This is a contemporary, future and modern science fiction novel. It is about stories between people, stories of humanity, and many more unknown stories. It belongs to the category of science fiction and romance, and contains elements of modern, contemporary, future, interstellar travel, etc. From the perspective of ordinary people who have experienced the events, you can experience a grand timeline narrative of different eras, regions, solar systems, and interstellar scales.

As their paths cross unexpectedly, the unresolved tension from their past---those unsaid words and buried emotions---comes rushing back. The events of the year 2024-2025 resurface, forcing them to confront the mistakes and misunderstandings that tore them apart. Old wounds, long left untouched, slowly begin to heal, but trust and openness don't come easily.

In a story of redemption, forgiveness, and second chances, Dhafnie and Jyrus must navigate the tangled mess of their history to rediscover what once brought them together. As they work through the pain they caused each other, will they find the strength to rebuild what they lost? Or will their past be too much to overcome?

After reconciling with one another, Kota Mizushiro and Akiko Chisai are back again. With getting to know one another again, will they ever stay strong with each other?

As they embark on a new journey again, Kota Mizushiro and Akiko Chisai will face many more obstacles. New faces, new memories and above all, new challenges.

Kota Mizushiro and Akiko are at it again. As they dwell into more challenges, their relationship gets better and better. Who knows what will stop them.

This story began when one of my classmates had a "imagination girlfriend". Of course, this story is not true...

Lamija Begovic was raised in a world of power, pressure, and perfection. As the daughter of one of Sarajevo's most influential men, she  was raised to take over an empire-sharp, fearless, and unbothered by the men who try (and fail) to impress her.

Ayub Husić has spent years at her brother's side: quiet, strategic, and quietly in love with the one woman he can never have.

He keeps his distance. She barely notices.

Until her father reassigns him-directly under her leadership.

Now, she's watching. He's unraveling. And the lines they never crossed before are starting to blur.

The Tragedy in the Bakery

It was the night of negotiations when I saw my guest off. With a weariness in my body, I sat on the cushion on the floor and gazed at the candles flickering softly in the corners of the house. The snacks on the plate still sparkled, my head was heavy and my heart full. I started crying, as if every time a guest comes or goes, I wait for a (different) someone to open the door for them or close it for their sake. The sound of the news came from my phone, and every few minutes, the word (negotiation) was repeated. I pick up my phone and write to him:

“Mr. so-and-so, indirect negotiations between Iran and the US took place, but there was no message from you for negotiations, communication, sending smoke, whistles, shots, sounds, bells, bangs, or any kind of news. If you think you're clever, you're not. I'm still on the cold wooden stairs, watching with my head tilted right toward you. You in the hut, and I in the narrow house. I am sweet, you are the good Khosrow. I cried a lot... I mean really a lot. If I'm alive, it's just because I want you to be less and for your fears to fade into the ground. Otherwise, I've been pulled back into the Adenosine injection again! I was in the hospital. See, I'm going to die! Don't feel bad, okay? If my letter reached you, how could you be so cruel not to write a single line in reply? Since (so-and-so date), I've been missing you like lightning struck me. Why, man? Why did you hurt me? Why did you break my heart?

‘We’ve washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer!’

I am the stone of the kick,

Your production."

I sent it, thinking how I wish I could ride on the wings of technology and send it into his phone or into his ears at that speed! I remember Saadi’s poem: "There is peace between infidelity and Islam, yet you still fight with us."

My head is dizzy, I pick a piece of cheese with my fork and eat it. I light my cigarette, go to the window, and as I puff on the cigarette, I think to myself: why did I send this message? Didn't the doctor tell me: 'You, my sweet, perfect lady, a fragile glass, a pearl of mine, why are you even thinking of him? This man has no existence outside, no life, no soul. You're imagining him. He doesn't even have a heart. He is not alive! His lack of response means nothing to you.' I hear the doctor's voice in my head, and I remember telling him, 'You, who have no existence, something has settled in my bones...'

Dr. Hiz's eyes always lingered on my hennaed hands. Once he asked me where else I apply henna besides my hands, and I said, "On my feet, a little above my ankles, on my chest, my lips, my hair, and on both hands a little above the wrists..." And he said, "How has this man not been enchanted by a woman as ethereal as you?" I replied, naïvely like Baytai Hejiri, "Well, he likes whiskey." The doctor said, "In your letter, you called him a superman, but he's not even made of clouds, cotton, or sponge. He's just a joker. Forgive him." I replied, "I won't forgive him." All of these conversations paraded in front of me, and I struggled within myself because, as Mokhtari said, a human being’s bag is not milk; it leaves a place for pain.

