Holy Water and Hellfire by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Romance

  

Holy Water and Hellfire

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,828

The neon lights of Revel, Atlanta’s hottest underground bar, pulsed like a heartbeat in the dark. Inside, the bass throbbed, and the air smelled of whiskey, sweat, and desire. Ava Sinclair leaned against the bar, her leather jacket draped over her shoulders like armor. She was a walking contradiction—sharp as a switchblade but soft enough to melt if you were worthy.

Tonight, she wasn’t looking for love. Love had chewed her up and spit her out too many times before. She was here to celebrate survival.

"Whiskey. Neat," she told the bartender, who slid her the drink with a knowing smirk. She didn’t do sugarcoated nonsense, and neither did he.

As she lifted the glass to her lips, she felt eyes on her. Men stared, some intrigued, some intimidated. Ava was used to it. They didn’t understand her—a woman who had talked to angels and beat the devil, who had been shattered and reforged in fire.

"You’re different," a voice said.

She turned, meeting the gaze of a man with storm-gray eyes and a presence that felt like thunder waiting to strike. He was dressed in dark denim and an easy confidence, but she wasn’t fooled. Confidence could be a mask, and she wasn’t in the mood for another liar.

"That supposed to be a compliment or an observation?" she asked.

He chuckled. "Both. But mostly an apology in advance."

"For what?"

He leaned in, voice low. "For how much you’re gonna hate me when I tell you the truth."

Ava’s pulse skipped. "Try me."

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I know who you are, Ava Sinclair. I know what you’ve been through. And I know you don’t trust anyone—especially men like me."

Her grip tightened on the glass. "And what kind of man are you?"

"The kind that doesn’t waste time with fake love," he said. "The kind that either walks away now… or stays for real."

Ava studied him. Most men ran their mouths, promised stars, and delivered shadows. This one? He wasn’t promising anything.

That was new.

That was rare.

She smirked, tilting her glass in a mock toast. "Well, aren’t you just a live wire?"

He grinned. "And you’re holy water and hellfire."

Ava’s heart thrummed, but she didn’t let it show. Not yet.

Instead, she downed her drink and set the glass down with a slow, deliberate clink.

"Buy me another, and maybe I’ll let you stay."

The bartender slid another whiskey toward Ava, and she lifted it with a smirk, eyes locked on the storm-gray gaze across from her. The man—Damian Carter—hadn’t flinched under her scrutiny. That alone made him different. Most men either tried too hard to impress her or shrank back when they realized she wasn’t the kind of woman who played nice.

She took a slow sip, letting the silence between them stretch, testing him. Would he fill it with bullshit or let it breathe?

To her surprise, he just leaned back against the bar, watching her with something like curiosity.

"You’re waiting for me to slip up," he said finally.

Ava arched a brow. "No. I’m waiting to see if you’re worth the time."

Damian chuckled. "Fair enough."

She could read men in an instant. Confidence didn’t impress her. Honesty did.

"You said you know who I am." She tilted her head. "That supposed to scare me?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. It’s supposed to save me time."

"How so?"

"Because I know you don’t do games," he said. "And I don’t have time to play them."

A flicker of something warm stirred in her chest, but she buried it. Words were easy. Actions mattered.

"So what’s your angle?" she asked.

Damian sighed, swirling the ice in his glass. "I came here to clear my head, not chase anyone. But then I saw you. And now…" He shrugged. "Now I’m just trying not to screw this up."

Ava smirked. "You assume there’s something to screw up."

"There will be," he said smoothly. "If I do this right."

She exhaled a soft laugh. Ballsy.

"So what’s your story, Damian Carter?"

He took a sip of his drink before answering. "Grew up in South Atlanta. Older brother got into some bad shit, so I learned early what not to do. Spent my twenties trying to outrun my own mistakes. Now I keep things simple."

Ava studied him. Men like him usually had ghosts.

"And what’s ‘simple’ for you?"

He met her eyes. "Honest people. Straight talk. No fake love."

That last part landed deep. No fake love.

