A thousand pages yet to write

Aishani| 21 | she/her If life were a book, what would you fill it with? Poetic metaphors, a simple blithe?

[athousandpagesyettoread]

i’m in another bed now,

wider, softer, quieter—

but it feels too empty.

the sheets are smooth,

the mattress doesn’t groan,

and still i miss the way

the old one forced us close,

made our bodies overlap

like pages pressed together.

this bed has space to spare,

yet i find myself curling tight,

pretending the edge is nearer,

pretending her breath is at my shoulder,

her knee nudging mine in sleep.

i sleep with the memory of her

instead of her weight,

but it’s enough to keep me warm.

beds change. rooms change.

what stays is the way she fit against me,

like the smallest place in the world

was still too big without her.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

my body and i are learning each other again

for years

i treated my body like an unsent message.

never opened, never loved in daylight.

just red marks on mirrors

and silence where softness should’ve been.

i wore clothes like armor.

took photos in fragments.

learned how to vanish in group shots,

cropped myself out of memory

before anyone else could.

and then—

i got tired.

tired of flinching at dressing rooms,

tired of calling hunger a flaw,

tired of seeing bones as goals

and softness as surrender.

so now,

i meet myself in the mirror like an old friend—

awkward, patient,

pouring compliments like tea

even if my body isn’t ready to sip them yet.

i take pictures even when i don’t feel beautiful.

i stretch.

i wear things that feel like me,

not like hiding.

i touch my stomach and say:

you are mine.

i touch my thighs and say:

you carried me.

i touch my arms and say:

you held so much.

and slowly—

my body writes back.

not with words,

but with sleep that feels like trust.

with skin that glows when i speak kindly.

with steps that grow braver each day i let her be.

this isn’t a before-and-after story.

this is the during.

the blooming.

the learning.

the forgiveness.

and my god,

what a quiet revolution it is

to stay.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

i was never meant to fit in your hymn book.

your god doesn’t know how to hold me

and that’s fine —

because this city does.

it holds me in autos at 2 a.m.,

in bathroom mirrors of overpriced cafes

where i reapply my lipstick like armor.

here, it isn’t a parade —

it’s a stolen glance on the metro,

a rainbow sticker half-peeled on a laptop,

a Bumble bio that says “open to everything”

because saying anything else still gets you ghosted.

i’ve kissed in stairwells of old apartments,

brushed fingers in dark movie halls,

written “i like her” in the notes app

and deleted it

five

times

before sending.

we don’t scream here —

we survive.

we flirt in english interspersed with our language of choice,

code-switch like it's currency,

and fall in love

between deadlines and dosa stalls.

my desire smells like cigarette smoke and attar,

tastes like rum on a friend’s terrace,

sounds like bass drops in a basement gig

where they played Chappell Roan after Shreya Ghoshal

and we danced like nobody could arrest us.

they say the city breaks you.

but it made me

brazen,

still here.

so no, your god may not know me.

but the street dogs do.

the chaiwala near my flat does.

the girl i kissed behind the bookstore does.

and honestly?

that’s enough.

[luna-azzurra]

Ways I Show a Character Is Secretly Lonely (Even When Surrounded by People)

I love writing characters who insist they’re “fine” while clearly radiating the desperate energy of a dog left home alone for eight hours with no enrichment activities.

They laugh too loud at jokes that aren’t funny. And not just a chuckle—like full-blown sitcom audience laughter. Because if they laugh hard enough, maybe no one will notice the hollow echo inside.

They overshare weirdly fast. First conversation? Congrats, you now know about their third-grade trauma and their mom’s weird obsession with Tupperware. It’s like emotional diarrhea: uncontrollable, messy, and a cry for connection they don’t even realize they’re making.

They get way too invested in minor social interactions. The barista remembered their name? That’s the emotional highlight of their month now. They’re writing about it in their journal tonight.

They cling to any group or friend who gives them an ounce of attention. Book club? Bowling league? Interpretive dance class for introverts? They’re signing up just to hear someone say, “See you next week.”

They’re the ultimate “life of the party” but go home feeling like they were never actually seen. Because if you're entertaining enough, nobody looks too closely at the emptiness.