The ash from my cigarette fell to the floor and crumbled. I crushed it under my shoe on the tiles. Without paying attention to this mess, I reached for the bowl on the table and ate the remaining chips. When I came to my senses, my face was wet with tears. The blue flickering lights in my home slowly turned off and on again, inviting me to sleep. "Oh woman, come, sleep, you’re so tired." But "What’s sleep to the eyes of a lover?" I am a servant of long nights. I am a woman of the night. If there is any light in life, it's a tiny spark that warms my heart during these nights, insomnia, and madness.

The bruises on the skin of my left hand, where the veins from the IV needle had been connected, were still visible. A bruise like a violet flower had made its mark on the whiteness of my skin. I thought of deleting my message, as I’m a writer in this country and being left without a response crushes my heart. But I was too tired to do anything, so I told myself, “To hell with it! One day, I will die, and everything will be read all at once. A day when it’s too late, and the tea has gone cold.”

The next day, I wake up. I feel weak, and my blood pressure is low. The air is turning dark. I quickly get out of bed, eat a quick breakfast so I don’t faint from weakness. In the hallway, the smell of fresh bread fills the air, and even though I haven’t eaten bread for years, I crave going to the bakery to buy a piece of hot, oven-fresh bread. I put on my cotton jacket and tightly fasten my belt so my pants won’t fall down from my thin waist. I angrily check my phone, and I see my message still unread... I curse myself. I walk out of the house with firm steps. I tell myself, tonight I won’t let my feelings control me. I’ll open my ears and let myself be humiliated as much as he wants. Maybe I’ll become a better person. As he said, “Maybe you haven’t been humiliated enough yet.” No... the traces of the important men in my life have been so deep that I haven’t been humiliated enough.

I run my hand along the springtime hedges and breathe in the scent of blossoms. My hair is tied up in a cherry-colored bun, and for a piece of bread, I’m going out of my way, hoping my soul doesn’t melt from the craving for fresh, hot bread. The night falls. The call to prayer sounds, and I find myself in the bakery with my shoulders slumping in the dusk. I want to call him from there and tell him, “Mr. so-and-so, stranger, good-for-nothing, you left me behind. Is this how you treat people?”

But his voice rings in my ears:

"Ah, I saw you called, but when my photo pops up on my phone, I just turn it off. Ha ha ha."

I think of my face. How seeing my photo bothers him or how easily he opens his mouth to lash out at me. I tell my guardian angel, "You are my witness." This man, like those who have drunk magic water or locked their seven bonds, did everything in his power to torture me. The thought of the tears I’ve shed, the nights I stayed awake, and the cigarettes we never shared together disgusts me. I wish I could scoop all these ruthless words from my memory and throw them into the well, but alas...

I’m in the bakery now, and the heat from the oven touches my face. I think my heart is burning like the oven, and I miss him terribly. The kind bakers with smiles on their faces, far from the weakness of the wealthy and obsessed with money, invite me to sit with them. I’ve seen one or two of them before. I had brought them sweets, and we had kneaded dough together and talked about flowers. The bakery, where life flows among the pure-hearted people, I turned to them and said, “I came for a fresh, hot loaf, but first, can someone lend me their phone to make a call?”

Like in gangster movies, five phones appeared in front of me. They said, “Call anyone you want, say whatever you need. Go ahead.” I laughed. It felt like an old film. I chose the oldest phone and said, “I want to call my teacher who’s mad at me.”

The baker said, “My phone is yours, sister.”

I turned my back on them and dialed his number. My hand trembled as if connected to electricity. My eyelid began to twitch. On the second ring, he picks up, cheerful and carefree, waiting to talk to an unknown number. Without saying hello, I say, “We washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer... I won’t wait to see what he says. I continue, ‘Not a moment passed without me thinking of you, not a page of the calendar turned without me writing about you...’” It seems he’s starting to understand. He falls silent and greets me, saying he’s been busy, very busy. I say, “Everyone’s busy, I wrote to you, you didn’t reply. I called, you didn’t answer. Is this how it works?”

He shoots me down, a professional marksman, saying, “Nothing happened, we only met twice.”

It feels like snakes twisting inside me. I get sick thinking of those nights, of all the laughs we had, and suddenly he looked at me and answered my question about whether he truly didn’t love me with a laugh: “Ha ha, no, I really don’t love you. Ha ha ha.”

My hand shakes, the juice of my soul pours out, and I can’t look at the bakers. Suddenly, he asks, “How are you?”

What should I say? That I’m dying? Does it even matter to someone who doesn’t make time for you? For someone who doesn’t care? So I censor the truth and only, relying on my latest test results, say, “You could have prevented this from happening with my test results!” And I remember my grandfather and continue, “I never thought after my grandfather, a great sorrow would knock me down. But you did. You turned your back on the light.”

I don’t continue. To someone who has fallen asleep, talking about energy, karma, dharma, and how tomorrow is too late, how tea is cold, and how indifference to others' suffering is useless – it wouldn’t help.