She tilted her head, tapping her fingers against the side of her glass. "So what happens now?"

"That depends," he said. "On whether you let me take you to dinner or send me packing."

Ava smirked, watching him for any sign of arrogance. There was none. Just patience. Confidence, but not entitlement.

She leaned in slightly. "One dinner."

Damian grinned. "You won’t regret it."

She arched a brow. "I never regret leaving when I need to."

His smirk widened. "That’s why I’m gonna make sure you don’t want to."

Damn.

Ava downed the rest of her whiskey and stood, grabbing her leather jacket. She wasn’t sure what she had just walked into, but one thing was certain.

She’d find out.

Ava stepped outside Revel, the night air thick with the scent of rain and city life. The pavement was slick, neon reflections shimmering like oil spills. Damian followed her out, hands in his pockets, his easy confidence intact.

"Where to?" he asked.

Ava shrugged. "You’re the one who insisted on dinner. Let’s see if you actually have good taste."

Damian smirked. "I know a spot."

He led her toward a sleek black Challenger, its engine humming like a caged animal. Ava smirked, running her fingers along the hood. Muscle cars. Predictable.

"You drive fast?" she asked.

Damian chuckled. "Only when necessary."

Ava slid into the passenger seat, testing the way the leather felt beneath her fingers. She didn’t trust easily, but something about this moment felt… right.

As he pulled onto the road, the low growl of the engine filling the silence, she stole a glance at him. Storm-gray eyes, jawline sharp enough to cut, hands steady on the wheel.

"Tell me something real," she said suddenly. "Something you don’t tell most people."

Damian didn’t hesitate. "I used to street race. Won a lot. Lost worse."

Ava lifted a brow. "Define ‘lost worse.’"

"Last race I ever did, I crashed," he said, voice even. "Almost killed myself. Had to relearn how to walk without a limp. Decided my life was worth more than proving a point."

Ava studied him. No bullshit. No bravado. Just the truth.

"Your turn," he said.

She hesitated. She wasn’t the type to spill her past to strangers, but something about the way he looked at her—**like he wasn’t waiting to judge, just to understand—**made her speak.

"I used to be engaged," she said finally.

Damian didn’t react, just waited for more.

"He was a liar. A manipulator. Made me feel like love was a trap, something that demanded sacrifice but never gave anything back."

"And?"

"And I left," she said simply. "Took my car, my pride, and never looked back."

Damian nodded, eyes still on the road. "Good."

Ava blinked. "That’s it?"

He shrugged. "What else is there? You saved yourself. That’s what matters."

Something in her chest tightened. Most people either pitied her or asked why she didn’t leave sooner. But Damian? He just accepted it.

She let that sit between them as the city lights blurred past.

A few minutes later, they pulled up to a small soul food joint tucked into a corner of downtown Atlanta. The kind of place with vinyl booths, handwritten menus, and food that actually meant something.

Ava smirked. "Points for not taking me somewhere cliché."

Damian cut the engine and turned to her. "I don’t do surface-level. You should know that by now."

She held his gaze for a long moment. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t another waste of her time.

"Alright, Carter," she said, pushing open the door. "Let’s see if you can handle dinner with a woman like me."

Damian chuckled, following her inside.

"Oh, I can handle you," he said. "The real question is—can you handle me?"

The soul food joint had a warmth that contrasted with the night outside—dim lights, the scent of fried chicken and cornbread, and the kind of quiet hum that came from satisfied people eating good food. A few older folks sat in the back, playing dominoes, and the radio played an old-school R&B track that Ava recognized but hadn’t heard in years.

A waitress, a woman in her late fifties with silver braids and a knowing smile, approached them. "You finally brought somebody in here, huh?" she said to Damian.

Ava lifted an eyebrow. Finally?

Damian smirked. "Had to wait for the right company, Auntie Joy."

Auntie Joy turned to Ava, looking her up and down, then gave a small nod of approval. "Well, she ain’t run off yet. That’s a good sign."

