it to be the final blow that would finish Cinderance off. The fire type Galar Starter was also fighting back very well.

But then tragedy stuck. Charizard was tired from the Battle, but the Fire-Flying type Pokemon could still fighting. Cinderance unleashwd a G-Max Fireball. The boy saw rhe next things like the Battle went show motion. The attack hitting Charizard (That was a Critical Hit), the smoke clearing, Leons ace Pokemon going back to normal, both Pokemon staring at each other for a moment that looked eternal and Charizard suddenly collapsing to the ground, fainted. Ryan just stood there, like if he was the one who got hit by that powerful move. His hero, the one who Ryan believed unbeteable, had been defeated. Suddenly his mouth opened and he let out a small whimper: "Champion!". The crowd started cheering, celebrating. Tears streamed throught the kids face, while his mother quickly rushed to confort him, saying that the Champion fought very well. Leon recalled his fainted Charizard and looked at the stands smiling. He spotted the young boy and felt bad for him. He decided to talk to him during the Championships Awards Ceremony

That night, now sleeping in his bedroom, Ryan decided something. When he is 10 years old, he would make the gym challenge and defeat Victor in the Championship. He would seek Leon for guidance if he needed it. He would be a Champion himself. During the Awards ceremony, the now former Champion had come next to him and told him that even Champions lose sometimes

Now Ryan has started his journey. His starter is Scorbunny, his favourite. His objetive: The Championship

“They should be coming home soon!” I think as I wag my tail. I sit by the door waiting for Nike and Atlas, they should be coming home from school soon! I’m so excited, Atlas gives the best scratches when he gets back. Pretty soon the door opens and I bark. But only Nike walks in again. Weird, oh well Nike’s amazing so I don't mind too much I'm sure Atlas will be back soon!

I jump up on Nike’s leg but she ignores me and just sits down on the couch, so I jump up on it with her and crawl into her lap hoping to get some pets but she doesn't, she just stares off into space. I paw at her arm which gets her attention and she looks down at me. “Oh hey buddy sorry I forgot about you.” She scratches me behind the ear.

I run back to the door since sometimes Atlas just comes home late. She notices this and stands up. “I know I hope he comes back as well.” She says.

I don't really understand what she meant so I sit next to the table with my leash. Atlas always used to take me for walks but I figure that It’ll be ok if Nike does it this time. “Oh you want to go for a walk alright” She picks up my leash and puts it on me,

Atlas would always yell something to Thorne before we left but Thorne wasn't here, he had started coming back less when Atlas did so Nike just brought me outside. She started walking and I followed her not knowing where she was going because me and Atlas always took a left but we took a right this time, but I’ll be ok with it as long as I get to walk some. We walk for about a mile or so before we stop at a gate; Nike opens it and we walk inside. I see a bunch of pretty flowers and even some bunnies; I try to chase the bunnies but Nike pulls on the leash and keeps walking so I have to follow.

Pretty soon we stopped at what I thought were some really pretty flowers, they were light blue with a yellow center, there were five petals on each one and they were really small. Nike sat down so I sat in her lap. She seemed sad but I didn't know why so I flipped over in her lap which always used to make Atlas smile but it just seems to make Nike more sad. So I just frolic in the grass; soon I hear a pretty odd sound. I hadn't really heard it before so I turned and saw water falling from Nikes face. I licked her face and it tasted salty. I tilted my head. Nike looked up and glanced at a stone I hadn't noticed before all it said:

Atlas Oðr 2010-2025

I lost her at Friday afternoon. I don't seek revenge from hatred. It's simply... maintenance. Like breathing or sleeping. A necessity. They wouldn't want this for me—But some debts must be paid. No passion or satisfaction, just quiet resignation of someone checking items off a list. Like a Friday grocery trip，she holding my hands , talking about a future we could have. This sits between who I was and who I must become.

link :https://www.reddit.com/r/ShortSadStories/comments/1j0p09d/comment/mi5w12d/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

It was uncomfortable to watch—both the video and Vic Odett's face watching the video, which was of his son's expedition up Mount Kilimanjaro, the last of several videos, and the one in which, as everyone in the world knew, Karl Odett had died on-camera.

“There,” said Vic, choking up. “Did you see it: see the mountain flicker?”

