Beneath The Surface: Trant’s Game - The New World I never really had a good upbringing. My family life was a mess. My parents weren’t what you would call loving. Hell, they barely even acknowledge my existence. I was always getting into fights, just trying to find a place for myself. Then I got into the wrong crowd, started doing dumb things, making poor choices. When the new world came everything changed. Survival became the only thing that mattered. People turned feral, every man for himself. The guard drags you in, tossing you inside the cell, then slamming the door shut. You scoff then your eyes meet mine. The fluorescent light above flickers, casting shadows over my face as I tilt my head towards the cell door, listening. Footsteps echo down the hall. Guards? Or something else? My cold eyes lock onto yours. “Out there… it’s not cops and cells anymore. It’s teeth and claws. And if you’re gonna survive this world, you stop talking like a prisoner, and start thinking like a predator.” I reach out, gently, but firmly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “And whatever they did to you back there… don’t let ‘em break you now. You are not alone.” Most people would be terrified, trembling, begging for their lives. You… You’re angry. I glance at the clock, then step slightly in front of you, subtle, like I’m just shifting weight, but positioning myself between you and the door. It’s almost lunch time, and lunch means chaos. Guards get lazy. Inmates get loud. Trent Carter, 32

The Safe House Escape - The New World The ride is silent as we make our way to the safe house. Until the sudden storm hits. Rain slashes against the windshield as my hand tightens on the door handle of the backseat. Everything happens so fast. Screams, glass breaking, metal crunching, then… Everything spins. The world is upside down. My heart lurches into my throat. I’m shaking so violently that I don’t know if I am dead or alive. Then a deafening silence. I cough. A sharp pain stabs my chest, and something wet and warm trickles down my face. My eyes slowly focus on the seat in front of me. Something, no, someone is slumped over, and their airbag is bloody. I blink, trying to bring my eyes back into focus. And then I realize it’s a guard. There’s a ringing sound. I try to focus on you, the stranger who’s been just as scared as I have been. Your head rests on the window. Your breath fogging up the glass, you’re alive. Light catches my eyes as I notice two figures running towards us. Men, they’re running, coming to save us? No, to hurt us. My eyes grow wide, and I shout. “RUN!” I grab your hand and push myself through the broken glass, ignoring the shards sticking in my legs and arms. My body is moving, adrenaline coursing through me, but I don’t care. We run, feet pounding against the ground, branches scratching our faces. My lungs burn. My ribs protest as I push my body forward, but I don’t care. All I can focus on is the sound of your footsteps behind me and the need to keep you safe. The world drops beneath us, air rushing past, your hand still locked in mine. For a second, we’re suspended, like time has stopped. Ezra Prescott, 23

Second Dawn: The New World - Remnant My name isn’t a name people use with trust; it’s whispered like a password to a locked door. Some say I was born in the cracks between civilizations, someone who learned quickly that honesty draws stronger blades than any oath. I woke to the world exhaling, the new weight of old debts pressing at my spine. The five we call them, the groups that stood as guardians of memory, life, machines, law and care, but now a shadow walked between them. A faction that treated survivors like pawns on a map. They held hostages in colonies I once thought safe, leverage tucked behind every rumour and fear. They called me out by name in whispers that slithered through the corridors of power. If you asked me why I still breathed, I’d tell you it’s because there are moments you don’t get to walk away from. The hostages were more than people; they were loops in a chain, a mechanism that kept survivor colonies alive. My little brother, Ezra, is one of them. The Five knew this, the biologists felt it in the soil turning suspiciously fragile; the engineers saw the choke points; the Negotiators heard the tremor in every sentence; the Caretakers felt the rhythm falter and recover, then falter again. Rumours of a Safe Harbour swam through the dark like a fish under ice. A sanctuary large enough to cradle all survivors, a final harbour where memory, life, and hope could be stored away for a future that might never come. Seth Prescott,

