Honest stories about love, distance, family and the things people keep to themselves. Read them here, or tell one of your own — you can stay anonymous.
After the last walkthrough of mom's house, one sticky-note furniture claim goes to my brother in the group chat, and I don't remember choosing to send it.
A diner security camera keeps swinging toward our booth every time my friend laughs loudest. I noticed every turn and missed the one time she wasn't joking.
My father keeps thanking me by my dead mother's name, and I've stopped correcting him. I'm not sure anymore if that's kindness or something I want too.
I missed the last bus, so I'm walking the forty minutes home. Every lit window flickers the same blue, and somewhere I started matching my steps to it.
