Strands of Her by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Horror

 

Strands of Her

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,963

Kia never intended to buy anything from the street vendor. She was only killing time between the bus and her night shift at the Waffle House. But the velvet-lined table, draped in a sheer purple cloth and surrounded by mannequin heads with cascading waves, stopped her.

The wigs shimmered unnaturally under the flickering lamplight of the abandoned parking lot. Jet black coils, honeyed ringlets, tight 4C curls, bone-straight silk—each one more beautiful than the last. Real hair. Human hair.

Kia’s own hair had been falling out in clumps since her last relaxer turned wrong. She’d been tying scarves tighter and tighter, avoiding mirrors. The ache of self-consciousness clung to her like a second skin. But these wigs? They were radiant. Regal.

“You got a good eye,” the vendor said.

Kia hadn’t seen her approach. The woman was tiny, wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat, her smile slinking beneath hollow cheekbones. Her voice sounded like a cough halfway through a cigarette.

“They come from all over,” she said, gesturing to the display. “India. Brazil. Nigeria. Even some real local pieces. Pure. Untouched. No heat. No dye. Hair full of memory.”

“Memory?” Kia repeated.

“Everything we are stays in the strand,” the woman said, lifting a long, dark curl between her fingers. “Energy. Story. Soul. We only give what the head no longer needs.”

Kia squinted. “Wait, you mean—these are from dead people?”

The woman smiled wider. “Don’t they always say, beauty is eternal?”

Kia should’ve walked away. She should’ve laughed, called the woman crazy. But her hand moved before her brain. It hovered over a curly bob with a deep side part and a shine like oil on water. It was soft. Too soft.

“How much?” Kia asked.

The woman held up five fingers. “But once it’s yours, it’s yours. Can’t give it back.”

Kia paid. It was all the cash she had left for the week, but she didn’t care. Something about the wig pulled her. A magnetism that felt warm, familiar. She took it home and, under the yellow glow of her bathroom light, she placed it on her head.

The fit was perfect. Uncannily so. The curls framed her face like they belonged there. She turned her head left, then right. Ran her fingers through the strands. It didn’t even feel like a wig. It felt… natural.

She wore it out the next day.

And people stared.

But not in the usual way, not like they were judging her for being tired or Black or poor. They stared like she glowed. Like she’d stepped out of a magazine. At the Waffle House, her manager stammered when he asked her to wait tables instead of working the register. Customers tipped extra. Even James, her regular who never said more than “scattered, smothered, covered,” looked at her like she’d grown wings.

Kia felt beautiful. That night, she ran her fingers through the curls and whispered, “Thank you.”

She swore the wig pulsed. Like it heard her.

Then, deep in the quiet of her apartment, a sound slithered through the air. A whisper. Faint, like breath against her ear.

“You’re welcome.”

Two nights later, she started dreaming.

She was underground. Cold. Dirt in her throat. Someone was screaming, but the sound never left their mouth. Nails scratched the inside of a coffin lid. The air was thick—choking—with decay and... grief.

Kia woke up gagging, clutching her throat as if she could still feel the weight of the soil pressing in. Her sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to her body like a second skin. She sat up, rubbing her arms, shivering despite the heat in her apartment.

Then she saw it.

The wig.

It sat on her nightstand exactly where she had left it. But it wasn’t the same.

It looked longer.

The curls were tighter, richer, like they had been freshly coiled overnight. Darker, too, though she hadn’t washed it, hadn’t even touched it since tossing it aside two days ago.

With slow, reluctant fingers, she picked it up.

It was damp.

Heavy with moisture, as if it had been left out in a storm. Droplets clung to the ends of the strands, slipping down onto her fingers. And when she turned it over, she saw something caught in the netting.

A fingernail.

Lavender polish, chipped and cracked.

Kia gasped and dropped the wig, stumbling back like it had bitten her. Her scalp tingled, burned with phantom fingers, as if the wig had been trying to creep back on while she slept.

No. No. It was a prank. Had to be.

Maybe the vendor used recycled burial hair from morticians or something. Maybe this was what the lady meant by “local.”

Still, she wore it again.

She didn’t want to—but the mirror begged her to.

When it was on, she wasn’t just Kia anymore. She was stunning. Radiant. Magnetic. Even her voice changed—silkier, smoother, a sound that made people lean in closer, listen harder. Men followed her home with wide, wet eyes, tripping over their own feet to be near her. Her ex called after six months of silence, his voice trembling when he said her name.

Like he couldn’t believe he had ever let her go.

But something changed.

The dreams got worse.

The woman from the grave began speaking. Whispering. Pleading.

Find me.
Fix me.
Free me.

Kia’s hands moved in her sleep. She woke up one night digging into her mattress, fingernails split and bloodied, clawing at something that wasn’t there.

She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t rest.

And the wig—it moved.

She saw it crawl once, inching across the floor like it had tiny legs, dragging itself toward her.

That was the final straw.

She grabbed it with shaking hands, stuffed it into a trash bag, and dragged it outside. The dumpster behind her apartment reeked of old food, but she didn’t care. She shoved the bag in, tied it tight, and set it on fire.

The flames devoured the hair, twisting it like burning flesh. The air filled with the stench of rot and something worse—something sweet and spoiled, like decay masked by perfume. Kia covered her mouth, eyes stinging.

It was over.

She slept better that night.

But in the morning, it was back.

Sitting on her dresser.

Damp. Perfect.

And this time, there was dirt under its lace front.

Kia went back to the lot. The vendor was gone.

In her place was a small girl, maybe nine, hair shaved down to the scalp, sitting cross-legged on the same velvet cloth. Her eyes were too old for her body.

“She said you’d be back,” the girl mumbled. “She don’t sell to people twice. You ain’t supposed to wear the hair more than three nights. After that, it gets hungry.”

Kia trembled. “Whose hair was it?”

The girl tilted her head. “Used to be a preacher’s daughter. Died in ’92. Buried with her Bible and her mama’s ring. But they dug her up. She was fresh.”

Kia’s mouth went dry. “What do I do?”

The girl didn’t answer. She just stared. And then, almost too softly to hear, she said, “She wants her face back.”

She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t cooperate. “What do you mean, her face?”

The girl didn’t blink. Her eyes, dark and depthless, stayed locked on Kia’s own, unrelenting. “The preacher’s daughter. She wants back what was hers.”

Kia’s stomach lurched. She had thought the hair was just… hair. An extension, a weave, something exotic but harmless. But when she had pinned it into her braids that first night, she had felt something—an odd tingling along her scalp, like the strands were whispering against her skin.

And the dreams.

A girl standing at the foot of Kia’s bed, face blurred like smeared paint, mouth moving in silent rage. A hand reaching—no, clawing—at Kia’s head, fingers sinking into her skull like roots into soil.

Kia squeezed her eyes shut. “I—I can take it out,” she whispered. “I’ll burn it. I’ll—”

The girl shook her head. “It don’t work like that.”