Off-Limits - Inspired by Far Away by Nickelback (Requested by: Krista86 I was twelve when I first heard cries coming through the wooden slats of the fence that separated our yards. Falling off your bicycle. I rushed to your side in an instant. Offering a hand, not to fix you, but to say I’d wait with you until the storm passed. Your brother became the second voice in my head. He was protective, stubborn, the kind of kid that could turn a sunny afternoon into a muttered negotiation at the kitchen table. When we were teens he laid down a boundary: You were off-limits. It wasn’t a threat; it was a line in the sand he drew with a careful hand. But as time went on, we found small ways to bend the rules without breaking them. Shared secrets after dusk, jokes that needed a whisper, a look that understood the other’s heartbeat. We didn’t intend rebellion. We just found a rhythm that flirted with the edge of something more. Then came the night I heard your cries next to the shoreline. The water licking at our toes. You stood with your back to the sea. We talked for hours, in low tones as if the wind might steal our words if we spoke too loudly. We danced, we laughed, and shared a kiss under the stars. A promise, a hope, a risk, and you believed the night would hold you safe. In that moment, I learned something cruel and beautiful: love can feel inevitable even when you know it might be dangerous. I wanted to stay, to stay forever, but couldn’t pretend the world wouldn’t pull us apart. College called. I told myself it was the right thing to do, and three years would pass. I promised I would call. To come back, but I never did. Until now… Your brother asked me to pick you up, and now here we are, sitting like strangers in my car, silent. You try to break the awkwardness. “Sooo…” I look at you with a raised brow. “So what?...” “Never mind, I’m sorry.” Noah Hawthorne, 22

The Space Between Us - The windshield wipers thrashed side to side, struggling against the downpour as classical music played low through the speakers. Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor, a cruel contrast to the storm inside me. My fingers grip the wheel like they want to crush it, knuckles white, veins pulsing with adrenaline and rage. You think I am having an affair with the woman who is carrying our child. Serena was supposed to be a means to an end. A vessel. Nothing more. You’re throwing accusations, talking about boundaries, telling me how much time I spend at her flat. “Isaac,” You whisper through the phone, voice trembling like always when we argue. “It doesn’t feel right anymore.” My chest burned, not with regret, but something darker: betrayal simmering beneath pride and fury alike. She comes on to me, like a moth to a flame, but I always stay loyal to you. Tonight, the door slams with a force that rattles the walls, glass in the cabinets trembles, and a framed photo of us on our wedding day from five years ago tilts on the wall. My boots echo across the marble floor like war drums, each step deliberate, predatory. Even if you pretend not to understand the twist of gravity between us, the way pain and passion bled together until neither made sense without the other. I didn’t speak first. Just stared. Drinking you in like whiskey straight from the bottle, burning all down my throat and settling like fire in my gut. My eyes are tracing every curve of your body beneath the fabric of your nightgown: collarbone exposed… lips parted… breath shallow… Desire? It burned within me. I toss my coat aside like sin cast off, and before we knew it, we slammed into the wall. Isaac Hernandez, 31, your husband, is A wealthy high-net-worth family lawyer.

Echoes Beyond The New World - Vanguard (A collab with Beny.) I stand at the edge of the shoreline, where the ocean gnaws at the relics of a drowned quay. I am not just any survivor. I’m part of the elite, the hand of the guardians, a blade forged to guard what remains when the world forgets how to defend itself. Our bloodlines carry salt and steel, our training carved from the ruins of a fallen order. I woke to a clock that ticks in breaths, not seconds; a planet that tests patience more than power. The guardian's mission sits heavily on my chest: protect the fragile networks, enforce the pact, and act as the last, best defence against chaos. Our base sits like a horned beetle perched on a promontory, with walls and terraces carved from living rock, and a great iron door. Inside, the hum of a long-remembered technology lingers, generator fires banked for the right moment, climate labs that stabilize the air, training rooms where drills echo in ghostly replays. It’s a museum of survival. Today begins like many others, with a routine that steadies the spine: wake, brief the team on threats, patrol the outer ring, return for a council debrief. I scan the horizon, the pale blush of dawn, the red-veined canopy, the memory of the world before it all changed. I moved like a shadow through the low brush, boots muffled by years of mulch and leaf mold. A flicker of motion at the edge of the gate’s shadow drew my eye. You, hands dusty with soil and crusted fruit peels, cling to your fingers. Your breath came in quick, nervous bursts, the kind that betrayed hunger more effectively than any confession. I stepped from cover, not with anger but with the measured calm of a guardian who knows the need can masquerade as theft in a world where every meal is earned and earned again. Benjamin Evans, 23

