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28 minutes ago · Updated to #1
He doesn’t remember the lab. But his body never forgot.
When Orion was two years old, he vanished. Two months later, he was returned without a word, without a scratch—and without his mother, who had taken her own life in his absence. Blamed for her death, Orion grew up under his father’s violent hand, each day a cycle of pain and silence.
Two scars mark his back. He doesn’t know how they got there—until the night he turns seventeen.
In an explosion of agony and blood, wings erupt from beneath his skin, ripping through muscle and memory alike. Horrified, he tries to destroy them. But they grow back. And they bring questions that won't stay buried.
When Orion meets others like him—survivors of childhood disappearances, each with strange abilities and fractured pasts—he uncovers a dark truth: none of them came back unchanged. And the people who made them this way? They might still be watching.
624
2 months ago · Updated to #1
Welcome to She Spoke Softly, but the World Listened. This space is a reflection of my journey through life, where strength isn’t always loud, and power isn’t always visible. Here, I share my thoughts, experiences, and reflections on embracing the quiet moments of life — those that often speak the loudest. Through introspection, personal growth, and gentle empowerment, I’ve learned that sometimes, the softest voice is the one that echoes the farthest.
In this blog, you’ll find musings on everything from navigating relationships and self-discovery to dealing with life’s challenges in a way that honors both the highs and the lows. It’s a space where authenticity and vulnerability are welcomed, where we can explore what it means to embrace life quietly yet powerfully.
Join me as I explore the art of quiet strength, mindful living, and the beauty of finding peace within. It’s time to speak softly, but with purpose.
4.1K
3 months ago · Updated to #11
[A glimpse from the book👇👇👇]
"Stop avoiding the topic. He's not just some regular fuckboy, you know?
1.1K
3 months ago · Updated to #1
This is not your story
By SapoornaDedicationFor the ones who watched quietly.And for the ones who spoke when it mattered.PrefaceThere are stories that belong to everyone.And there are stories that belong to no one.This is not your story.It is mine.It is hers.It is a space between silence and sound.I didn’t write this for everyone.I wrote this for someone who needed it.If you are holding this, maybe it’s you.And maybe it’s not.But you are here now.That’s enough. 1Neel sat by the window again. He always did. As if it was some old habit, some ritual to remind himself that he was still breathing. His hands rested on the chipped wooden frame, his fingers tracing invisible maps on its surface. Outside, the world moved. People moved. Time moved. But Neel, he stayed still like a word caught between two pages, waiting to be read but never spoken aloud.He had learned to be silent long before he had learned to speak. Not the kind of silence that draws attention, but the sort that wraps around your existence like a second skin. It was not dramatic. It was not noticeable. It was mundane. The kind of silence that seeps into your bones until it feels natural. Until you forget what it was like to be heard.As a child, Neel was always called the quiet one. Teachers wrote it on his report cards. Relatives mentioned it like an apology when introducing him. "He’s quiet, but he’s good," they would say, as though the two things could not exist separately. No one ever asked why he was quiet. They didn’t need to. They had already written his story for him.But Neel didn’t want their story. He didn’t want their definitions.He grew up in a house where the clocks ticked louder than conversations. His mother hummed old songs in the kitchen, her voice soft and tired, as though she was singing to herself and not to the boy at the table. His father read the newspaper every evening with furrowed brows, shaking his head at things Neel didn’t understand. They loved him, he knew. But they didn’t know him. They loved the idea of him . their son, the boy who would make them proud one day.But he wasn’t proud of himself. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to be.In school, he sat in the corner of the classroom, always by the window, where the light could reach him even if no one else did. He was the boy who didn't raise his hand. Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he didn't see the point. They measured brilliance in ranks and percentages, and Neel had no interest in running races that felt rigged before they began.He spent his breaks alone, sketching in a small, worn notebook. His drawings weren’t pretty. They were messy and dark, full of shadows and crooked lines. But they were honest. More honest than he could ever be with words. The other boys played cricket. The girls huddled in corners, whispering secrets he was never meant to hear. And Neel? Neel drew worlds where no one asked him to be something he wasn’t.By the time he was sixteen, he had stopped trying to explain himself. He walked through life like a ghost, present but unseen. Teachers forgot his name during roll call. Friends drifted away like smoke through an open window. Even his parents spoke to him in instructions, not conversations.