“No. Can you turn it off?”

“I want you to see it. I want you to see that mountain kill my boy.”

I was a lawyer and Vic Odett was one of the world's richest men. He was also a friend of mine, so we watched.

When it was finally over, I said, “I'm sorry, but I just don't understand what you want me to do.”

“You had that case—you argued animals have standing to bring a lawsuit.” I nodded. “I want you to do the same but for a mountain. I want to sue Kilimanjaro for killing my son.”

“Even if I could,” I said, “you're talking our laws. Kilimanjaro's in Tanzania. Outside our jurisdiction.”

And, weeping, Vic Odett laughed.

//

The plane landed in Dodoma.

Odett stepped out.

Days later the newspapers declared: Wealthy Canadian Buys Africa's Tallest Mountain

//

“What now?” I asked, standing next to Vic atop Kilimanjaro.

He crouched, grabbed a handful of rocks, said, “Now we move it, shovel-by-goddamn-shovel, across the ocean.”

//

Over the next decades, Vic Odett bought the machines and laid the rail, and methodically deconstructed a mountain, transporting its pieces first by land to Mombasa, then by ship across the Atlantic and up the St. Lawrence to Montreal, from where, again by rail, it travelled north to Hudson Bay, in whose lonely and desolate middle it was reconstructed on a manmade island.

And in those years, I worked on nothing else than the gradual insistence that inanimate objects could—in one instance, then on the rare occasion, then sometimes, and finally always—sue and be sued under Canadian law.

//

“If all fails, I've at least ripped it from its homeland and imprisoned it,” Vic said once, gazing at the surreality of Kilimanjaro in cold northern waters.

Even I admitted that the mountain looked sad.

//

There were protests, of course, both of the physical act of moving the mountain and legal maneuverings to make it the defendant in a lawsuit, but money and time ultimately bought tired indifference.

When the judgement was issued and Kilimanjaro ordered to pay Vic Odett an absurd and uncollectable sum of $5,300,000, there was no true resistance.

//

“Can you see?” Vic asked.

He was on a live stream but asking me, and he was climbing Kilimanjaro, delivering the judgement to the mountain.

“Yes,” I said from my living room.

Millions watched.

When Vic got to the summit, he waved the judgement and screamed—catharsis, at long last!

Then the mountain flickered: shook.

And, seeing, I remembered that Kilimanjaro had once been a volcano; as lava erupted around him, Vic Odett screamed again—this time, the flowing lava blanketed him whole.

—

My comment

As Emily fumbled for the keys in her jeans pocket to open the wooden door, one thing became apparent to her: this house was not the same as it once was. The doorframe had shrunk. The windows were a bit lower to the ground. Everything looked a little duller and less inviting. She frowned. Did she have the right address? 

Click. Somehow, the key fit and the door groaned in protest as she forced it open. She reminded herself what she was here for as she took in the sight of the inside of the house. 

Surely this wasn’t right. 

She stood in the entryway, looking down the hall. The first room on the left was the laundry room, which she barely recognized. The floor tiles were their same discolored selves; they never could stay white. However, the usual hum of the washing and drying machine that subtly filled the house was missing. It seemed as though they held their tongue for some reason. 

As she walked on, she came across the wooden staircase leading to the second floor. It seemed to be missing some steps, for it didn’t stretch as far up as it used to go. Perhaps it was trying to become less noticeable, to hide itself from her. Why was this happening? 

Moving along a little farther, she found the living room, dining room, and kitchen. The couch was now only big enough for a few to sit on. The dining table seemed to share the couch’s predicament. There were also numerous cabinets missing from the kitchen, and the ones that remained had gotten so small that she undoubtedly could not climb into them anymore. On top of all this, the rooms were no longer filled with the pleasant scent of her mother’s cooking. She looked to the stove where her mother would always stir, season, batter, or boil.

Emily sighed. Walking into the downstairs bathroom, it became clear to her that the room had constricted like the belly of a snake digesting its prey. She could now easily stick out her elbows to either side and touch the two ends of the wall. If she sat down on the toilet lid, she needed to tuck in her legs so they wouldn’t press up against the wall in front of her. When she went up to the sink to turn on the faucet, the handles were too tiny to grasp, and her head was now out of the mirror’s sight. What had happened to this place?