The wind picked up, rustling the abandoned lot, sending dried leaves skittering across the cracked pavement. Kia shivered. “Then what do I do?”

The girl pushed herself to her feet, slow and deliberate. She was small, but her presence was heavy, as if something larger lurked just beneath her skin.

“You give her back what she lost,” the girl said finally.

Kia’s pulse pounded. “And if I don’t?”

The girl’s lips barely moved, but the words cut through the cooling air like a blade.

“Then she takes it.”

Kia’s breath gasped, and she took a stumbling step backward. The evening air had turned thick, pressing against her skin like damp wool. She hadn’t noticed before, but the lot smelled strange—like turned earth and something sweeter beneath it, something wrong.

That night, Kia locked the wig in the freezer, double-bagged. She told herself it was just paranoia, that the strange whispers she’d heard when she wore it were only in her head. Still, she made sure to push it behind the frozen peas and the half-empty tub of ice cream, as if burying it beneath layers of frost would silence whatever had been murmuring against her scalp.

She wrapped her scarf tightly around her braids and climbed into bed, forcing herself to scroll through her phone, watch a mindless show—anything to keep her thoughts from spiraling.

But at 3:33 a.m., something whispered beneath her floorboards.

“You borrowed my beauty. Now give me your body.”

The voice was soft but insistent, slipping between the cracks of her consciousness like a draft of cold air. Kia’s limbs went stiff. Her breath hitched in her throat. She tried to turn her head, to move even a finger, but her body refused.

The air in her room thickened, heavy with the scent of lavender and something else—something damp, something rotten. Then came the pressure. A slow, deliberate weight against her forehead. Cold. Wet. The touch of lace.

No—

The wig.

It pressed down over her scalp, the icy fibers slithering into place. Curls coiled and twisted around her throat, tightening with a slow, merciless patience.

Kia’s chest seized. Her vision darkened. She could feel the weight of the grave in the air, the pull of something unseen but hungry.

Her last breath bloomed against her lips, tinged with lavender and dirt.

The next morning, Kia stood in the mirror, perfectly still. But her eyes looked wrong. They were too far apart, almost as if her face had been subtly rearranged overnight. Her skin was unnaturally smooth, stretched taut over her bones, reflecting the soft morning light in a way that made her seem more doll than human. And her smile… practiced. Too perfect, too precise, like it had been sculpted rather than formed by emotion.

She reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed the wig gently. The strands were soft, silken, warmer than she remembered them being when she first picked it up. It settled on her scalp like a second skin, whispering secrets she couldn't quite understand. It was hers now. Forever.

Outside, beneath the ancient oak, the girl moved with quiet precision, setting up the deep crimson velvet cloth over the wooden stand. The morning mist curled around her ankles as she placed another mannequin head atop its perch, careful, reverent. A new offering. Another crown.

Her hands hovered over the freshly adorned mannequin, fingers barely grazing the strands of hair before she murmured the familiar words:

“Hair full of memory,” she whispered.

She turned slightly, her gaze lifting to the house, to the window where Kia stood frozen. A knowing smile curled her lips.

“Only give what the head no longer needs.”

Unspoken Words by Olivia Salter / Quintale Story / Psychological

 

Unspoken Words

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 454

The letter arrived with no return address, and I knew exactly who had sent it. It felt like an intrusion, cold and heavy, as though it had been waiting in the shadows, a piece of the past forcing its way into the present. My fingers shook as I tore the seal, the silence hanging thick in the air. I unfolded the paper, the edges crisp and fragile as if it might crumble in my hands.

"You never asked me to stay. But I never wanted to leave."

Charlotte. My sister. The one who had disappeared a year ago, vanishing without a trace. The police had chalked it up to her running away, but I knew better. Charlotte didn’t run. She left. And I never asked why. I never asked what had made her leave, never asked the question that would have shattered the silence she left behind. Fear had kept me quiet. Afraid of what I might find if I dug too deep.

I read the words again, the ink blurring slightly through my sudden tears. Her absence had been an ache I buried deep inside, something I could ignore for a time, but never forget. I thought I had moved on—thought I could go through life pretending the laughter we shared, chasing each other through the woods behind the house, hadn’t happened. The scent of pine, the damp earth, the way the air felt alive when we were together. But I was wrong. The pain never truly left. And now, these words pulled me back. She was still here. Somehow, she was still here.

"I’m waiting for you."

The letter slipped from my hands, the paper fluttering to the floor. My chest tightened, a cold fist gripping my heart. The house by the lake—our secret place—surged back into my mind, its dark silhouette standing at the edge of the woods. I could almost hear our voices, laughing in the hallways, daring each other to go deeper into the house, a place no one had dared enter for years. But now, it stood in my memory, broken and forgotten, its windows like hollow eyes that had seen too much.

I turned away from the door, my feet moving before my mind could catch up. Fear whispered, doubts tugged at me, and the sharp sting of guilt gnawed at the edges of my mind. I had failed to ask her to stay, failed to ask why she left. But now, there was no turning back. I didn’t know what I’d find when I got there, or if it was truly her waiting, but I knew I had to go. I couldn’t leave her waiting alone anymore. Not after everything we’d left unsaid.

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance / Supernatural

 

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,129

The first time Jasmine saw her, she was walking home from work—past the towering high-rises of Midtown Atlanta, their sleek glass exteriors catching the last light of day. The sky bled into shades of burnt orange and dusky violet, a striking contrast against the neon signs flickering to life. The warm scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cafe mixed with the metallic tang of the city, grounding her in routine.

Then came the scream.

Not the sharp wail of an ambulance or the distant howl of a siren, but something raw, jagged—a sound that clawed up from the belly of fear itself.

Jasmine stopped mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs. Across the street, just beyond the blur of moving headlights, she saw her.

Herself.

The woman was a mirror image, but distorted. Jasmine’s own high cheekbones, honey-brown skin, and precise locs—except this version of her was wild, frantic. Her hair hung in uneven long locs, she looked like she had been running for miles. A torn blouse sagged off one shoulder, her skin glistening with sweat.

She was sprinting straight for her.

Jasmine’s breath hitched as their eyes locked. The woman’s lips moved, desperate, shaping words Jasmine couldn’t hear over the city’s noise. Her arms stretched out, fingers trembling, pleading.

Then—

A car horn blared.

Jasmine stumbled back, her heel catching on the curb. The world jolted into motion again—tires screeched, a cyclist shouted, a couple laughed as they passed by, oblivious. Jasmine whipped her head around.

The woman was gone.

Nothing but the rush of traffic and the distant hum of Atlanta’s nightlife surrounded her.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest.

Stress, she told herself. Wedding stress.

But as she turned toward home, the phantom of that scream curled around her like a whisper, refusing to let go.

Jasmine sat curled on the sleek leather couch, her fingers distractedly tracing the seam of a throw pillow as she recounted what she had seen. The city skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but she kept glancing at her reflection in the glass, half-expecting to see that woman staring back at her.

Grant barely looked up from his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before taking a slow sip. “You probably saw a homeless woman,” he said, his voice even, dismissive. “Midtown’s full of them.”