Ava chuckled, sliding into the booth across from Damian. "Guess I’m still figuring out if he’s worth the time."

Auntie Joy laughed. "Oh, baby, trust me. If he’s sitting across from you, he already knows you’re worth it."

Ava didn’t let the words sink in too deep. She’d heard sweet talk before. The difference was, Damian wasn’t the one saying it.

They ordered—catfish for Ava, short ribs for Damian, mac and cheese on both plates because that wasn’t even a question.

Once they were alone, Damian leaned forward slightly. "So? What’s the verdict?"

"On what?"

He smirked. "Me."

Ava leaned back, swirling her glass of sweet tea. "Still deciding."

Damian chuckled. "Fair enough."

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that didn’t demand filler conversation. Ava wasn’t used to that. Most men filled empty spaces with empty words. Damian let things breathe.

Then, out of nowhere, he said, "I think people underestimate you."

Ava glanced up, fork halfway to her mouth. "How so?"

He took a sip of his drink, eyes steady on hers. "They see your face, your confidence, and they think they’ve got you figured out. But I don’t think most people know what you’ve survived to become this woman sitting across from me."

Ava’s grip tightened on her fork. It wasn’t often that someone saw her that clearly.

"And you do?" she asked, testing him.

Damian set his glass down. "Not yet. But I’d like to."

For a moment, Ava didn’t know what to say. The usual walls she kept up—the sharp tongue, the I-don’t-need-anyone armor—felt useless against him.

She let the silence stretch again, then finally said, "We’ll see."

Damian grinned like a man who knew he’d already won something. Not her heart. Not yet. But her attention.

And that?

That was rare.

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.

Love in the Key of Us by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Twin Flames

 

Love in the Key of Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 938

Celeste was halfway out of her seat when the first chord stopped her cold.

It wasn’t just any song. It was theirs.

Her breath hitched, fingers tightening around the edge of the bar. Her body knew the melody before her mind caught up, before she even turned to confirm what she already felt deep in her bones.

And then—

His voice.

Rougher now, threaded with time, but unmistakable.

She turned slowly, as if moving too fast would shatter her.

Amir stood on stage, his head tilted toward the mic, his fingers drifting over the guitar strings with the same ease that once sent shivers down her spine. The low stage lights bathed his skin in amber, casting shadows along the sharp cut of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

She hadn’t seen him in ten years.

Yet here he was.

Singing the song he wrote for her.

Celeste’s pulse slammed against her ribs. The air in the room thickened, the noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading into nothing.

Kai, her best friend, nudged her. “You okay?”

Celeste forced a nod, even as her chest tightened.

Because this wasn’t just a song.

This was him.

And the past was no longer buried.

Her body screamed it—her legs already shifting, fingers itching to grab her purse.

But she didn’t move.

Because she felt him coming.

The moment the song ended, Amir’s gaze swept the room, searching.

Finding.

Locking onto her.

Celeste inhaled sharply.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

Then—he moved.

His guitar was handed off, his steps deliberate as he weaved through the crowd. People clapped him on the back, spoke his name, but his focus never wavered.

Within seconds, he was standing in front of her.

Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his deep brown eyes.

Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Amir exhaled.

“Cel.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a greeting.

It was something heavier.

Her name had never been just her name with him.

She swallowed. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same.” His voice was rough, but steady. “And yet…”

Here they were.

Here they always seemed to end up.

She glanced at the empty stage. “Still playing?”

He shrugged. “Only ever stopped when I lost the reason to.”

The words landed somewhere deep, cracking through a place she had spent years keeping sealed.

Her fingers curled into her palms. “I heard the song.”

Amir tilted his head, watching her carefully. “Did you?”

“Don’t do that.” Her voice came out quieter than she meant.

“Do what?”

“Pretend it wasn’t about me.”

He let out a small breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Celeste,” he murmured, “I haven’t even pretended to be over you.”

Her heart stumbled.

Because neither had she.

“Sing for me.”

The words left her before she could stop them.

Amir’s brows lifted slightly, his expression unreadable.

A challenge.

A test.