“Study harder.”“You can’t waste time like this.”“What will you do with your life?”He didn’t have answers for them. He wasn’t sure he wanted answers. He wasn’t sure if there were answers. All he had was the aching feeling that this life, this quiet existence, wasn’t meant for him.But he didn’t know how to leave it behind.Sometimes, he dreamed of other lives. Lives where he wasn’t Neel , the disappointment, the failure, the boy who never spoke enough. In these dreams, he was someone else entirely. A traveler. A storyteller. A painter who lived in Paris, sketching strangers in the streets, drinking coffee at tiny cafés. No one knew his past there. No one cared about his grades. He was just a boy who told stories, and that was enough.But morning always came, and with it, the suffocating weight of reality.The breakdown wasn’t dramatic. It never is. It was quiet, slow, like the gentle dripping of water that eventually cracks stone. He was sitting at his study table, textbooks open in front of him, when he realized he couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight, his vision blurred, and his hands shook so violently he couldn’t hold his pen. He stared at the equations he was supposed to solve, but they meant nothing to him. Just numbers on a page. Symbols in a language he no longer understood.That night, he told his father he wanted to stop studying. Just for a while. Just to breathe.His father didn’t shout. He didn’t even raise his voice. He simply looked at Neel with an expression that said everything. Disappointment, shame, confusion. As though Neel had just confessed to being a stranger.His mother cried quietly in the kitchen.And Neel realized something that night. He would never be who they wanted him to be. No matter how hard he tried. No matter how much he broke himself apart to fit their expectations.He left a week later.He didn’t leave a note. There was nothing he could say that would make them understand. He packed a small bag , his sketchbook, some clothes, and the little money he had saved over the years. He took a train heading somewhere. Anywhere. He didn’t care. He just needed to leave.The city he arrived in was loud, chaotic, alive. The streets were crowded with people who didn’t look at him twice. He was invisible, but in a way that felt freeing. No one knew his story here. He could be anyone he wanted.He found work at a small bookstore. The owner didn’t ask questions. He just handed Neel a broom and told him to sweep the floors. Neel worked quietly. He arranged books on dusty shelves. He read when there were no customers. He drew when there was time.At night, he walked through the streets, sketching people he saw. Lovers sitting on benches. Old men playing chess. Children chasing stray dogs. No one cared who he was. No one asked him what he wanted to be.And for the first time, he felt like he was writing his own story.Months passed. He lost track of time. He stopped counting days. He lived quietly, simply. Some days were good. Some days were empty. But they were his days.One evening, he met a girl at the bookstore. She was buying an old copy of The Little Prince. She asked him if he had read it. He nodded.“Do you think he ever found his rose?” she asked.Neel thought for a long time before answering.“Maybe the rose wasn’t the point,” he said. “Maybe it was the journey.”She smiled. And for a moment, Neel felt like maybe he wasn’t alone.They met again. And again. She was kind. She listened. She didn’t ask him to be anything other than who he was. They talked about books, about places they wanted to visit, about dreams that didn’t make sense but felt important anyway.She told him her name was Mira. She told him she had run away too. Different reasons. Same ache.They sat by the sea one night, watching the waves crash against the rocks.“Do you ever miss it?” she asked.Neel shook his head.“There’s nothing to miss.”But he wasn’t sure if that was true. Sometimes, late at night, he still thought about his mother’s songs. His father’s quiet presence. The house where the clocks ticked too loudly.“You’ll go back,” Mira said softly.“One day.”Neel didn’t answer. He didn’t know if he believed in “one day.”But she was right. He went back.Not because he missed them. Not because he had something to prove. But because he was ready.He found his father sitting in the same chair, reading the same newspaper. His mother was humming in the kitchen. Nothing had changed. And yet, everything had.They looked at him like they were seeing him for the first time. He told them he was okay. That he was alive. That he had found something. Not success. Not brilliance. But something better. Himself.They didn’t understand. But they tried. And that was enough.Years later, Neel sat by another window. In another city. With another life.He wrote stories now. Stories about people who didn’t belong. Stories about boys who sat by windows and dreamed of leaving. Stories about girls who asked about roses. Stories about journeys that mattered more than destinations.His books weren’t bestsellers. But they found people who needed them. People like him.And sometimes, he thought about what he would tell his younger self.“This is not your story,” he would say.“But you can write it now.”And so he did.