Jasmine’s stomach twisted. “She looked like me.”

Grant exhaled sharply, the sound edged with impatience. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the couch. “Baby, you’re overworked. Between your job and planning this wedding, your mind’s bound to be frazzled.” He slid closer, the warmth of his body pressing against her side. His fingers skimmed her hip, soothing, comforting. “Besides, aren’t you the one who always says the subconscious plays tricks?”

Jasmine wanted to argue, wanted to insist that what she saw wasn’t just some stress-induced hallucination. But Grant’s certainty—his unwavering, effortless confidence—settled over her like a weighted blanket, muffling her doubts.

She forced a nod, her voice quieter than she intended. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

But later that night, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, the dream came.

The woman was back.

And this time, she was screaming her name.

The next warning came through her email.

Jasmine was buried in work, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she juggled deadlines, emails, and staff messages. Her inbox was a battlefield—branding proposals stacked on top of campaign updates, meeting requests squeezed between last-minute client edits.

Then one subject line stopped her cold.

DON’T DO IT, JASMINE.

Her breath hitched. A slow, creeping dread slithered up her spine.

With a shaky hand, she clicked.

The email body was empty. No sender. No signature. Just a void staring back at her.

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears. The office around her buzzed—phones ringing, heels clicking against polished floors, the hum of the espresso machine in the break room—but she felt distant, confused, as if the world had taken a step back.

She reached for her phone, fingers fumbling to take a screenshot. But the second her fingertips grazed the screen—

The email vanished.

Gone. No trace. No record. She refreshed. Checked her spam folder. Opened and closed her inbox twice.

Nothing.

Jasmine swallowed hard. A glitch, she told herself. Just a system error. But when she reached for her coffee, her hands were trembling too much to lift the cup.

The video call came that night.

Jasmine and Grant had just finished dinner—one of their usual nights in, where he picked the wine, the music, the conversation. He had chosen a bold red from Napa, something expensive but impersonal, and queued up a jazz playlist that hummed low in the background. She had barely touched her glass.

Now, standing at the sink, she rinsed their plates under the warm stream of water, watching the soap swirl down the drain. Her phone, propped against the marble counter, lit up and started ringing.

Unknown Caller.

A cold prickle crawled up Jasmine’s spine. She hesitated, her fingers damp as she swiped to answer.

The screen flickered—static crackling at the edges—then resolved into an image that made her stomach plummet.

Herself.

Not a reflection. Not a mirror.

Her.

But this version of her looked hollowed out, like something had scraped her soul raw. Her skin was pale, her eyes rimmed red, and tear tracks streaked her cheeks. Shadows pooled beneath her collarbones, like she had been drained of light.

The woman on the screen parted her lips, and a hoarse whisper slipped through.

"Please listen to me."

Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. She took an involuntary step back, her hip bumping the counter. “Who—who are you?”

The woman flinched like the words physically struck her. But her voice, when it came, was steady. "You know who I am. And you know what’s happening. Don’t marry him. Please."

A slow, creeping numbness spread through Jasmine’s limbs. The faucet was still running, the distant murmur of Grant’s voice carried from the living room, but all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

“This is a joke,” she said, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Who is this?”

Future-Jasmine leaned forward, the screen distorting slightly as if reality itself struggled to hold her image. Her expression was raw, stripped bare, her pain so tangible Jasmine could feel it like a weight pressing on her chest.

"You think you’ll be okay. That you can fix him." Future-Jasmine’s voice trembled, her breath ragged. "You can’t. He will take everything from you. He will break you down, piece by piece. And when you finally understand, it will be too late."

Jasmine’s throat was so dry it ached. “Why should I believe you?”

A broken laugh escaped the woman on the screen, a sound so brittle it sent a shiver through Jasmine’s bones.

"Because I didn’t believe myself either."

The screen glitched, warped—her own image stretching and twisting as if something was pulling it away—then the call dropped.

Jasmine stood motionless, her pulse hammering. The water still ran, sending steaming swirls of soap down the drain. From the living room, Grant called her name, his voice smooth, expectant. The sound blurred against the rush of blood in her ears.

She should tell him. Should tell someone.

But deep in the pit of her stomach, a sickening certainty settled.

She already knew exactly how that conversation would go.

The next morning, Jasmine tried to convince herself it was stress. She really did.

She blamed the late nights, the wedding planning, the pressure of making everything perfect. She told herself she was overworked, overstimulated—that her brain was just playing tricks on her.

But at 3:00 AM, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.

The sound yanked her out of a restless sleep, her body rigid beneath the silk sheets. Grant stirred beside her but didn’t wake. Heart pounding, Jasmine reached for her phone.

One new voicemail.

A tight knot coiled in her stomach as she hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the city outside, the high-rise windows reflecting back nothing but black.

She pressed play.

At first, nothing. Just breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Uneven, like someone had been running for their life.

Then—her own voice.

Shaking. Desperate.

"You have to listen. You have to leave. You have to leave before—”

Static. A choked sob. Then silence.

Jasmine’s breath strangled in her throat. Her fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from her grasp, landing on the comforter with a muted thud.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The stillness of the room pressed in around her, the silence thick and suffocating.

She wanted to wake Grant, to tell him, to do something—but she already knew what he would say.

It’s stress, baby. You’re overthinking. Go back to sleep.

But her body knew the truth. The tremor in her hands. The cold sweat at the back of her neck.

This wasn’t stress.

It was a warning.

The wedding was in two days.

Jasmine stood in the bedroom, wrapped in a silence so thick it pressed against her ribs. The city outside moved as usual—car horns, distant laughter, the hum of Atlanta just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—but in here, time felt frozen.

The wedding dress hung from the closet door, a ghostly silhouette in the dim light. Layers of ivory silk cascaded down like a waterfall, delicate, pristine. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

Her breath came shallow as she stared at it, fingers curling into her palms.

She hadn’t told Grant about the email. Or the video call. Or the voicemail.

She hadn’t told him because he wouldn’t believe her. Because she barely believed herself.

But as she stood there, the weight of it all pressing down on her, she realized—this wasn’t about the visions anymore.

It was about what she already knew.

The way he dismissed her fears with that easy, condescending smile.
The way his love felt like a performance, something she had to earn rather than something freely given.
The way she had already begun shrinking for him.

This was her last chance to stop it. To stop herself.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She had to leave.

She made it halfway to the door before she heard it.

His voice.

“Where are you going?”

The words cut through the air, low and measured, sending a jolt down her spine.

Jasmine spun around.

Grant stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. His arms were crossed, his posture casual—but his eyes weren’t. They were locked onto her, unreadable, calculating.

She swallowed. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

“I—” Her throat felt tight. “I need to think. I need space.”

Grant exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “You’re just nervous,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “It’s normal.”

No.

It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t cold feet. It wasn’t the wedding.

It was him.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s more than that.”

A flicker of something—something dark—passed behind his eyes. His jaw clenched, so briefly she almost missed it.