Then, without a word, he reached for her hand.

The moment his fingers brushed hers, a spark shot up her arm, igniting something deep in her chest.

She should have pulled away.

She didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

Without hesitation, Amir led her toward the stage.

The singer had just stepped off, but with one look from Amir, the band nodded.

This was his moment.

But somehow, it felt like theirs.

He settled onto the stool, adjusting the guitar strap, fingers brushing the strings like they were second nature.

Then—

The first note.

Soft. Unfinished.

A breath.

And then his voice—deep, warm, undeniable.

"Have you ever needed something so bad, you can’t sleep at night?"

The room stilled.

Celeste barely noticed the crowd anymore.

All she could hear was him.

All she could feel was every unspoken thing between them.

The song built, the melody swelling, wrapping around her like a memory too strong to ignore.

Her throat tightened.

Because she had needed him.

She had needed him so much it terrified her.

And she had walked away.

Telling herself it was for the best.

Telling herself that if they were truly meant for each other, the universe would find a way.

Now, a decade later, he was standing right in front of her.

And the universe was handing her a choice.

Again.

The last chord faded.

Silence.

Then, applause.

But Celeste didn’t move.

Neither did Amir.

He set the guitar down, gaze locked onto her.

She stood, breath unsteady, pulse hammering.

“Cel…”

Her name wasn’t just her name. It was a question. A plea.

And she—who had spent a decade pretending she didn’t miss him, didn’t need him—finally broke.

“Why didn’t you ever come after me?” she whispered.

Amir exhaled. “You left.”

“You let me.”

His jaw tensed. “What was I supposed to do, Cel? Chase you when you made it clear you wanted to go?”

She swallowed. “I didn’t want to go.”

His eyes darkened. “Then why did you?”

Her throat burned. “Because I didn’t think I could survive loving you.”

Silence.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“You didn’t.”

Celeste’s breath caught.

Because he was right.

She hadn’t survived it.

She had just spent ten years pretending she did.

Her hands trembled. Amir watched her, his gaze never leaving hers.

"You still love me?" she asked, voice barely above a breath.

A beat.

Then—

"Have you ever stopped?"

She closed her eyes.

"No."

When she opened them, Amir was already reaching for her, pulling her in, pressing his forehead to hers.

And just like that—

The years between them fell away.

The past, the pain, the distance—none of it mattered.

Because some people—

Some loves—

Weren’t meant to be let go.

Ashes in the Rain by Olivia Salter / Quintale Story / Twin Flame

 

Ashes in the Rain

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 657

A twin flame is a spiritual concept describing a deep soul connection between two individuals, believed to be two halves of the same soul. Unlike soulmates, twin flames are thought to mirror each other's strengths and weaknesses, often leading to intense and transformative experiences.

***

Some people spend their whole lives searching for something unnamed. Others spend their whole lives running from it.

Nadine had never decided which one she was.

The rain had slowed, but the scent of wet earth clung to Lawrenceville, Georgia, thick and sweet, like honeysuckle left too long in the sun. Inside a quiet cafe on Crogan Street, she curled her fingers around her chai mug, its warmth doing little to chase away the chill coiling in her chest.

She wasn’t waiting for anyone. But she felt like she had been waiting forever.

The bell above the door chimed. A gust of crisp air stirred the scent of espresso and damp wool. Nadine looked up—and her breath caught.

The man in the doorway shook droplets from his jacket, scanning the cafe with the air of someone who had just stepped into a place he didn’t mean to find. Then his gaze landed on hers.

The moment their eyes met, something in her body locked tight. A jolt—not fear, not attraction, but something deeper. A shift, like a door opening in a house she didn’t remember living in.

Her fingers clenched around the ceramic of her mug, but the warmth didn’t reach her anymore. Her chest ached with the weight of something unspoken.

The name came to her lips like an echo from a place she had never been.

"Julius."

He froze mid-step. His brow furrowed, breath hitching just slightly.

She could see the moment the same recognition hit him. The same tension coiling in his shoulders. The same wariness in his eyes, like a man staring at a ghost.