I want to hang up the phone abruptly, but to my surprise, the baker holds up a large frying pan with an omelet and offers it to me. He says, “It smells good, come eat with us. Don’t go, we’d feel indebted.”

I think about how the people here, with hearts as pure as crystal, embody nobility without attending philosophy or mysticism classes. In the same sacred bakery attire, with their white aprons, they are a true example of grandeur.

Months ago, I had wished to break my vegan diet on the Chalous road and treat myself to a couple of eggs or a roadside omelet. Now, why would I want to interrupt this moment for a little bread? From the other side, the phone asks, “Did you take the baker’s phone – and of course, laughing, like a gazelle in a pasture – ?”

I say, “I don’t know...” I turn to the bakers and ask, “Who is the baker here?”

My mind starts spinning. I feel like I could burst from joy. It’s like I have wings on my shoulders. Wow, I’m someone important enough to be asked!

I say, “Learn from these bakers, who are people of heart and purity...”

I hang up the phone, feeling braver than ever. As always, I’ve never owed or been indebted to my heart and feelings. I take the fresh bread in my hand and leave, thinking how much I want to go to that place where we smoked together and I sent my birthday balloon to the sky for him.

_______________________________________________________________________

sanaz seyed esfahani

During her morning rounds deep within an ever-shifting forest home, a fox herbalist by the name of Liora finds a stranger, wounded and unconscious. A deer with strikingly silver fur. Against her better judgment, she brings the outsider into her home to rest and heal. The fox continues to watch over her new house guest, awaiting the moment she wakes up.

This story has anthropomorphic (furry) animal characters, roots in fantasy, romance, and mythology, and sapphic themes. It will contain sensitive content and uncomfortable scenes that may be triggering to some readers. Continue at your own discretion.

Finally living the life she always wanted which is.. to be a well known writer, everything is going well for her except for her non-existent love life....

Sixteen-year-old Chae-yeon has spent her whole life in the United States, until she learns that she has South Korean roots. Eager to discover her past, she moves to Korea, but everything is different – the language, the culture, the people. Though it’s tough, she’s determined to adapt.

Just as things start to feel normal, five new students join her class, including Kai, the leader of the hottest K-pop group, StarX. Kai, charming and confident, quickly becomes the center of attention, with everyone vying for his notice – except Chae-yeon. She couldn’t care less about him or his fame. She’s convinced he’s just another popular guy.

But to her surprise, Kai starts paying attention to her, and before long, he begins to get closer. As their lives become more intertwined, Chae-yeon’s world is flipped upside down once again. With secrets unraveling and unexpected twists, she’s pulled into a game she never saw coming.

"You don't need to pretend, Zoya!" Logan shouted over the radio noise.

Zoya's heart ached as she tucked in her lips, wishing she could turn back time to when she was a teenager. She was baffled by how the only man she had ever loved could cause her such heartbreak, one that couldn't be diagnosed under an X-ray machine.

In the past ten years, Zoya had invested her time and emotions into the marriage, neglecting her own needs and desires.

Her parents had never supported her relationship with Logan, advising her to focus on her studies when she was just 16. But she had threatened to run away, using her status as an only child to force them to accept her early marriage.

After graduating high school, Logan convinced her to become a full-time housewife. Initially, the marriage was perfect, with Logan taking her on dates, shopping sprees, and vacations. He swept her off her feet, and she abandoned her plans for further education.

However, as Logan became a successful business tycoon, their time together became limited. Whenever she complained about his late nights, he would wrap his arms around her and give her a gentle squeeze, silencing her protests.

Now, Zoya felt a tiny bump in her stomach, followed by a sour pain, but she remained silent. "I can go on a three-month trip," she bargained, her voice discreet but frail.

Logan's response was a dirty smirk, and he leaned forward, staring deeply into her eyes. "My sweet pretensions, Zoya, I don't need you to think for me or go on a vacation."

Zoya felt rejection crawling into her shattered heart, wondering if their love boat had crashed long ago. She remembered her father's fury ten years ago, her mother's attempts to pacify him, and how her father had blocked all communications with her after the wedding.

"Can't you give us a try?" she asked, her voice sounding like a plea.

Logan's lips moved closer to her ears, his words barely audible. "Taste changes, people move on." He shrugged expressively, and Zoya saw his mouth move but couldn't hear properly due to her own emotional deafness.

She crawled on the floor, begging him not to end their marriage, desperate to save it. Logan stepped on her hands, grinding on them in circles, and Zoya swallowed the pain.

He stumbled back, spat on her injured hand, and threw divorce papers on her lap. "It's over, Zoya. Keep the house; I don't want to be stuck in the disgusting memories you've forced on me over the years. Sign that, and I'll have someone collect it in the morning."

With that, Logan turned and walked out of the house, leaving Zoya shattered and alone.