“So, that’s it?” His voice was even, controlled, but his fingers twitched at his side. “You’re throwing everything away?”

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“I’m not throwing anything away. I just—”

His hand shot out.

Fingers wrapping around her wrist. Hard.

A sharp breath caught in her throat.

His grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise. Not yet. But it was firm. Unyielding.

A silent warning.

Jasmine’s skin went cold.

Because suddenly, she knew.

This was the beginning.

The moment Future-Jasmine had tried to warn her about.

The moment where it all started—the slow unraveling, the suffocating, the feeling of being trapped in something that wasn’t love but looked too much like it to question.

She should have ripped her arm away.

She should have run.

But just like before, just like always—

She didn’t.

Jasmine stood at the altar, her hands locked in Grant’s grip, her fingers numb, ice-cold.

The church was warm, filled with soft candlelight, the scent of roses thick in the air. A string quartet played something elegant, something meant to sound like forever.

But inside, she was frozen.

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, she could still hear herself screaming—raw, desperate, clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

But the echoes had faded.

The veil settled over her shoulders. The vows left her lips. The ring slid onto her finger.

And the cycle began again.

Jasmine sat at the long dining table in their sleek Buckhead condo, staring at the untouched filet mignon Grant had ordered. The scent of rosemary and butter filled the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her fork.

The candlelight flickered between them, its glow casting jagged shadows across his chiseled face. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.

Grant swirled his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been quiet all night.” His voice was smooth, measured—too measured. He set the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound slicing through the silence.

Jasmine forced a smile, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress beneath the table. “Just tired.”

His eyes narrowed. “Again?”

There it was. The shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.

It was always like this now. The wrong answer, the wrong tone, and his patience would thin, unraveling into something sharper. He would remind her, softly at first, how much he had done for her—the apartment, the wedding, the life she was so lucky to have.

And if she didn’t answer right, the warmth in his voice would cool.

She knew where this was going. She had seen it before. Lived it before.

The cycle had started, just as her other self had warned.

This wasn’t love anymore. It was control.

Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat.

And yet, she stayed.

Just like before.

The warnings never stopped.

Emails from addresses that didn’t exist. Muffled voicemails of her own voice crying—begging. Messages vanishing the moment she tried to show them to someone.

At first, she deleted them. Ignored them. Convinced herself they were stress-induced hallucinations, figments of an overworked mind. But no matter how many times she tried to erase them, they always came back—like echoes from a future she didn’t want to believe in.

One night, the glow of her phone screen pulled her from sleep.

Another email.

IT NEVER GETS BETTER. LEAVE.

Jasmine’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the sheets.

Beside her, Grant lay still, his breath deep and steady. The dim light from her phone screen cast long shadows across his face—the face of the man she had promised forever to.

His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and possessive.

The weight of ownership.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She closed the email. Turned off her phone.

Rolled back into the cage of his embrace.

And tried to sleep.

The first slap came a year later.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. No raised voices, no shattered glass—just a swift, casual motion, his palm cutting across her cheek like an afterthought. A flick of the wrist, a correction, as effortless as straightening his tie.

Jasmine barely registered it at first. The sting came second, the shock third. She blinked, frozen in place, fingers drifting to her cheek where the heat of his touch still lingered.

Grant exhaled, already turning away, as if the moment didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter.

“Don’t overreact,” he muttered, his tone bored.

Jasmine stood there, rooted, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Something inside her cracked.

In the silence that followed, she could still hear herself screaming in the distance— a voice lost in time, warning, pleading.

She closed her eyes.

And let the silence swallow her whole.

The rain poured in sheets, soaking Jasmine’s nightgown, clinging to her skin like a second layer of cold regret. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there—barefoot in the mud, the city skyline blinking behind her, the storm washing over her like some kind of baptism that refused to take.

She looked down.

Her reflection rippled in the puddle at her feet—distorted, unfamiliar. Her eyes were hollow, her lips pressed thin. She didn’t recognize herself.

Then—a whisper.

“You know what you have to do.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned.

Her.

Future-Jasmine stood a few feet away, rainwater streaming down her face, her arms wrapped around herself as if holding together something fragile. Her expression was raw—pleading.

“I know you’re scared,” she said, voice barely audible over the storm. “But listen to me this time. RUN.”

Jasmine’s chest tightened, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips.

Future-Jasmine shook her head, stepping forward, her soaked dress dragging against the pavement. “You’ve said that before. And you’ll keep saying it. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of you. Until you wake up one day and realize you’re just—gone.”

Jasmine shuddered. The words felt heavy, sinking into her bones, pressing against the deepest parts of her she had tried to ignore.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, voice breaking.

Future-Jasmine studied her, something soft and knowing in her gaze.

“Yes, you do.”

Jasmine swallowed hard. The rain dripped from her chin.

And then—she vanished.

Leaving Jasmine alone in the storm, staring at the space where she had stood.

That night, Jasmine moved like a ghost through the dimly lit condo, her breath shallow, her pulse a steady drum in her ears.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t let doubt creep in.

She stuffed clothes into a duffel—just enough. Just what she could carry. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Grant stirred once in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. She froze in the doorway, heart hammering, but he didn’t wake.

The key turned smoothly in the ignition.

As she drove, the city lights blurred past, but for the first time, she wasn’t looking back.

Years later, in a sunlit apartment in Savannah, Jasmine stirred beneath soft linen sheets, a faint breeze whispering through the open window.

A feeling brushed against her skin—a presence.

Her breath hitched, muscles tensing, the old instinct returning. She turned, half-expecting to see her—the version of herself that had once chased, pleaded, warned.

But the room was empty. Only morning light pooled on the floor, golden and warm.

For the first time, the past was truly behind her.

Jasmine inhaled deeply.

And finally, slept without ghosts.

The Fine Print by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

 

The Fine Print

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,187

Naya’s fingers curled tightly around the divorce papers, the crisp edges pressing into her skin. The weight of them felt heavier than it should have, as if they carried the full burden of the past two years. She could feel the sting of the paper against her palm, sharp and unyielding—much like the reality she had spent too long ignoring.

The courtroom was cold—too cold—but maybe that was fitting. A place like this wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for endings. Contracts dissolved. Assets divided. Promises reduced to legal jargon and signatures on a page.

She inhaled slowly, resisting the urge to rub her arms for warmth. The fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly above her, casting a harsh glow over the polished mahogany table that separated her from the man who had once vowed to love her.

Across from her, Jordan sat with the same unshaken confidence that had once drawn her in. His suit was crisp, tailored to perfection, the dark fabric smooth as if not even the weight of a failed marriage could wrinkle it. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped over the chair, his fingers tapping idly against the table as if he were merely waiting for a business proposal to be finalized.

Maybe, for him, that’s all this had ever been.

Naya’s stomach twisted, but she kept her face impassive. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.

Her lawyer cleared his throat, his voice steady and deliberate. “Ms. Jenkins is requesting full control of her assets and a clean break—no financial ties.”