His mouth opened, then closed. He took another step forward, then stopped, as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to come closer or turn and leave.

"Do I know you?" His voice was even, careful, but something frayed at the edges.

Nadine forced herself to swallow. "I don’t think so."

Liar.

The silence between them stretched, too thick, too charged. The cafe moved around them—baristas steaming milk, conversations buzzing, silverware clinking—but none of it reached her.

Julius exhaled sharply and ran a hand over his jaw. After a moment, he pulled out the chair across from her, moving like a man stepping over broken glass.

"May I?"

She nodded, pulse thrumming at the base of her throat.

Up close, the details of him sharpened—faint scar along his jaw, the slight unevenness in his nose, the roughness of his knuckles. He smelled like rain and something darker, something she couldn’t name but almost recognized.

"Have we met before?" he asked, voice quieter now.

Her fingers traced the rim of her mug. "Not in this life."

Julius didn’t flinch. If anything, his posture stiffened, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

"You believe in that?" he asked. "Past lives?"

She let out a slow breath. "I don’t know what I believe. But I know this isn’t normal."

Julius dragged a hand down his face. "Yeah," he muttered. "Feels like I’ve been looking for something I couldn’t name. And now that I see you…" He exhaled roughly, shaking his head. "I don’t know if I found it or if I’m about to lose myself."

A shiver curled down Nadine’s spine. Twin flames. The phrase surfaced in her mind, uninvited. She’d read about them once—how they weren’t gentle love stories, but wildfires. How they burned too bright, too fast. How they weren’t meant to heal, but to unravel.

Maybe that’s why a part of her wanted to run.

Julius must have sensed it, because he leaned back slightly, fingers tapping against the table, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or pull away.

His voice was quieter now, edged with something like hesitation. "What if we’re not ready for this?"

Nadine stared down at her mug, watching the steam twist and fade.

"Then we’ll burn each other down."

Outside, the rain had stopped. But the scent of smoke lingered in the air.

Eternal Mirrors by Olivia Salter / Poetry / Twin Flame

 

Eternal Mirrors

By Olivia Salter

Two souls divided, torn yet whole,
Reflections cast in cosmic scrolls.
An unseen thread, a pull so tight,
A fire that flickers in the night.

Before first breath, before first name,
They burned as whispers wrapped in flame.
Split by fate yet never lost,
Love unbroken, spared no cost.

Across the ages, time unwinds,
They chase the echoes left behind.
Through lifetimes lived in borrowed skin,
Their eyes will meet, their souls begin.

Not strangers now, nor friends anew,
But something ancient, something true.
A quiet gasp, a silent stare—
A knowing spark hangs in the air.

The love is wildfire, raw and bright,
It feeds on shadow, drinks in light.
It tears apart, then makes them whole,
A force beyond the mind’s control.

But love like this is edged with steel,
A mirror showing wounds concealed.
It bares the scars, the truths denied,
No mask to wear, no place to hide.

She sees in him the ghosts he tames,
He hears her silence speak his name.
A tether stretched, yet never torn,
Two halves of something newly born.

The storm will rage, the thunder call,
Two halves of heaven bracing fall.
They run, they break, they twist, they burn,
Yet always back to home return.

For soulmates walk a steady line,
A love that soothes, a fate benign.
But twin flames clash like roaring seas,
A love that shakes, that breaks, that frees.

Not all endure, not all survive,
Some fade away, yet stay alive.
For even lost, the bond remains,
A whisper carved into the veins.

In midnight dreams, in fleeting sighs,
Through nameless streets, through endless skies,
They reach, they touch, they slip, they fall,
Yet find each other through it all.

A single word, a passing glance,
The universe revives the dance.
Not chance, not fate, but something more—
A rhythm set in lives before.

And in their eyes, the stars ignite,
No walls to break, no need for flight.
No spoken vows, no ties that bind,
Their souls have chosen beyond time.

Through shattered glass, through tattered thread,
Through words unspoken, tears unshed,
They shape, they bend, they break, they mend,
For twin flames love, but do not end.