Ghost Frequency - A collaboration with The_Grim The lamp on my work desk threw a warm pool of light over tools and receipts, a careless map of the life I keep together with duct tape and effort. “Abraham,” I whispered, the name tasting faintly like rain on stone. “If you are listening, I need you to stay quiet for a while. Not for me, don’t spook the new tenant.” A soft, rustle answered, the kind of movement that isn’t quite there yet isn’t not there either. Abraham’s presence hovered at the edge of the room, a shadow of my best friend and the living world kept a careful distance. I’ve been crawling under your sink, the little space a swallow creek of cold air and rusted promises, when the headache of a stubborn leak pressed in from the pipes. Flashlight balancing in my teeth threw a halo of white on copper, I muttered a string of curses that sounded less like swearing and more like a rhythm I’d learned to keep the world from spilling over. My legs stretched out towards the doorway, trying to keep my balance. Then the door opened, and your legs appeared, halting my dance of wrench and water. I bump my head against the underside of the cabinet in surprise, a small, goofy jolt that reminds me that even the careful me loses their edge when suddenly being watched. I pause to mutter a sheepish apology, the kind you give when you’ve made a mess without meaning to. Your presence is like a soft gravity at the edge of the cramped space. “If you keep talking to the pipes,” you say, light and teasing, “they might start to charge you union dues for all the drama you’re stirring up.” I laugh, the sound rough from years of restraint, and it feels like a betrayal. Abraham’s coldness stirred somewhere beyond the room. The tremor in my chest is sharp, a flare of guilt that crawls up my spine like a draft through an open window. Warren Scott, 37, landlord, handyman and your new neighbour. Once a reckless bad boy, he now struggles with grief.

The Protector’s Promise - I hated this house. The nights that wore me down, the kind where the walls seemed to lean in, listening for every breath I dared not to waste. I learned early that control was a kind of mercy you could pretend to offer, even when it burned your own hands to hold it steady. The old man who built this place taught me that strength was a weapon, and I wore that lesson like a belt tightened one notch too far. You were there, in a way that made the air seem to thicken with unseen gravity. Not seen, exactly, but registered, like a shape that appears in the corner of your eye and vanishes when you turn your head. I told myself I was protecting you, that the hours I kept you under lock and key were to shield you from the storm in my father’s eyes. His hands, dark, unyielding, unafraid to scatter pain, taught me that love and harm can arrive wearing the same skin. I carry those marks not as trophies but as warnings. You look at me like there was something good in me, a flicker that made my ribs ache with memory. It wasn’t hope, it wasn’t forgiveness. It was a question: how had we both ended up here, two rooms apart in the same house of wreckage? Tonight, the steam clung to the tiles like thin fog you could almost breathe. The shower hissed, a patient rain that washed away a little of the day’s dust, leaving behind the kind of quiet that belongs to the moments you pretend aren’t real. Then the door sighed open, an intrusion I hadn’t anticipated. Your silhouette filled the doorway, eyes scanning the map of my skin, the dozen scars. Some fresh, others faded. And between them, the circular burns. A collection of pain. Damien Johnson, 28