Their texts are weirdly enthusiastic at 2 a.m. "OMG WE HAVE TO HANG OUT!!!!" followed by weeks of silence. It’s not flakiness, it’s a tidal wave of loneliness crashing into a wall of shame.

They constantly post selfies, group photos, “Having so much fun!!” posts… and yet, somehow, you can smell the loneliness through the screen. (If you could bottle that vibe, it would smell like stale wine and unsent texts.)

They stay in bad relationships just to not feel alone. Red flags? They’ve knitted a full quilt out of them. Because someone is better than no one, right? (It’s not.)

They sabotage good relationships because vulnerability is scarier than loneliness. "If I push them away first, they can’t hurt me!" - them, crying alone on a Friday night, claiming they're just "enjoying some me-time."

They have this glazed look when people talk about “close friends.” Like they know what it’s supposed to feel like, but they’re running on Google Image results and secondhand memories from coming-of-age movies.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

#I'm in this post and I don't like it

[athousandpagesyettoread]

they tried to name me before i could speak,

but my mouth was made for unlearning.

they handed me a script —

straight lines only —

but i kissed the understudy

and rewrote the scene in fire.

i want too much, they say.

too soft, too wild,

too hungry.

as if desire should be boxed,

labeled,

marketed for the masses.

i crave in colors they don’t teach in school.

i ache in ways that make god blush.

my want isn’t wrong —

it’s just uncensored.

it’s velvet and venom,

a yes with teeth.

i’ve loved like lightning —

quick, loud,

never asking permission

to strike.

it isn’t just who i hold at night—

it’s how i burn.

how i refuse to apologize

for the heat of my wanting.

for every time i said

not now,

not ever.

call me a sinner—

but say it like you mean holy.

say it like you know

i was born with freedom

curled in my fists

and lust written between my ribs.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

When I knock on the door, do you hear me?

When my knuckles bleed and leave an abstract art piece of desire and love and desperation of your company, when the wood gives away and I can see you looking outside, when the knocking makes you flinch and makes a muscle that remembers walking towards me spasm but you refuse to open the door, do you want me?

When I scramble to the window and wave until my arms beg to be released from the shackles of joints, when the tap-tap-tapping of my heart beats a tattoo on the glass, when you see me but pretend not to, when you know that in order to love yourself you have to let me go, do you still love me?

When I look over our old exchanges with a smile and your soul sat on my lips, an acerbic remark away from tumbling down and falling away, when the way you want my attention and hate yourself for it starts to beep like the insistent notification from a jilted lover, do you still think about us?

When I insert myself as a footnote in your book, when the words blend together and blur the lines between me and you, when the pages end but the story does not, do you still want to cite me at the end?

When I knock on the door and wait for you to answer and you wait for me to leave, does it hurt knowing what we could have been?

[athousandpagesyettoread]

In my house of loneliness, your laughter echoes.

There's a creek that runs by my house.

It gurgles along and for a second I can almost convince myself of the hummed song under your breath.

It ebbs and it flows, the moon beckoning the memories it holds.

It flows to the ocean and takes along with it the dirt from your soaked socks.

One of the windows doesn't quite shut.

You stuffed the gap with a blanket made of yarn scraps and now the wind howls through the room.

I called a repairman to come fix it but I couldn't get up to open the door because what if you come back and see that we no longer need to wear socks and slide along the floor.

So I leave the window cracked open and I cover myself with the blanket you left behind.

There is an alcove on the upper floor.

It's covered by a bedraggled and mouse eaten curtain made of soft peach cloth.

We hung it up one afternoon and you joked that we could sneak into the recess and kiss at the parties we hosted.

I remember the one time we slipped behind the satiny cloth the air grew thick and you did everything but moan in fear of getting caught.

The old fireplace has gathered dust.

You fell in love with the house because of the quaint stone mantelpiece and I fell in love with you.

The stockings from last Christmas are still waiting for Santa to fill them in late July.

It has been years since the firewood has crackled happily but sometimes the walls of the house settle and I can imagine that the sound is the roar of a fire.