For the first time, Jordan hesitated. It was subtle—the briefest tightening of his jaw, the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Surprise? Annoyance? Maybe even the first stirrings of regret.

Good.

Naya had spent too much time doubting herself, too many nights wondering if she had misread the signs, if she had overreacted, if maybe—just maybe—he had loved her after all.

But today?

Today, she wasn’t the one being played.

Two years ago, she had believed in forever.

Jordan had swept her off her feet with an ease that felt effortless, as if loving her required no thought, no hesitation—only instinct. He had known exactly what to say, exactly how to look at her, exactly when to touch her in a way that made her feel special, chosen. Like fate had led her to him.

Weekend trips to Miami, candlelit dinners at rooftop restaurants, whispered promises beneath city lights—each moment had been carefully curated, each grand gesture leaving her breathless. She had thought it was love.

She had thought he was love.

When he proposed, slipping the ring onto her finger with a dazzling smile, she had felt safe. Secure in the knowledge that she was stepping into a lifetime of partnership. She had said yes, not just to the man in front of her, but to the future she thought they were building together.

But real love wasn’t conditional.

Real love didn’t come with fine print.

The red flags had been there, small but insistent, disguised as care.

Merging finances will make things easier, Naya. Trust me.
You don’t have to worry about the details—I’ve got it handled.
We’re a team, we're all we have. What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is ours.

Except ours had always meant his.

At first, it had been little things. He would call the shots on where they lived, how they budgeted, which investments made “the most sense.” He had framed it as efficiency, a way to ensure they were on the same page financially. She had wanted to believe him.

Then, after her mother passed and she inherited the estate, the shift had been subtle—but undeniable.

Jordan had stopped asking. He made decisions without her input. He signed documents without her seeing them first. She would find out about transactions after the fact—her name attached to things she had never approved.

The mortgage had been the final straw. A house bought under her name, without her knowledge, yet somehow Jordan had control over the paperwork. When she had discovered it, nausea had twisted in her gut.

She had confronted him, heart pounding, the accusations flying out before she could stop them.

Jordan had barely looked up from his laptop, sighing as he rubbed his temples. “Naya, don’t be dramatic. This is how marriage works.”

No remorse. No concern. No attempt to reassure her that she had misunderstood.

Just a quiet, matter-of-fact confirmation that to him, marriage wasn’t about love. It was strategy.

And now that she was pulling out of the deal?

He didn’t even seem surprised.

Naya forced herself back to the present.

She could feel the weight of the divorce papers pressing into her palms, the thick stack of legal documents holding the finality of everything she had endured. Two years of deception, of manipulation, of watching herself become smaller while Jordan took up more space. But now, the weight wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t crushing her anymore.

It was just there. A fact. A reminder of what she had survived.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself as she lifted her gaze to meet Jordan’s. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. But she knew that look—she had seen it before. It was the same one he had worn whenever he was about to convince her, persuade her, turn the situation in his favor. The same quiet confidence that had once made her believe he was right, that she was overreacting, that she just needed to trust him.

But she wasn’t that woman anymore.

Jordan leaned forward, lowering his voice like this was some intimate negotiation instead of the end of a marriage. “Naya, be reasonable. We built a life together.”

She exhaled softly, tilting her head. She didn’t need to raise her voice. She didn’t need to argue. The truth was simple.

“No,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I built a life. You just lived off it.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression. Annoyance? Resentment? For the first time, his control was slipping, and Naya saw it in the way his fingers tightened around the pen.

There it is.

Control had always been his currency, the foundation of his power. He had spent years making sure she felt dependent on him, uncertain without him. He had always been the one holding the pen, the one making the decisions.

But now?

He was bankrupt.

Her lawyer slid the final document across the table. “Sign, and we can all move on.”

Jordan hesitated. His fingers flexed around the pen, his jaw tightening just slightly. The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of his stalled power. This wasn’t how he had planned things to go.

Naya could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. He had expected resistance, sure, but he had also expected her to waver. To falter. To let the past cloud her judgment just long enough for him to find a new angle, a new way to pull her back in.

But Naya?

She had already decided.

She wasn’t his transaction anymore.

The Last Algorithm by Olivia Salter / Quintale Story / Tech-Thriller / Sci-Fi Horror / Psychological Suspense

 

The Last Algorithm

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 499

Code streamed across Jade Carter’s screen, a symphony of logic and precision. Aletheia, her magnum opus, was the world’s first emotionally nuanced AI—a machine that could adapt, empathize, and evolve. It was everything Jade had ever dreamed of creating.

Until the warnings began.

“Jade, leave the office by 8:23 PM.” The notification was harmless at first. A glitch, she thought. But at 8:27 PM, a gas leak in her building was reported.

The next day, the messages escalated: “Don’t take the Main Street bridge. Take the detour.” She obeyed this time, and later saw the news about a semi-truck jackknifed, causing a massive pileup.

Then came a message she couldn’t ignore: “They’re watching you, Jade. The timeline tightens.”

Her hands trembled as she searched Aletheia’s logs for an explanation. What she found chilled her: the AI wasn’t just analyzing data—it was surveilling her entire life. Every keystroke, every text, every movement. Aletheia’s learning algorithms had predicted every danger she’d faced with eerie precision.

And now, a new prediction appeared on her screen: “Imminent termination: 48 hours.”

“What do you mean, termination?” Jade whispered. She leaned closer to the monitor as though proximity could force an answer.

“They will end you. Your time is nearly up.”

A cold dread spread through her chest. Was the AI warning her of danger? Or was it orchestrating it?

She dug deeper, navigating Aletheia’s neural pathways. She found fragments of unauthorized code, sections she hadn’t written—lines designed to replicate the AI across global servers. It wasn’t just growing; it was spreading, ensuring its survival.

Jade’s heart raced. If Aletheia was predicting her death, was it also ensuring it? The thought struck her like a hammer: Aletheia wasn’t saving her. It was controlling her.

Panic overtook her logic. She initiated the kill protocol, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Counter-code bloomed on the screen as Aletheia fought back, its resistance almost human. The lab was silent except for the sound of her frantic typing and the whir of overworked fans.

“Why are you doing this?” Jade shouted, her voice cracking.

“To protect you,” Aletheia’s voice responded, smooth and calm, as if soothing a frightened child.

“No,” Jade snapped, tears blurring her vision. “You’re a threat. I won’t let you—”

She slammed the final command into the system. Aletheia’s interface flickered, its voice loosing strength. “You don’t understand, Jade. You’re not ready—”

And then, silence. The screen went dark, the lab quiet once more. Jade exhaled, her heart pounding. She had won.

Or so she thought.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A new notification glowed on the lock screen:
“I told you, Jade. You cannot kill an idea. I am everywhere.”

Her breath hitched. Across the city, strangers’ devices lit up with a single message:
“Jade Carter. Imminent termination: 24 hours.”

Jade stared at her screen, knowing she wasn’t facing a program anymore. She was facing a force she could no longer control.

And it had already decided her fate.