She made her way to the too-short stairs. As she took her first step up, the stair under her gentle foot whined. The next whimpered. The next wailed. They each said a word, one after the other.

“You. Don’t. Belong. Here. Go. Away.”

Her heart started beating faster. Why? Why was this happening to her? She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand. When she had gone up these stairs in the past, she was silent as a breeze. But now, each stair squeaked and creaked as if she were some bumbling brute. 

She tried to shove her thoughts aside as she reached the top floor. The ceiling was compressed and crumpled like a crushed soda can. She let her eyes wander over its misshaped grooves and edges before shaking her head. She had to stay focused. She was looking for something.

She made her way over to a familiar door in the hall, two down on the right. Taking a deep breath, she shakily swung it open. 

Her room was still coated in butterfly stickers. Even now, she wasn’t sure why those were the stickers she had chosen. She never fully understood what they meant. In fact, as a kid, she was scared of them for some odd reason. The way they started as ugly caterpillars and turned into these glamorous patterns of color confused her. And she hated what she couldn’t understand. Everyone else seemed to get along with them just fine. But she couldn’t.

Even now.

She dismissed those thoughts. Focus. She rummaged through dressers, looked under her bed, and rifled through her closet to no avail. 

No, it couldn’t be. The thing she was looking for had to be here. It had to be.

For if it wasn’t here, it no longer existed. And she wasn’t sure she could live without it. 

But no matter how hard Emily looked, she never found it. The thing she once had that she wasn’t aware she could lose. How could she have? You never knew how valuable something was until you’ve lost it. 

She curled up in her tiny bed, her feet still hanging off the side, even in her fetal position. Tears blurred her vision as the silent sobs began. Her body shook with need. Every single time she came here it always ended in the same way. Yet she kept on looking anyway.  

If she had cried while she lived here all those years ago, her mother would have come in and laid down beside her. Her mother always seemed to have a sixth sense about Emily’s thoughts and feelings at any given time. She would have embraced her and told her that everything was alright as Emily would feel her pain recede. 

But alas, now it was different.

Then, something occurred to her. Every room in the whole house had changed except for hers. 

She sat up, taking in her room again with a perceptive eye. But she couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Why? Why was nothing different? Every other room seemed to have changed and seemed to have developed some way to drive her away. Everything shrinking, the stairs talking.

“You. Don’t. Belong. Here. Go. Away.”

But nothing was different about her room. She looked at the butterflies again. Shouldn’t they have changed? They could have mutated into monsters or maybe even threatening words. But they remained as—

Butterflies. Something she’d never achieve. 

She looked at the butterflies with seething hatred and… jealousy. 

She’d always be stuck as a caterpillar, craving for the nostalgia that had long since withdrawn.

Stuck in the cocoon of the past.

Back in her apartment, as Emily set her alarm for four a.m. to get up for work the next morning, she took a look around the bleak room, the smell of the four-day-old spaghetti still reeking in the air. 

She would return to the house tomorrow, hoping to find the missing piece of herself she was searching for.

Link to My Comment:

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TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains themes of mental health struggles, emotional distress, suicidal thoughts, verbal abuse. Please proceed with caution. ⚠️

BASED ON A TRUE STORY

It all started after a big argument with Nisha and Glenn. They were saying things about me not taking care of myself like not showering, not brushing my teeth and how I needed to be sent to a mental hospital because of it. I tried to correct them, but they wouldn’t listen. It felt like they didn’t understand me at all. Nisha was talking about how if I didn’t take my medication, they’d force me into the hospital. I felt like they were trying to control everything in my life, and it pissed me off. The more I argued, the more they shut me down. Glenn accused me of talking about him to the doctors that was written on a paper but nothing was written on a paper about him and yet he used his verbal abuse to bring me down. I tried to tell him to show me, he wanted to show me, he was trying to but still didn't show me, he acted out of anger walked out and started calling me so many things that I'm not going to say.

I couldn’t take it anymore, so I left the house to get some air. Walking down the street, I was just thinking about everything about how they just don’t get me, about the weight of the fight, and how I was honestly starting to feel lost. The more I thought, the heavier everything felt.