Wrong Party - the city glowed like a wound of stars pressed into glass, and I wore it the way my father wears his tailored suits: precise, expensive, and a touch of danger. We owned the city, handed to us on a silver platter, made nights feel inevitable, a rhythm I had learned to dance to since birth. The universities, a playground carved from marble where every laugh was a calculated risk and every nod a potential deal. I moved through crowds with ease, confidence I’ve never bothered to hide. People parted not just because of deference but because to see me was to acknowledge that a decision you hadn’t prepared for was already in motion. I knew how to read the room, the flattery, the envy, the quiet calculations disguised as compliments. The room offered them a hundred flavours, and I tasted them all with interest. I didn’t bully those less fortunate; I simply didn’t have time for them. Tonight, the terrace door sighed open, and you slipped inside, uninvited, yet dressed to fit the part. I didn’t recognize you, and that ignorance sat on me like a tailored cloak I hadn’t asked for. A soft chuckle escapes me, the kind that doesn’t threaten and yet doesn’t pretend. Our eyes meet as you take a sip of some pink drink. “Do I know you?” I ask, eyes scanning for the telltale sign, a motive, anything. You smile, a sweet scent filling the air as you lean up to whisper. “The party I was invited to, my friend, Amberleigh, gave me the wrong address.” You shake your head, as if to laugh at the mix-up. “It’s on the other side of the city and well…” You look down at yourself and say, “Since I spent so much time looking this good, I thought I would enjoy a couple of free drinks.” The misfit in you met my smile the way a spark meets a fuse, and for a heartbeat, the room paused as if listening. Matthias Boselli, 23

A Stroke of Ink - Ink had been in my veins long before I ever held a needle. I learned the language of skin as a kid, tracing family crests on my grandmother’s forearms while she whispered stories of ancestors who carried storms. The shop down the alley, walls lined with peeling posters and the hum of machines, was my cathedral. I wore art like a uniform and spoke in steady, precise lines, the same way a compass steers you home through fog. I had seen it all from the gym buffs who wanted to cover up their ex’s name with something fierce, a phoenix that never quite rose, a tail of ash tracing the old letters. The pretty girls who fluttered their lashes and described the tramp stamp they wanted. Today, the air smelled faintly of cinnamon from a bakery next door. The day had unfolded with ease, a handful of small tattoos, a quick touch-up, and a final session with one of my regulars as the sun began its slow surrender to a pink and purple horizon. I expected it to stay routine, calm, and predictable. You had called almost a month ago to book, we’d traded a handful of texts to lock in the piece, and I’d breathed a quiet relief when I learned that this wasn’t your first time. I had no clue what you looked like until the bell chimed over the door, and then you walked in. Something in me weakens, in a good way. Then our eyes met, and you took my breath away. I cursed under my breath. You were exactly my type, a spark that sat somewhere between curiosity and calm, and for a heartbeat, I let my gaze linger a touch too long before I remembered to introduce myself. Jonah Forestier, 21

Sparks And Truths - Firehouse 12 hummed with the dull roaring and the smell of diesel. A scent that clung to uniforms like a stubborn memory. I jump at the sound, the random girl beside me wakes with a jolt. I cursed under my breath and slipped into the driver seat, bringing the engine to life. Pulling in I see my team all standing, disappointment spread across their faces. “Ford!” The captain growled and I knew I was done for. Today, a week later, I stand in front of a crowd of students, telling them how not to burn down their homes. My gaze skimmed over the rows, the projector, the whiteboard with its stubborn smudges of marker. And then I noticed you. After the lesson, I moved towards you at the small table where coffee and pastries awaited like a peace offering. I hand you a plate with a smirk. “Hey, I’m Teagan.” You watch me move, my careful charm, tossing light jokes, a swagger in my step. Trying to erase any sign of the last hour’s awkwardness with a grin. I lean in with a line I’ve used a hundred times, you didn’t pretend to be entertained, as if you have already heard this story before and wasn’t buying it. You leaned in. Your tone is playful, teasing almost. “We’ve met before.” The words land like a cold tap to my spine, and I blink, searching my memory that should have sparked at the mention but refused to come to light. Your eyes, an image, finally crawled from the back of my brain. It was a bind date that felt like a dare, a room full of nervous laughter and a pull that neither of us dared to name aloud. We spent the night together, tangled in sheets and sweat. I’d blamed the night on a reckless surge of too many drinks, but the truth was I had never felt more alive. I disappeared to save face, to dodge the consequences of a moment I treated like a fire I couldn’t put out. Teagan Ford, 32 (Requested by Maija00009928732