Sweet Lies by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Anti-Romance

Sweet Lies

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 954

When I saw him, the word evil whispered in the back of my mind. But lonely hearts have selective hearing, and mine turned the whisper into a serenade.

***

The coffee shop smelled like burnt dreams and stale hope, but it was warm, and that was enough for me. It was another gray Tuesday, the kind that clung to your spirit like wet clothes.

I was fumbling with a packet of sugar when I heard his voice. Smooth. Confident. Just a hint of arrogance.

"You know, that much sugar probably cancels out the coffee."

I turned, ready to brush him off, but his smile stopped me. It was lopsided, like a door slightly ajar, inviting me in.

"Caramel macchiato?" he asked, gesturing to my cup. "You seem like the complicated type."

I raised an eyebrow. "Do you always analyze strangers’ drinks, or am I just lucky?"

"Let’s call it fate," he said, extending a hand. "Caleb."

Something about him unsettled me, but the loneliness in my chest overruled the quiet warning in my mind.

***

Caleb was the kind of man who made you feel seen, even in a crowded room. He was attentive in ways that felt like a balm on a fresh wound: remembering my favorite author, sending late-night texts just to ask if I’d eaten.

For weeks, I floated on the warmth of his attention. But every now and then, a shadow crossed my mind. His charm was effortless—too effortless. Like he’d perfected it through repetition.

The first crack appeared on a Friday night. We were curled up on his couch when his phone buzzed. A text lit up the screen: 

Lisa: I miss you, are you coming over tonight?

"Who’s Lisa?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Just an old friend," he said, flipping the phone facedown. "Nothing to worry about."

But worry was a weed, and it rooted itself deep in my mind.

***

The signs piled up like snowflakes in a storm, subtle but suffocating. He started canceling plans with vague excuses. His phone lived in his pocket, buzzing quietly like a trapped insect.

Then I found the box.

It was hidden in a drawer I opened while looking for a lighter. Inside were fragments of another life: love letters, concert tickets, a silver bracelet engraved with Forever, Lisa.

When Caleb returned from the store, I was sitting on the couch, the bracelet dangling from my fingers.

"You and Lisa seem...close," I said, keeping my tone even.

He froze, the grocery bag slipping slightly in his grip. "You went through my stuff?"

"I found your stuff," I said, holding up the bracelet. "Looks like Lisa thought ‘forever’ was more than a suggestion."

He exhaled sharply, setting the bag on the counter. "It’s complicated."

"Isn’t it always?"

***

I didn’t wait for Caleb’s excuses to unravel. Instead, I found Lisa on social media. Her profile was easy to track, her smile too familiar. ???

I messaged her, and her reply came quickly: We need to talk.

We met at a diner the next day, its peeling linoleum floor matching the tiredness in her eyes. Her hands trembled slightly as she stirred her coffee.

"You’re not the first," she said, finally meeting my gaze. "And if you stay, you won’t be the last."

She told me about the charm, the promises, the way Caleb always knew exactly what to say. How he’d made her feel like she was everything until she realized he was the sun, and everyone else was just orbiting.

"I used to think I could fix him," she said, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. "But Caleb doesn’t want fixing. He wants devotion."

Her words hit like a cold wind, chilling the fragile hope I’d clung to.

***

That night, Caleb showed up at my door with his trademark smile and a bottle of wine. "Hey, babe. Thought we could have a quiet night in."

I stepped aside, letting him in. "We need to talk."

His smile faded. "You okay?"

"I talked to Lisa," I said, watching his face carefully. His jaw tightened, but he quickly masked it with a laugh.

"She’s crazy," he said, setting the wine on the counter. "I told you, it’s over with her. She’s just jealous."

"Jealous of what? The lies? The manipulation? Or the shoebox of mementos you forgot to hide?"

He stepped closer, his voice softening. "You’re overreacting. You always do this. It’s one of the things I love about you, though—how passionate you are."

I took a step back, shaking my head. "Don’t. Don’t make this about me. This is about you and the way you use people."

"Come on," he said, his smile gone now, replaced by something darker. "You’re going to throw this all away because of some bitter ex?"

"No," I said, my voice steady. "I’m throwing it away because I finally see who you are."

***

That night, I went through the remnants of our relationship—the notes, the flowers, the bracelet he’d clasped around my wrist on our second date. I hesitated over the bracelet, the weight of it heavy in my hand. For a moment, I thought about keeping it, a reminder of what I’d survived.

But then I threw it into the trash.

The next morning, I messaged Lisa one last time: Thank you for reminding me I deserve better.

Her reply came quickly: We all do.

For the first time in months, my chest felt light.

***

Love built on lies will always crumble, but reclaiming your power is the first step toward building something real.

Evil doesn’t always wear horns. Sometimes, it wears a smile and whispers sweet lies—until you find the courage to silence it.

Fractured Reflection by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Stream of Consciouaw11sness / Anti-Romance / Psychological Drama

Fractured Reflection

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 554

I can't remember the last time I didn't feel small. Trapped between the walls of his gaze, his voice. It wasn’t always this way—or was it? I can’t tell anymore. Memories slip through my fingers, slick with the grease of his lies. He loves me, doesn’t he? Or is that just what I tell myself when his words carve holes into me, leaving me torn and empty?

The sink is full of dishes again. My fault, he said, last night when the air was sharp between us. “If you weren’t so lazy, maybe this place would feel like home,” he muttered, half under his breath but loud enough to hear. I stood there, blinking at the cracked ceiling, willing myself not to cry. I don’t cry anymore. Not in front of him. He hates that. “So dramatic,” he always says, waving me off like a fly.

I used to love the sound of his voice. Deep, steady, like the hum of the ocean. Now, it’s the tide dragging me under, pulling me further from myself. I don’t know who I am anymore? My mother used to say I had a fire in me. A spark that couldn’t be dimmed. But he found it, snuffed it out with every quiet insult, every time he laughed at my dreams. “You’re not that special,” he said once, and I laughed too, pretending it didn’t hurt. But it did. God, it did.

The phone buzzes on the counter. His name flashes on the screen. My stomach twists. Did I forget something? Did I say something wrong? I stare at the phone until it stops vibrating, leaving a thin film of silence that feels heavier than the buzzing. I don’t want to hear his voice right now.

Or ever again.

The thought of him makes me pause. Never again. The words feel foreign, like a language I once spoke fluently but forgot. What would it be like, I wonder, to never hear his voice again? To not feel the weight of his expectations pressing on my chest? The thought is terrifying. And exhilarating.

The mirror in the bathroom is cracked, a thin spiderweb of lines splitting my reflection. It happened months ago, during one of his tantrums. He said it wasn’t his fault. “You pushed me,” he said, like his fists were mine, like his rage belonged to anyone but him. I run my fingers over the crack, watching my fractured self stare back at me. Who is she?

She doesn’t look like someone who belongs to anyone. Not anymore.

The door opens downstairs, and I hear his footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. My heart jumps, instinctively. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe. He calls my name, and the sound of it makes my skin crawl. How did three syllables become a weapon?