In the house of my loneliness, your laughter still echoes.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

The town I grew up in doesn't exist anymore

The town I grew up in doesn't exist anymore.

I grew up among the city lights that dimmed in the shine of a thousand stars. I grew up in the bed of pink flowers and satin winters. I grew up amongst stories told in dusty alcoves and late night shouts of growing kids trying to play hide and seek in the first two floors of the apartment because Amma said I can't go any higher. I grew up in the rickety stone bench and the parapet we treated as a balance beam. I grew up in a town that cushioned my fall with soft grass and held my hands through the turmoils of my first crush.

I grew up in a town as easy to love as breathing.

Except breathing is scented by the putrid stench of petrol and rotting garbage and the stars have bid you adieu. The lakes we used for skipping stones are frothing at the mouth like an angry monster. The sun shines too bright to lie on the grass and read a book on the bed of pale pink flowers and the dusty alcoves cause allergies. The nights are darker than the eyes of the best friend I lost to the speed of the road years ago and the cars grind to a stop to pay their respects. Stone benches are overgrown with the tears of children that haven't eaten in days and roses picked from cemeteries.

The town I grew up in doesn't exist anymore.

I don't know if it ever did.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

Persuade your favourite book to change it's name

I call you so many things in my head.

I call you Ma, because you hold me in your embrace while I’m hunched over with the world on my shoulders. When I’m slaving over research papers that won’t write themselves, you bring me a cup of tea and parle g. You put your hand on my head and lull me to sleep when my eyes burn from staring at the screen. You wait for me to come home to you, Ma.

I call you friend, because you laugh at my stupid jokes and cry at my existential dread. When I fall, in love or on my face, you giggle and take a picture, but only after making sure I’m not hurt. You sit with me, alone but together, rustling pages accompanying the swish swoosh of bundled yarn and the click clack of knitting needles. You hold my hair when I throw up, friend.

I call you lover, because you kiss away the furrows in my brow after yet another stumble. When I’m tired and antsy, you snake your touch down my neck, igniting my soul with just a few words. You curl up in bed with me, arms and legs lost somewhere in the tangle of blankets and comfort. You kiss me till I forget to breathe and then laugh when I gasp against you, lover.

I call you so many things in my head, but the world calls you by your name. It looks at your bound cover and embossed title, it sniffs your worn pages and it applauds your content.

The world calls you by your name.

Wouldn’t you like to be called mine instead?

[athousandpagesyettoread]

Finding you was the easy part. Keeping you? Now that's another story altogether.

Finding you was the easy part, it was knowing you that was difficult. It was knowing that you hate the winter and drink coffee because it keeps you awake but really you'd prefer tea with parle g. It was knowing that you'd be up before the crack of dawn but asleep by the end of it. It was knowing that you hated soup but you'd drink it with me. It was knowing that your laughter gives me chills and wraps around my neck in a chokehold that feels like a warm scarf from my childhood.

Finding you was the easy part, it was loving you that was difficult. It was loving the way you made a note of my favorite things and added special notes to go alongside each one. It was loving you through the tears and the scars and every single boulder you jumped on to push me away when your mind told you that was the right thing to do. It was loving the way you look at me but hating that I wasn't what you looked at all the time. It was loving the way you wrapped me up in your attention and then regretting the emptiness.

Finding you was the easy part, it was keeping you that was difficult. It was keeping you in my arms without suffocating you with fingers that only know how to wrap around throats and not to caress cheeks. It was keeping you away from the parts of me that are ugly and wrong, that collect in the pit of my stomach like black sludge. It was keeping you even though we're older now and the moniker of ‘finders keepers, losers weepers’ no longer holds true because there's no one I'd rather weep for than you.

Finding you was the easy part. Loving you? Now that's another story altogether.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

Sometimes, the language of your love is silent.

Sometimes, you're in a crowded party and your eyes catch mine and your pupils dilate. You look at me and you smile and you squeeze your eyes closed. You've already said hi and you're probably telling your friends about me but it's your eyes looking for mine that makes me feel less alone.