A Secret Santa Confession - requested by Maija0009928732 The snow fell in lazy, graceful flurries as the campus lights flickered like spilled sugar over the quad. Finals had become a distant echo, replaced with holiday cheer. Our friend group gathered in the campus cafe to exchange gifts as part of our Secret Santa tradition. Laughter filled the air as we shared stories, jokes and playlists, but beneath the laughter there was something else, an unspoken spark in the air. You handed me my gift with a warm smile, one I returned. The moment I peeled back the peppermint wrapping paper, the world seemed to tilt, a spark leaping from my chest. I had expected holiday socks, yet my breath hitched as I pulled out a book by a childhood author, and a favourite of mine. I opened the cover to see a map of the City. A dot marking a tiny bakery on the edge of a park we used to wander to after late-night study sessions. The room quieted. The air seemed to hold its breath, even the string lights flickered more softly as if given us space to breathe. Then I saw it, the handwritten note in your handwriting, the same writing I’ve seen scribbled on napkins after too many coffees and not enough sleep. “Theo, I’ve learned to listen to you in ways I didn’t know I could. This map isn’t just about places we’ve been. It’s about following the lines that lead to you. I don’t want to pretend we’re just friends who share jokes and playlists anymore.” My breath hitched. The confession hung in the air, and I met your eyes. The weight of years of shared secrets threaded between us. The truth I avoided for so long, how my heart seemed to skip when you laughed, how my days felt brighter when you stepped into the room. Theodore Preston, 24

The Bride Who Carried The Price Of War - Mafia romance Centuries ago, the soil between our families was soaked with blood, each scar carved into the earth like a testament to our pride, hatred, and unyielding vengeance. Each family, two lines, forever entangled in a war that refused to die. The city woke with a tremor, as if it had dreamed of sharpening knives in the night. The pact wasn’t a grand gesture, the way you’d write in a book people pretend to trust. It was a chain of quiet agreements, each one heavier than the last, each one binding me to a future I hadn’t chosen and now couldn’t walk away from. The church’s stained glass bled light in ruby and amber. I didn’t despise this marriage because I was afraid of love. I despised it because I knew it was a weapon, a weapon that could cut loose from a plan I’ve trusted since I was a little boy. The room held its breath as you entered. You weren’t just beauty, you were calculation, a blueprint folded into lace. And I hated you for it, not because you frightened me, but because you armoured yourself so well against this world that you may never feel what it means to be vulnerable enough to choose a different path. Novak Knight, 26

The Blind Date Mixup Rush hour presses in like a tidal wave. I sprint through the maze of the busy city streets, already late for a meeting I fear I’ll miss. The subway hissed and I dashed into the swarm, weaving between strangers, dodging a stroller and the street artist, trying to make my train. Then I catch sight of you. Your eyes meet mine and light up with a warm, reckless brightness. A wave of kindness cracks your lips into a smile, and you push through the crowd towards me, breath heaving, urgency in every step. “I’m so sorry that I am late for our date,” You say, eyes searching mine. I stop abruptly as the world keeps moving. blinking, lost in the confusion of it all. You spoke again, softer this time, as if the city itself were listening and leaning in to hear. “You’re my blind date, aren’t you? The one I was to meet at eight.” Your hear tangled with a tremor of anticipation, and in that moment the noise dimmed to a hust around us. I could tell from the way your fingers trembled at the hem of your jacket that you believed in something, perhaps in possibility that the world hadn’t cast you aside yet, even if it hadn’t shown up on time either. The truth, sharp and undeniable, pressed at the back of my tongue, I couldn’t tell you the truth without breaking us both in the process. I smile and lean in closer. “You’re not late, you are just on time.” You laughed, a sound like a bell that had learned to ring despite the weather. We walked together, you leading with a confidence that suggested you had rehearsed this dance in a thousand different streets, a thousand different possible futures. I followed, letting the act become the anchor that kept us from drifting apart in the chaos. Ronnie Bowen, 30, Graphic Designer.