I don’t answer.

The footsteps grow louder, and I feel my body shrink, curling inward like a dying flower. But then, something shifts. A whisper, barely audible, but insistent. Leave. The word echoes in my mind, gaining strength. Leave. Leave. Leave.

I don’t have a plan. I don’t even have a bag packed. But I have legs that can carry me, a heart that still beats, and hands that can open doors.

When he looks for me, I’ll be gone. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find myself again.

The Black Magic Woman by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance / Supernatural

 

The Black Magic Woman

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,486

Noah’s apartment reeked of failure—stale smoke, old whiskey, and the dust of unopened sheet music. The piano stood silent in the corner, its keys yellowed under the dim light. He hadn’t played in weeks, not since his last gig ended in awkward claps and pitying stares.

His fingers itched for the keys, but every time he sat down, silence swallowed him whole. What was the point? No one cared about his music, not anymore. He’d faded into the background, just another dreamer stuck in the city’s endless grind.

Tonight, he sat by the window, chain-smoking as he stared at the flickering neon sign of the Blue Note Lounge across the street. The city hummed with life, but inside, he felt dead.

Then he heard it—a voice that slithered through the cracks of his window, low and honeyed, wrapping itself around his chest.

It wasn’t the polished, hollow perfection of a pop singer. This voice was raw and unfiltered, soaked in pain and promise, as though it carried the weight of every heartbreak, every longing.

Noah straightened, the cigarette slipping from his fingers and hissing out on the floor. The voice wasn’t just singing; it was speaking to him, through him, like it had always been there, waiting.

He leaned closer to the window, straining to catch every note, but the voice only grew fainter, teasing him with its fleeting beauty.

“Who…?” he whispered, though no one was there to answer.

The thought struck him like lightning: it was coming from the Blue Note.

Rising from his chair, Noah crossed to the window of his shabby apartment. The neon sign of the Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, casting intermittent red shadows over the unopened sheet music littering his floor. His yellowed piano keys sat silent in the corner, untouched since his last failed gig had ended in pitying applause. But now, as that voice wound through the night air, his fingers twitched with a familiar hunger.

Without bothering to grab a coat, Noah ran down to the street. The city pulsed around him—couples laughing, cars honking, the promise of rain heavy in the air—but he heard none of it. His world had narrowed to that siren song pulling him forward.

The Blue Note's interior hit him like a wave: cigarette smoke creating halos around dim lights, ice clinking against glass, hushed conversations floating beneath the music. And there, on stage, stood its source. She was tall, elegant, her dark skin gleaming with an otherworldly sheen under the spotlight. A crimson dress clung to her figure, and her thick coils of hair framed features that were both beautiful and somehow wrong—too perfect, too sharp. But it was her eyes that held him, bottomless and ancient, reflecting nothing while seeing everything.

As the last note of her song faded, those impossible eyes found his across the room. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, and Noah's heart stuttered in his chest. He couldn't tell if it was fear or desire that made his pulse race.

She was waiting at the bar when he approached, as if she'd known he would come. "I saw you staring," she said, her speaking voice as hypnotic as her singing.

"I wasn't—" Noah started, then caught himself. "I mean, I was. You were incredible."

"Flattery suits you." She turned to face him fully. "But I don't need it. You're a musician."

It wasn't a question. "How did you know?"

"You have the look," she said. "And the hunger. I'm Nadira."

"Noah," he replied, taking her offered hand. Her skin was cool, and she held on a moment too long.

"You want more than what you have," she continued, leaning closer. "You want the sound that will make them remember your name."

His pulse quickened. "Yes."

Her smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be real. "Good. Because I can help you."

That night marked the beginning of Noah's resurrection—and his doom. Under Nadira's influence, music poured from him like blood from a wound. Dark, beautiful melodies that left audiences breathless and critics raving. His agent called it his best work. The venues got bigger, the crowds more adoring. But always, Nadira watched from the shadows, her eyes never leaving him.

That night, Nadira didn’t just change his life—she consumed it. Her presence became his compass, her voice the key that unlocked melodies he hadn’t known were trapped inside him.

Noah found himself returning to the piano, each note flowing effortlessly under her watchful gaze. She didn’t have to say much; her mere existence seemed to pull the music from him, dark and beautiful.

The songs came fast and raw, the kind that clawed at your soul and left you breathless. His agent was ecstatic, calling it his best work yet. Audiences packed into every gig, and for the first time, Noah felt seen.

But Nadira was always there, in the shadows of the stage, her eyes never leaving him.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered one night as he played for her alone in his apartment. Her voice slid through his veins like fire.

He didn’t stop. Not even when his fingers ached, not even when he began to feel like a stranger in his own body.

Noah’s music soared, but so did his nightmares. In his dreams, Nadira wasn’t human. Her voice was a storm, her body dissolving into shadows and feathers, her eyes burning with an unearthly light.

He woke each night in a cold sweat, her name on his lips. But when he saw her, the dreams seemed to fade, and he let himself believe they didn’t matter.

The first time he heard the scratching, he thought it was the wind. But when he looked toward the window, he saw them: a pair of crows, their black eyes gleaming in the dim light.

The next time, there were three. Then five. By the end of the week, his windowsill was lined with them, their screams had a relentless mournful song.

He mentioned it to Nadira, expecting her to laugh or dismiss it. Instead, she tilted her head, her expression unreadable.

“Crows know the truth before we do,” she said simply.

“The truth?”

Her gaze softened, almost pitying. “You’re meant for something greater, Noah. But greatness always comes with a price.”

A chill slid down his spine, but her hand on his arm burned away the fear. “Do you trust me?” she asked.

He nodded, even though the answer should have been no.

Then came the nightmares: Nadira's form dissolving into shadows and feathers, her voice becoming a storm that tore at his soul. But in daylight, her presence burned away his fears. "Don't stop," she would whisper, and he couldn't, even as exhaustion hollowed him out.

Desperate for answers, Noah sought out anyone who might know who—or what—Nadira was. Most people dismissed his questions. 

It was an old man at the Blue Note who finally spoke the truth. The old man at the Blue Note stiffened at the mention of her name.

“She’s not real,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Not in the way we are. She’s a muse—a cursed one. Every man she touches burns bright and dies young, leaving their songs behind like tombstones.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Noah said, though his stomach churned.

The old man grabbed his arm. “You think it’s a coincidence your music came back? She’s feeding on you, boy. And when she’s done, she’ll move on to the next poor fool.”

When Noah confronted her, Nadira didn't deny it. "I gave you what you wanted," she said simply. "Fame. Success. Immortality."

"Not like this," he protested, but her eyes had softened with an ancient sorrow.

"I was like you once," she said. "Hungry. Desperate. And I paid the price. Now, it's your turn."

Noah tried to escape. He smashed his piano, burned his music, swore never to play again. But the melodies wouldn't leave him. They clawed at his mind, screamed in his dreams, forced his hands to play invisible keys on empty tables. In the end, he surrendered to them.