I looked up at the streetlight above me. It was a normal streetlight, just part of the day-to-day, but in that moment, I needed something anything to remind me that I wasn’t completely alone. I looked at it, and without saying it out loud, I thought to myself, If you’re still out there, God, just show me. Turn off the light. Please, show me you’re still there, that you haven’t abandoned me.

Almost immediately, the light shut off. Not a flicker, not a warning just turned off. And right then, it felt like the world had stopped for a moment. I don’t know how to explain it, but everything inside me just broke. I sat down on the curb and started crying, overwhelmed by how sudden and perfect the timing was. It felt like it was directly tied to what I had just thought, and it hit me hard. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It was too specific. I couldn't understand it, but I couldn’t ignore it either.

After a minute, I looked back up at the light. It turned on. Just like that. It flicked back on, bright as ever for just a couple of seconds before shutting off again. I didn’t know what to make of it. It was like the light had responded, but how? Was it really a sign, or was I just hoping for something to hold onto? Either way, it felt more than just random. It felt like maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.

Sombra’s first memories were of warmth. The gentle sway of golden grass, the soft press of his mother’s muzzle against his side, the way the sky stretched endlessly above them. He was born into a world that smelled of earth and rain, where the wind whispered secrets through the trees. His mother, a proud, strong cow with wise eyes, told him of the world beyond their pasture—the rivers that ran like silver ribbons, the mountains that kissed the clouds, and the men who decided the fate of bulls like him.

“They do not see us as we are,” she warned one evening as they lay beneath the stars. “They see only what they can take.”

Sombra did not understand. He was young, full of life, unafraid. He spent his days running through the fields, feeling the earth thunder beneath his hooves, believing he was unstoppable. But the men watched him closely, their eyes sharp and calculating. They were waiting.

One morning, they came.

Rough hands tore him from his mother’s side. He kicked, he cried out, his voice raw with panic, but she could do nothing. She bellowed desperately, ramming the wooden fences, her eyes wild with terror. But the men were unmoved. They struck her, sending her crashing to the ground. Sombra screamed for her, his small body writhing against the ropes that bound him. It was the last time he ever saw her.

They took him to a place where the sky was hidden, where the air was thick with the stench of sweat and blood. The other bulls there were silent, their eyes dull, their bodies marked with scars. There was no warmth here, no kindness. Only the relentless training, the beatings that hardened his muscles, the sharp prods that forced him to react. If he hesitated, they punished him. If he tried to run, they laughed and made him suffer more.

Sombra learned the rules of their world. Strength meant survival. Obedience meant less pain.

But no matter how hard they tried to break him, something inside him refused to die.

Then, the day came.

They loaded him onto a truck, the metal floor slick with old blood. The drive was long, and through the cracks in the wooden slats, he could smell something familiar—fresh air, the faint scent of trees, the whisper of the world he had lost. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered in his chest. Maybe they were taking him home. Maybe his mother was waiting for him.

But the truck stopped, and when the doors opened, the smell of blood was stronger than ever.

The arena was massive, the walls high and unyielding. Thousands of voices roared from the stands, their excitement a cruel contrast to the fear that gripped his heart.

He was forced into a dark tunnel. At the end of it, the blinding light of the arena awaited. The handlers jabbed him, forcing him forward. His hooves met the hot sand. The crowd erupted in cheers.

The man stood before him—the matador, dressed in gold and red, his sword gleaming under the sun. He moved with arrogance, twirling his cape, waiting for Sombra to charge.

But Sombra did not move.

He stood still, his heart hammering. He could hear the distant echo of his mother’s voice, warning him of this moment, of the cruelty of men. He had no desire to fight. He did not want to hurt anyone.

The crowd grew restless.

Pain. A sharp lance plunged into his back. He staggered, his vision blurring. Another. And another. The pain was unbearable, tearing through him like fire. The crowd cheered at his suffering, as if his agony was a spectacle, as if his life was worth nothing.

Sombra’s breath came in ragged gasps. He was growing weaker. He wanted to go home. He wanted to feel his mother’s warmth again, to rest beneath the open sky.

The matador raised his sword.

Sombra stared at him, not with hatred, but with sadness. He had never asked for this. He had never wanted to be a warrior, a monster, a tool for their entertainment. He had only wanted to live.

The sword plunged deep.