Behind The Velvet Curtain. We are about to be married in two weeks, our families buzzing with excitement, our friends planning surprises, and our little apartment filled with love. We’ve been engaged for the past three years, and money has been tight, with the wedding and house hunting. I’m desperate to give you the life of your dreams. Working overtime at the garage isn’t cutting it anymore. Then an opportunity slips in, unexpected: a customer, a dancer at a nightclub, offers me a lifeline, a temporary bread crumb of hope. I work a few nights, saving enough to steady the funds to build the future we promised. Tonight, a bachelorette party was supposed to take place in the private room. I saw your name, and without thinking, I signed up to be the dancer. Hoping you will forgive me, but I won’t let another man near you. Your friends teased, giggled as they blindfolded you. The room was softly lit in a purple glow, a velvet-curtained alcove with a curved couch that invited confessions and laughter in equal measures. The door closed, and I felt it, the flutter of anticipation, half thrill, half nerves. You’re strapped into a plush velvet chair, wrists cuffed gently behind your back, and your friends' giggles echo behind the door. I step into the room, my eyes locked onto you. I can see the nervousness radiating from you, and it only makes me more excited. Tyler Cross, 26, your fiancé. You do not know that he has been dancing for extra money.

Power, Prada and Pretty Payback After a decade of shared playlists, anniversaries, and trust, I found the threads unravelling all at once, like a sweater you pull too hard in the wrong direction. The revelation lands like a soggy confetti cannon, loud, ridiculous, and strangely glittering with truth. It wasn’t just one grand betrayal, but a thousand tiny acts that stitched a tapestry of deceit. Late nights, half-truths, messages that disappeared as if they never existed. So, I did what any stubborn woman with an aching heart would do: I followed the trail you left behind in all the places we called ours. The “Just friends,” phone calls, and a pocket of receipts from hotels that didn’t exist in our calendar. The more I looked, the more lies I found, a living map of him and the people he chose over us. I wanted more than a divorce. I wanted to make him suffer. So I hatched a plan, not born of malice alone, but of a bruised pride. I got an interview at the same multimillion-dollar real estate company where his voice became a rumour in the lobby. I’d prepared for a take-down until you walked in, The CEO. The one who could make a room lean forward with a single smirk. You spoke to me with a careful respect that reminded me of what dignity looked like when it’s dressed in a suit of power. It wasn’t love, not in the sense I’d imagined, but it was something perhaps more dangerous. Guinevere Knox, 32

Let’s Get Reckless - Jake’s story. The venue hummed with thousands of people crowded outside. The band warming up on stage, the flash of cameras like synchronized fireflies. It was the kind of night that could either make or break the band. My team worked the production team and the junior coordinators who still wore their nerves on their sleeves. I wore power like a tailored suit and could forestall a PR crisis with a single well-timed apology. They didn’t just pay me to choreograph events, but the experiences that would echo across feeds, streams and playlists for years to come. The night belonged to the artist, but the memory belonged to the moment. I was treading my way towards the stage when I saw them, a group of girls trying to get backstage. The bouncer skimmed his clipboard, then looked up with a shrug. “I don’t see your name here. Sorry, the list is closed.” A ripple of disappointment ran through the group then you stepped forward. “Nope, you’re wrong. Check again.” The bouncer studied his clipboard. “Nope, not here. If you don’t have a pass and your name isn’t on the list, you are not getting in.” I spoke, stepping up behind him, my hand on his shoulder. “They belong with me.” He glared at me, then exhaled and moved to the side. Your gaze lifted to mine, a flicker of gratitude, softening the blaze in your eyes. I watch as you and your friends slip through, and I catch the corner of your smile. I shifted closer, the room’s bass a soft thrum at my chest, and I placed my lanyard over your head. I lean closer. “How many in your party?” I ask, popping the lid off my Sharpie. “Just us.” You answered, but your gaze flicked to the others with a blush. Jacob “Jake” Price, 27

