Psychological

Nothing but Gray. AI-Generated.
At first, nobody really noticed. It was little things. A stop sign looked kind of off, like it had been sitting in the sun too long. A little faded, maybe.
By Baylee about 4 hours ago in Fiction
You're the CIA's Most Valuable Asset They Never Officially Hired. AI-Generated.
It's 3:12 a.m. when your phone vibrates exactly twice and goes silent. No name. No number. Just a coordinate dropped into an encrypted app that will delete itself in forty seconds. You've been asleep for maybe ninety minutes. You don't feel tired. You stopped feeling tired somewhere around the second year of doing this, when your body quietly made peace with the fact that rest was now a luxury and not a right.
By It's Jeemabout 4 hours ago in Fiction
Sophie
She was so innocent. Head full of ideas, heart full of dreams. She was the best friend a girl (or a boy) could ever ask for. But that was before. Before her ideas got laughed at. Her dreams were shattered. And her friends forsaked her. That was before the case.
By Maya Or Tzurabout 5 hours ago in Fiction
In Defense, I Rose
How do I rise from the mire and muck that I freely entered Innocently, naively Step 1: Change locks Step 2: Move the money
By Andrea Corwin about 15 hours ago in Fiction
The App That Knows Your Death Time
Sameer downloaded the app as a joke. It was trending online. Everyone was talking about it. Memes, reaction videos, even news headlines:
By Salman Writesabout 20 hours ago in Fiction
The Train That Never Stops
There was something about the silence of empty stations that gnawed at him. The flickering fluorescent lights, the echo of his footsteps on long, deserted platforms, the way shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally across tiled floors—it all felt wrong. The night belonged to things unseen, and Arman had always believed that traveling through it was an invitation to meet them.
By Salman Writesabout 20 hours ago in Fiction
Magic - Chapter Two
Author's note: Today, my stream of consciousness flows easily without having to think through the story. Therefore, I am letting my subconscious do the work. I am writing this after writing the following, which you will soon read, and I want to mention that everything I have written so far is purely from my subconscious mind. I have not planned the plot, especially what will happen in today's chapter; you will wonder if I have planned this particular incident. The answer is 'No, I have not'. To be honest, it just came into my mind rather abruptly as I was writing, and that's how the subconscious usually works. I hope you understand what I am saying. If you don't, I recommend you read the book The Power of Your Subconscious Mind by Joseph Murphy.
By Denise Larkinabout 24 hours ago in Fiction
Web of Freedom
There is a peculiar kind of freedom that does not liberate—it suspends. Imagine, for a moment, a world not built from soil or stone, but from threads. Fine, nearly invisible strands stretch in every direction, catching light in ways that make them appear divine. This world was not constructed by human hands, nor by any god one might name in prayer. It was spun—delicately, deliberately—by something ancient and precise. A spider, if you will. It called itself Freedom.
By LUNA EDITHabout 24 hours ago in Fiction
Refusing To Believe, Refusing To See
Jess sat on his bed, having been staring at the wall for the past thirty minutes. He felt shaky, ill, wrong. Everything felt wrong. This happened so many times and he just wanted it to go away. Why couldn’t it go away? Maybe it was the lack of human interaction getting to him. He texted his best friend (possibly best friend, who knew), Elijah, asking to come over. Elijah said yes of course, the lonely man always desperate for a friend to come over and hang out. Jess felt pity for him, but was never one to often hang out with people, especially someone so… desperate. It was sad, he was the only person Elijah had. But, to be fair, Elijah was the only person he had. He never said he wasn’t a hypocrite.
By Jaya day ago in Fiction
The Painting That Aged Instead of Her 🎨
THE PORTRAIT IN THE ATTIC 🖼️ When renowned artist Julian Reeves painted his girlfriend Celeste's portrait during the summer of 2019, he did not intend to create anything supernatural or extraordinary, just an oil painting of the woman he loved captured in the golden light of their Brooklyn apartment during the happiest period of their relationship, but the painting which took three months to complete and which Julian considered his finest work developed a quality that neither of them could explain and that would eventually destroy their relationship and transform their understanding of love, beauty, and the terrible cost of trying to preserve something that is meant to change 🎨
By The Curious Writera day ago in Fiction
My Ex Keeps Showing Up in Photos
My ex and I broke up three weeks before Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t mutual. It was the kind of breakup where things get thrown, voices get loud, and the last thing he says before leaving is something that sticks in your head long after the door slams.
By V-Ink Storiesa day ago in Fiction
The Valentine’s Card That Predicted My Death
The first card arrived when I was seventeen. It showed up in the mailbox on Valentine’s Day morning—one of those cheap pink envelopes you’d buy in a grocery store seasonal aisle.
By V-Ink Storiesa day ago in Fiction