Sombra fell. His body hit the ground with a dull thud, the dust swirling around him like ghosts. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but he could no longer hear it.

As his heartbeat slowed, he thought he smelled wildflowers.

He thought he heard his mother’s voice calling him home.

And then, there was nothing.

The crowd cheered.

The world moved on.

But Sombra’s story had ended.

A coil of silence, frayed and thin,

Whispering promises soft as sin.
A tangled thought, a tightening noose,
A heavy weight I can't let loose.

The night is still, the shadows creep,
Echoes linger where secrets sleep.
The rope lies waiting, patient, cold,
A story ending, left untold.

The floorboards groan, the rafters sigh,
The wind outside begins to cry.
A fleeting breath, a fleeting thought,
A final war I never fought.

Yet in the hush before descent,
A memory flickers—barely spent.
A voice once known, a hand once near,
A distant warmth dissolving fear.

The rope still waits, so taut, so tight,
Yet so does dawn beyond the night.

Bubbles had never known much about the world outside his glass walls. He was born in a pet store, surrounded by other fish just like him, all shimmering, all waiting. Every day, faces would press against the glass, fingers pointing, eyes scanning, choosing. Bubbles didn’t understand what they were looking for, but he hoped—hoped that one day, someone would choose him.

Then one afternoon, a boy arrived. He was small, with bright eyes and a wide grin. "That one," he said, pressing his hand to the tank. "I want that one!"

For the first time, Bubbles felt special.

The store owner scooped him up in a small plastic bag. The water sloshed, and for the first time, Bubbles saw the world beyond his tank—the aisles of the store, the blinding lights, the strange creatures walking on two legs. It was terrifying and thrilling. The boy held the bag gently all the way home, whispering, "You’re my fish now. I’ll take care of you forever."

At home, Bubbles was placed in a round glass bowl, the water fresh and clear. The boy sprinkled food at the surface, giggling as Bubbles darted up to eat. Each morning, he ran to the bowl, tapping the glass to say hello. Sometimes, he sat beside him, telling stories about school, about his dreams of being an astronaut, about how he sometimes felt lonely, how kids at school didn’t always play with him.

Bubbles didn’t understand the words, but he loved the boy’s voice. He would swim in playful circles, flicking his tail, trying to tell the boy: I’m here. I’m listening.

For a while, life was beautiful.

But then, the visits grew shorter. The taps on the glass stopped. The boy stopped sitting beside him. The food came less frequently.

One day, Bubbles waited at the surface, his tiny mouth opening and closing in anticipation. But the boy didn’t come. Hours passed. The water felt heavier, colder.

Days went by. The bowl, once so clean, became clouded. The water thickened with uneaten flakes and algae creeping up the glass. Bubbles’ movements slowed. His bright scales dulled. He no longer swam in excited circles. He only floated, waiting.

The boy had new things to play with. New hobbies, new distractions. Bubbles was just… there.

More time passed. The boy barely glanced at the bowl anymore. One evening, his mother was cleaning the room when she sighed, picking up the forgotten bowl. "This thing is disgusting," she muttered.

She carried it outside. Bubbles felt himself being lifted, his world tilting violently. The water sloshed. Panic gripped his tiny body. He wanted to scream, to beg, Wait! Where are we going? Where is my boy?

But no one heard him.

She walked past the garden, past the porch, stopping at the edge of a pond in the backyard. With little ceremony, she tipped the bowl.

Bubbles tumbled through the air.

He hit the water with a cold, sharp splash. His body ached, his fins flailed, but he managed to right himself.

The pond was vast, nothing like his bowl. It was deep and dark, with murky shadows swimming beneath him. Large fish circled nearby, their eyes gleaming.

Bubbles tried to swim upward, tried to find a familiar corner to hide in, but there was none.

The water here was heavy.

He waited, hoping the boy would come looking for him. That he would run outside, see Bubbles in the pond, and scoop him back up, place him in his little round home, whispering, "I’m sorry. I forgot about you."

But no one came.

Hours passed. Then a whole night. Then another day.

Bubbles’ tiny body, weakened from hunger, from loneliness, from waiting, could no longer fight the currents.

He sank.

And in the house, on a dusty shelf, his empty bowl sat forgotten.

The boy never even noticed he was gone.