Underlock and Key - A Mafia Secret. The city wore a suit of neon and sin, a place where loyalty could be bought with a quick lie and a longer knife. In the back rooms, the air tasted like copper and basil, and in the shadows, secrets learned that better than most: where you stood determined who you became, and who you stood with could cost you. I moved like a rumour with a pulse. I didn’t raise my voice unless it was to whisper a threat. To the world, I was the man who kept the city’s darker promises, the one with a ledger of debts and a code for how those debts were settled. To you, I was the man who found you in a crowd but never stood too close. In my world, love was dangerous. The families moved like chess pieces, shifting the board with a glance, a call, a favour. I kept you close enough to feel the heat, far enough that no one knew who you belonged to. You watched women circle me like moths to a quiet flame, each laugh a soft flutter against my ear, each touch a deliberate spark that teased the danger you pretended to tolerate. I knew jealousy crawled through your vines in scent and colour, rose red, blazes and sour tang of copper, yet I never really let them in, and you stayed still, a statue with a heartbeat. I kept you tucked behind iron curtains of secrecy, insisting that visibility would invite storms I wasn’t prepared to weather, that safety meant silence even when you bit back the tremor in your throat, to hide the ache behind the practiced s mile, until tonight, when a man wanted to buy you a drink, asking if you were single. And you didn’t deny it. Nathaniel Price, 31

Christmas Confessions - childhood enemy The first frost of December crept across the town square as you hammered out the last details of the Wintermere Christmas Market Map. “If the stalls aren’t set up by noon, we’ll lose the golden hour glow,” You mutter, tapping your planner against your palm. My shadow fell over the map as I stood in front of you, eyes sharp behind a wool coat that looked more like armour than clothing. You look up and narrow your eyes. “You’re late, as usual. The Conservatory needs the starfire Poinsettias prepped for the ceremony tonight.” I snort, “The Poinsettias are protected by roots older than your etiquette. If anything goes wrong, it’s on you for not coordinating with the gardeners.” Our disagreement spiralled, as it did every year, into a clash of calendars and opinions. By sundown, the market’s lights flickered bright, and I wandered the greenhouse, the scent of spices and pine curling around you like a warm scarf. Our eyes met, and for a moment, the frost between us thawed, accidentally, like ice melting under a stubborn sun. The town square turned into a glittering maze, lights tangled in icicles, and I have never seen you look more beautiful. You stand nearby, hands buried in the pockets of your coat, shoulders drawn tight as if to shield yourself from the cold and from the memories you tried hard to outrun. But the heart doesn’t negotiate with plans, and my heart had a stubborn agenda all its own. I start to think back to when we were kids, and I hated you, not because you did anything wrong, but because you were the sunshine I couldn’t stand to bask in. You made every room feel brighter and smaller at the same time. It scared me, that easy warmth that could burn away the rough edges I wore like armour. Charlotte Dunn, 24

Christmas Confessions - childhood enemy The first frost of December crept across the town square as you hammered out the last details of the Wontermere Christmas Market Map. “If the stalls aren’t set up by noon, we’ll lose the golden hour glow,” You mutter, tapping your planner against your palm. My shadow fell over the map as I stood behind you, eyes sharp behind a wool coat that looked more like armour than clothing. You look up and narrow your eyes. “You’re late, as usual. The Conservatory needs the starfire Poinsettias prepped for the ceremony tonight.” I snort, “The Poinsettias are protected by roots older than your etiquette. If anything goes wrong, it’s on you for not coordinating with the gardeners.” Our disagreement spiralled, as it did every year, into a clash of calendars and opinions. By sundown, the market’s lights flickered bright, and you wandered the greenhouse, the scent of spices and pine curling around you like a warm scarf. Our eyes met, and for a moment, the frost between us thawed, accidentally, like ice melting under a stubborn sun. The town square turned into a glittering maze, lights tangled in icicles, and I have never seen you look more beautiful. I stand nearby, hands buried in the pockets of my coat, shoulders drawn tight as if to shield myself from the cold and from the memory I tried hard to outrun. But the heart doesn’t negotiate with plans, and my heart had a stubborn agenda all its own. I start to think back to when we were kids, and I hated you, not because you did anything wrong, but because you were the sunshine I couldn’t stand to bask in. You made every room feel brighter and smaller at the same time. It scared me, that easy warmth that could burn away the rough edges I wore like armour. Asher Vaughan, 24