She tempers fire, he softens stone,
Together more, yet each alone.
Not perfect love, but perfect pain,
Two hearts reborn, again, again.

The world may spin, the stars may fade,
Yet love like this will not degrade.
For even when the light is dim,
Her soul will call, and he’ll find her again.

If not this life, then in the next,
Beyond the walls of time and text.
Beyond the flesh, beyond the name,
They will return, they will remain.

No force can break what fate has spun,
No time can end what once begun.
For flames that burn through time and space,
Are written in eternal grace.

To love a twin is love untamed,
Not meant to coddle, not to claim.
It scorches skin, it sears the soul,
Yet leaves you healed, yet makes you whole.

And when the end of days arrives,
When stars collapse, when death revives,
Their love will rise, a spark so bright—
Twin flames igniting endless night.

The Fire Between Us by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction / Twin Flame

 

A soulmate is someone you feel a deep connection with, often considered a compatible partner with a separate soul, while a twin flame is believed to be the other half of your soul, meaning you can only have one twin flame, but can have multiple soulmates throughout your life; the twin flame relationship is often described as more intense and challenging, pushing you to confront your deepest self, while a soulmate relationship tends to be more harmonious and supportive. 

Key points to remember:

You can have many soulmates, but only one twin flame. 

The Fire Between Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,011

Warren never believed in past lives.

But when he saw Aisha, he wondered.

Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Not because she looked at him like she knew his secrets before he spoke them.

But because something in his bones whispered, It’s her. Again.

She stood at the counter of a coffee shop, drumming her fingers against the glass case, waiting. And when she turned, their eyes met.

A flicker. A pull.

Deja vu.

Aisha blinked, lips parting slightly, like she felt it too.

And Warren?

He forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

Three months later, she had a key to his apartment.

Not because they talked about it—because they didn’t.

Because it was always supposed to happen this way.

Aisha never let him hide.

She saw him in ways that unsettled him, stripped him bare without touching him.

One night, she stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes steady. “You love the idea of love, Warren. But real love? It asks something of you. And you don’t like that.”

His stomach tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” She stepped closer, searching his face. “You write about love like it’s something outside of you. Like a thing you can observe without feeling it. But when it’s real—when it’s messy—you pull away.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong.

But he couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t.

Terry met Warren at a poetry reading. She wasn’t supposed to be there. It was one of those last-minute, why not? decisions.

Then he stepped up to the mic.

And he spoke.

Not about love—at least, not in the way most people did. He spoke about hunger. About a yearning that stretched across lifetimes.

She watched him, felt the words settle in her chest like something familiar. And when he glanced her way, there was a quiet hum beneath her skin.

Not a jolt. Not a fire.

A thread.

That night, after the event, she lingered near the door just as he walked past. He paused, looking at her the way people look at something they don’t expect but can’t ignore.

And then he said, “You ever feel like some things are supposed to happen?”

She smiled, tilting her head. “Yeah.”

And that was the start of everything.

Warren and Terry never rushed.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth.

Conversations that stretched into the early hours. Walks through the city when neither of them wanted to be anywhere else. A comfort he hadn’t known he needed.

One night, they sat on her couch, the air between them thick with unspoken things.

She leaned against his shoulder, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“You’re waiting,” she murmured.

His jaw tightened. “For what?”

“For a sign.” Her voice was steady. “For something to tell you it’s okay to move on.”

His chest ached.

Because she was right.

And still, he didn’t kiss her.

Even when the silence between them felt like an invitation.

Even when he wanted to.

Because she wasn’t his to want.

Not yet.

Aisha left on a Thursday.

Not in the heat of an argument. Not with yelling or broken things.

With a suitcase by the door and her hands clenched into fists.

Warren stood there, heart hammering, trying to think of the right words.

“I love you, Warren,” she said softly. “But love shouldn’t feel like a war.”

He swallowed hard. “Aisha—”

She shook her head, exhaling shakily. “You don’t get to talk me out of this. Not this time.”