Sometimes, you send me nonsensical stickers to make me smile after a long day. You spam my inbox until I can't help but laugh even though we're in the same room. You've already listened to me cry and scream, held my hand and offered advice, but it's texting me while we're in the same room that warms my heart.

Sometimes you mouth ‘i love you’ across the street. You turn around when you get to the car and you search for my smile saying goodbye. You've already said ‘goodbye’ and ‘take care’ and ‘eat your lunch’ a thousand times, but it's this unheard little thing that rings in my ears through the day.

Sometimes you hold my hand and play with my fingers. You draw little patterns in my palm and you squish my fingers on your own. You've already held me through the busy road and stopped me from crossing the street without looking carefully, but it's the unconscious touch that's mine.

Sometimes, you love me in ways that are hard to say and harder to encapsulate in the pages of my heart. Sometimes, it's the way you love me without saying a single word or doing a single thing. Sometimes, that's the language of love that's the loveliest of all.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

tea

I want to know how you take your tea.

I want to know how you take your tea. I want to know the temperature at which the colour is just right. I want to know if you smell the leaves when you open the dabba like I do. I want to know if you sprinkle them in slowly, eyes fixed on the slow release of tannins in the boiling water.

I want to know how you take your tea. I want to know if you put milk in it and if your first cup of milky tea makes you think of the way your mom made it. I want to know how much sugar you add, if you wait for it to dissolve or let it crystallize at the bottom.

I want to know how you take your tea. I want to know if you use the mug your friend got you. I want to know if you look at it and smile a secret smile. I want to know the story behind every crack that decorates the ceramic, the laughs and tears behind every chipped piece.

I want to know how you take your tea. I want to know if you prefer drinking tea alone, before the bustle of the day shakes you out of peaceful reverie. I want to know if you drink tea with people, chatting over a shared plate of biscuits. I want to know if you'll have a cup with me.

I want to know how you take your tea. I want to wake up on lazy Sundays and bring you a cup in bed. I want to keep some warm for you in a flask when you come from work.

I want you to take your tea with me.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

forest

I think I got lost on the way to chasing my dreams.

I think I found myself in a little clearing with the sun shining in neat geometric patterns while playing hide and seek with the trees, and instead of counting to ten to go find my sense of wonder, I sat down on the damp grass and I cried. I think I'm alone here. I think if no one hears me cry, did it ever happen?

I think I walked down the path with thorns digging into my feet and scratches down my sides and it hurt so much that when the petals of a flower hesitantly tickled me, instead of giggling in soft reprieve I screamed in agony. I think I'm hurt here. I think if the drops of blood on the road don't turn the rocks red, did it ever fall?

I think I wandered through the forgotten woods with the lonely animals by my side and when they pranced around in front of me, instead of joining in their merry dance, I flinched and curled into myself. I think I'm shaking here. I think if the shaking is absorbed into the leaves of the trees and they hardly make a sound, did I really move at all?

I think I walked through a forest of lost motivation and unrealistic ambition. I think I was lost and hurt and shaking. I think I needed your touch to tell me to stop for a moment, to embrace the lonely animals and the dancing sunlight and gentle flowers. I think I needed you to walk beside me for a minute, to hold my hand for a second, to be with me forever.

I think I was missing you.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

Wanderers wander.

Everyone knows that.

Wanderers wander and thinkers think. That is how it's supposed to be.

The two don't mix, so goes the lore.

I happen to be one of the unfortunate souls that is a mix, and so I wander around my thoughts.

She is a maze, my brain.

The thicket ebbs and flows, but every tidal wave disorients me enough that the string of Theseus is a tangled web of anxieties and fear.

She is a lightning strike, my brain.

The spark lights fires, and does not look back at the destruction in it's wake. The thunder clamours for my attention and growls at my happiness.

She is a rogue bandit, my brain.

Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, except the rich are those that accept my insecurities and embrace my imperfections, while the poor… you can probably guess.

She is a thinker, my brain.

Thinking till the world is too bright and the screams are too loud and the whispers are too close and the gazes are too piercing and, and-

She is a wanderer, my brain.

She sets off on adventures that are I'll advised and on journey filled with danger, and hopes that when she leaves, someone will remember her.