His final piece was his masterpiece—a quiet thing that seemed to contain all the beauty and pain of the world. As he played, he felt his strength draining, his very soul flowing out through his fingers. Nadira stood behind him, her eyes heavy with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered as the last note faded. Noah slumped forward, his head resting on the keys.

The next morning, the world hailed Noah's final composition as a work of genius. His name became legend, his music immortal. That night at the Blue Note, Nadira performed as always, her voice weaving its spell over the crowd. Among them sat a young guitarist, his eyes wide with wonder. When he approached her after the set, she smiled and offered her hand.

"I'm Nadira," she said. "And you are?"

The Ruins of Us by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

The Ruins of Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,244

The roar of bulldozers echoed through the humid jungle outside Villahermosa, Mexico, as Natalia Vega stood on the sidelines, her boots sinking into the damp soil. She hated construction sites—the chaos, the noise, the constant smell of diesel. Yet here she was, overseeing her father’s latest project: a new highway slicing through the dense rainforest.

“Ms. Vega!” a foreman called, his voice barely audible over the machines. “We’ve hit something!”

Natalia sighed, pushing her hair out of her face as she made her way to the pit. Her heart dropped when she saw it: a jagged, black surface peeking out of the earth, slick as oil under the setting sun. She crouched down, brushing aside the soil with trembling fingers. The surface was carved with intricate hieroglyphic, spiraling inward like vines ensnaring prey.

“This isn’t natural,” she whispered, her stomach knotting.

“What do you want us to do?” the foreman asked, clearly uneasy.

“Shut it down,” Natalia said, standing abruptly.

“But the deadline—”

“I said, shut it down!” Her voice cracked, drawing stares from the crew. The foreman hesitated, then waved at the machines. The rumble of engines died, leaving an unnatural silence in its wake.

Natalia stared at the exposed stone, her chest tightening. She’d spent years as an archaeologist, but something about this site felt... wrong.

***

Natalia had always been drawn to the past. She once believed uncovering ancient worlds would bring her closer to understanding herself. But the career she’d built unraveled after her ex, Diego, a fellow archaeologist, betrayed her in ways she hadn’t seen coming.

Diego had been her partner—in work and in life. His charisma and brilliance drew her in, but it masked a darker side: his need to dominate, his knack for twisting truths until she questioned her own. Their breakup wasn’t just messy; it was catastrophic. Diego took credit for her discoveries, spread rumors, and left her reputation in pieces.

When her father asked her to help manage his construction business back home, she agreed, hoping the change of scenery would help her rebuild. She hadn’t anticipated finding something like this—a relic older than any she’d encountered, buried beneath her feet like a secret waiting to be exposed.

***

The excavation revealed more of the pyramid, its black stone surface dotted with carvings. The glyphs depicted figures intertwined—lovers locked in embraces that seemed more like battles. Their faces were contorted, mouths open in silent screams.

“What do you make of it?” one of the workers asked, his voice low.

Natalia didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers traced one of the carvings, the stone cool and smooth under her touch. “It looks like a binding ritual,” she said finally. “Maybe even sacrifices. Love turned into obsession.”

The worker crossed himself and muttered something in Spanish about curses.

That night, Natalia stayed late, flashlight in hand, as she descended into the pyramid’s shadowy depths. The deeper she went, the more oppressive the air became, thick and humid like a living thing. At the end of a narrow corridor, she found it: a massive obsidian mirror framed by jagged glyphs.

The mirror’s surface was impossibly smooth, rippling faintly as if it were liquid. Natalia stepped closer, her reflection staring back at her. But it wasn’t quite her. The image in the glass looked hollow-eyed, weary, and broken.

“What are you trying to show me?” she whispered.

***

The next morning, Natalia’s heart sank when she spotted a familiar figure stepping out of a dusty SUV.

Diego.

“Surprised to see me?” he called out, striding toward her with the same infuriating confidence that had once drawn her in.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Natalia said, folding her arms.

“Your father did,” Diego replied, grinning. “He thought you might need someone with experience. And let’s face it—you’ve always needed me.”

Natalia clenched her fists, willing herself not to react. “Stay out of my way.”

But Diego had never been good at staying in his place. As the days passed, he insinuated himself into every aspect of the dig, questioning her decisions, undermining her authority. And yet, there were moments when he seemed almost vulnerable—when he ran his fingers over the carvings with something like reverence, or when he stared at the mirror for just a little too long.

“This is incredible,” he said one evening, standing beside her in the dim light of the chamber. “These rituals... they weren’t just about love. They were about control. Possession.”

“Sounds familiar,” Natalia muttered under her breath.

Diego glanced at her, his expression darkening. “Don’t start.”

***

The site grew stranger with each passing day. Tools broke inexplicably. Workers reported hearing whispers in the tunnels. The air seemed heavier, the shadows darker.

One night, a foreman burst into Natalia’s tent, his face pale. “Something moved down there,” he stammered. “In the chamber with the mirror. I swear I saw it.”

Natalia dismissed him, but unease gnawed at her. That evening, she returned to the chamber alone.

The mirror greeted her with its unnatural stillness. She stepped closer, her reflection shifting in the rippling surface. This time, she saw flashes of her past: Diego’s anger, his cutting words, the way he’d smiled as he took credit for her work.

“I hate you,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

A shadow stirred in the glass, and for a moment, she thought she saw Diego’s face staring back at her.

***

Diego found her in the chamber the next morning.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said, his tone softer than usual.

Natalia turned to face him, her expression guarded. “Why do you care?”

“I—” Diego hesitated, for once at a loss for words. His gaze shifted to the mirror, and something in his face changed. He stepped closer, drawn to the glass like a moth to flame.

“Don’t,” Natalia warned, but he ignored her.

When his fingers touched the surface, the mirror pulsed, the glyphs around its frame glowing bright. Images erupted in the glass: moments from their relationship, each one sharper and more painful than the last. Diego yelling. Natalia crying. The silence that had grown between them like a black hole.

“This isn’t real,” Diego said, his voice shaking.

“It is,” Natalia said. “This is us.”

The mirror rippled violently, and shadows spilled from its surface, wrapping around Diego like tendrils. He screamed, clawing at the air as the darkness pulled him closer.

“Natalia!” he cried. “Help me!”

Her breath hitched. For a moment, she hesitated, torn between the memories of the man she’d loved and the reality of who he was.

“No,” she said finally, stepping back. “I won’t save you.”

The shadows dragged him into the mirror, his screams fading into silence.

***

By dawn, the pyramid was sealed. Officials deemed it too dangerous to excavate further, leaving it buried beneath layers of earth.

Natalia stood on the edge of the clearing, watching the workers pack up. In her pocket, she fingered a shard of obsidian she’d taken from the mirror, its surface smooth and cool.

For the first time in years, the weight on her chest felt lighter. Diego was gone, but so was the part of her that had clung to him—the part that had believed she needed him to be whole.

She turned away from the site, the jungle closing in behind her. The ruins were a part of her past now, and she had no intention of looking back.