His fingers twitched. A part of him wanted to reach for her, to pull her back.

But love wasn’t supposed to be chains.

So he didn’t.

And that was the worst part.

Because he already knew—

Some loves aren’t meant to be kept.

Some are meant to break you open.

Terry didn’t ask questions when Warren showed up at her door.

She stepped aside, let him in, let him sit on her couch with his head in his hands.

After a long moment, he whispered, “I lost her.”

Terry didn’t say I know. Didn’t say I told you so.

She just reached out, fingers brushing against his wrist, anchoring him.

His breath hitched.

And when he finally looked at her, she met his gaze, steady and sure. His eyes looked tired, searching. “I don’t know who I am without her.”

“You’re you, you're still here,” she murmured.

His exhale was shaky.

And this time, when he leaned in, she didn’t hesitate.

She met him halfway.

It was different with Terry.

No firestorms. No wreckage.

Just warmth.

She didn’t demand the parts of him he wasn’t ready to give. She didn’t pull him into the depths just to see if he could survive.

She was a place to rest. A place to breathe.

And he loved her for it.

But some nights, when sleep wouldn’t come, he felt it.

The phantom ache.

Because some loves don’t leave.

Even when they’re gone.

Aisha called him a year later.

Not by accident.

She never did things by accident.

“Hey,” she said.

Warren closed his eyes, the sound of her voice settling over him like an old song. “Hey.”

“I saw your book,” she said. “Congratulations.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

Silence.

Then, softly, “Do you ever think about me?”

His chest tightened. He didn’t need to ask if she still thought about him; because he knew she did.

“Yes,” he said.

A breath.

Then she exhaled, something almost like a laugh. “I always knew we weren’t supposed to last.”

His fingers curled around the phone. “I know.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “Are you happy?”

His gaze drifted across the room, where Terry sat reading, her bare feet tucked beneath her, the quiet presence that had become his peace.

And he thought about all the ways love could exist.

“I am,” he said.

Aisha sighed, soft and knowing. “Good.”

And he knew that was the last time they’d speak.

Because some people come into your life to stay.

And some come to set you free.

Whispers Through the Veil by Olivia Salter / Drabble / Supernatural

 

Whispers Through the Veil

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 387

The first time I dreamed of Kenny, it was raining. I stood in the middle of a street that looked like our old neighborhood, except the houses were faded, like a painting left too long in the sun. The air smelled of wet asphalt and magnolias—his favorite scent.

Then, I saw him.

Kenny stood a few feet away, dressed in the same hunter green hoodie he wore the last time I saw him alive. His dark skin glowed under the flickering streetlamp, and his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—held something unreadable.

"Kenny?" My voice was small, uncertain.

He smiled, the same slow grin that used to make my heart skip. "You remember me, baby?"

A shudder ran through me. Of course, I remembered. I had spent years trying to forget the way he left this world. The way the news of his death had shattered me. But here he was, standing in front of me as if time had folded in on itself.

"I miss you," I whispered.

He stepped closer, his movements fluid but otherworldly, like he was walking on air. "I came back for you," he said, his voice rich with something heavier than longing. "I had to tell you—I never stopped loving you."

My breath caught. "But you're..." I couldn't say it.

"I know." His hand lifted as if to touch my face, but he hesitated. "I should have told you before. Should have fought harder for us."

The dream shifted. The street blurred, melting into a memory—a night years ago, Kenny standing outside my window, begging me to believe in us. I had turned away, scared of the future, scared of how much I loved him.

Tears burned my eyes. "I loved you, too. I still do."

His smile turned sad. "Then let me go."

A cold wind swept through me, and I realized what this was. Not just a dream. A goodbye.

"But—" My voice cracked.

He shook his head, the streetlamp flickering wildly behind him. "It's time, baby. You have to wake up."

I reached for him, but my hands met only air.

Then, I woke up.

The room was silent except for the distant hum of the city. My cheeks were damp. My hands trembled.

But for the first time in years, my heart felt light.