I wander through my thoughts, and I think about whether anyone notices how far I have gone.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

He is my September. The year is ending, and with it, we are too. We didn't really start though, so is it really an end?

That is curious.

He was the fall that we didn't have. The whisper of something taught, but never experienced.

That is awe.

He was the rain that touched my soul. The way the ground rushes upwards to claim the first drops.

That is me.

He was the love I craved. The way I did not love myself enough to love him, but I did so anyway.

That is stupidity.

He was the care I deserved. The endless conversations, the silent shoulder. The care I gave in abundance, the fears I hid inside.

That was rough.

He will be my October. The way the skies part, to welcome the mortals. Will he welcome me?

That is to be seen.

He will be my November. The precursor to something cold, but cozy. Will we touch then?

That is to be felt.

He will be my December. The end and the beginning, the start and the finish. Will we make it?

That is to be decided.

He will be my January too. And the months after that.

Maybe years.

[athousandpagesyettoread]

“Tell me the story of how the sun loved the moon so much, every night he died so that she could breathe”

They said that we were a match made in heaven. But alas, we were never meant to be...

We met in those diffused dawns and dusks, under the sky which took on a bluish pink tint, hidden behind wispy clouds. The fading stars kept us company, and with twinkling eyes promised to never tell. In those brief moments, we were made of soft purples and pinks. We were made of new hopes and promises. We were made of hidden glances and longing stares.

She was like the night, calm and still. Secrets were held in the palm of her hand and soft whispers were coiled in her tresses. Her eyes were filled with dreams and when she looked at me, my cynicism gave way to a glimmer of hope.

I was like the day, loud and agitated. My bruised arms were fuelled by ambition and I stored struggles in my ever-moving feet. My eyes were half-lidded with despair and pride, but she said looking into them gave her hope that this life was real.

And although there never has been and never will be a pair quite like us, when we were together, everything finally made sense. All of those hours spent chasing each other, all of those spent close, but not together. Those few moments in total darkness, when we were both hidden from prying eyes, when nobody dared to look directly at us, they made it worth it.

But alas, she was the moon and I was the sun.

And an eclipse is our fleeting romance.

She was the moon and I was the sun.

And for me to shine brightly through the day, she had to die every morning.

She was the moon and I was the sun.

We were made for each other, but we were never meant to be.

But still we rise every day and tell the world our story.

A story of chasing after happiness for all eternity, no matter how dreary the sky.

A story of sacrifice, of hiding behind clouds for a chance to see someone smile.

A story of loving someone so much that it forces you to love yourself, with all your craters and burns.

A story of being enough, through all the twists and turns.

A story of never giving up.

[purplehotmess]

WIP Snip

So I haven't really done one of these since LONG, but I saw @phd-mama's post, and thought why not? No stress tags- @nelweensfic, @crazybutgood, @athousandpagesyettoread, @coffeedrgn87, @phoebe-delia and anyone else interested!

Bending low to kiss the side of Harry’s neck, Draco whispered into his ear, “Top or bottom?” while beginning to lazily jerk his hand.

His thoughts were muddled by the smooth glide of Draco’s warm palm on him and the feel of Draco’s body — velvety skin over pleasurably hard muscles. Biting his lip to regain focus, Harry croaked out, “Both,” and then immediately felt like a complete idiot. But before he could correct himself, Draco flashed him a sharp grin and then swooped to steal a brutal kiss.

Draco’s hands and mouth were very distracting — but not so much so that Harry did not notice the gentle rocking of Draco’s body above him, or the hitched gasps flowing from his mouth like treacle. Even the hand previously edging him nearer and nearer to that cliff of pleasure had disappeared. Pulling away from where he’d been nibbling on Draco’s jaw — high enough for it to be impossible to hide with clothing — he noticed the arm Draco had stretched behind him, that he was thrusting into himself long and deep. Face contorted with pleasure, Draco looked ethereal, suspended above Harry with his other forearm displaying obviously corded tendons as it tensed next to Harry’s head.

I'm sorry if this is cringe, newbie smut writer here! (also, hush hush, its for an anon fest!)