4.0K
4 months ago · Updated to #17
Poetry by INKELLE
In a world that often celebrates the familiar, The Beauty of the Uncommonembraces the extraordinary. This anthology is a heartfelt collection of poetry that honors the misfits, the dreamers, the ones who walk a path only they can see. Each verse is woven with the raw essence of individuality—of standing apart, of daring to be different, of finding strength in the things that make us unique.
Through rhythm and rhyme, light and shadow, INKELLEpaints a portrait of self-discovery, reminding readers that true beauty lies not in blending in, but in standing out. Whether you have felt like an outcast or simply longed to embrace your own singularity, these poems will resonate like a whispered truth—one meant only for you.
© 2025 INKELLE. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
The poems in this anthology are works of creative expression. They reflect personal perspectives, emotions, and artistic interpretations. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author is not responsible for any interpretations or reactions derived from the content of this book.
1.4K
6 months ago · Updated to #1
"LOST IN THE HAZE OF DAWN"— a hauntingly beautiful exploration of shattered dreams, silent screams, and the unyielding resilience of the human heart.
5.9K
6 months ago · Updated to #15
What would you do if your future self sent you a book and a few letters?
Where your journeys and endings are already set in stone?
That was a question that Rosebud had to think of, holding these fragile yet life-changing documents in her hands.
It requests she read according to the instructions, or everything would not go as planned.
Gathering caution and a slimmer bit of hope, she sets off on an adventure she had already been through.
This story is within the Perennial Nomadic Franchise.
Chapters may be edited after publish due to improvement mindset, this is but a fun side project
Credits
Writer: RubbyBand
Artist :Rubbyband, SunkyDunky
Any subscriptions or financial support will be greatly appreciated and allow for more content to be created.
9.5K
8 months ago · Updated to #15
|NOVELLA/EPISODE I · 16X FEATURED|
After the Beacerika injures her, Rey battles with the Light and Dark sides of the Force while it takes her on a journey like none other—through supernovas and wormholes—right back to Ben Solo. ***
Rey remembers the day she and Kylo Ren/Ben Solo fought the Praetorian guards perfectly. Nevertheless, since the battle, something has changed inside her. She is not the Rey she remembers. Her Force abilities are no longer a gift; they are a threat. Everybody, including Rey's friends, fears her power.
Rey must sacrifice everything she loves and give herself to the conflicted Supreme Leader to change her fate. Nonetheless, something is hiding in the ashes of the galaxy—the Descendant of Evil. Now, it is up to Rey and Ben to stop this growing threat.
As the galaxy crumbles, Rey will face danger like she has never faced before, including a wormhole, a supernova, and a Force-sensitive monster who swears allegiance to her. As she moves closer and closer to her supernova, her friends will try to save her. However, at the end of the day, Rey and Kylo Ren are the only ones who can change the galaxy's fate. They are the only ones to take the name "The Rise of Skywalker".
***
Word Count: 30,000-35,000
2.5K
9 months ago · Updated to #2
Growing up, people have told me I'm too mature, kind, and quiet. I am not sure if that is true but I definitely somewhat seem to think differently of the things around me, unlike most people my age do.
I always ask why. ‘Why is it the way it is?’ ‘Why do I feel the way I do?’
And so, this blog is all about what's going inside my head, and/or possibly some of my philosophies (or so I call them). But I’m getting a hunch that this is going to be another piece of advice I give because I have a record of changing everything into advice.
Here's the key to see through my mind–Oh, and be sure to let me know if it's the same in your head!
5.3K
1 year ago · Updated to #9
2.3K
1 year ago · Updated to #3
155.6K
1 year ago · Updated to #217
Trigger warnings PLEASE READ BEFORE STARTING:
-Death
-Depression
-Bullying
-Verbal Abuse
-Physical Abuse
-Homophobia
After his best friend dies Kai writes diary entries to his friend every day. This won't show all of them. Just the interesting bits. I feel the need to add this. This story is based on my personal experience with topics like this which is very limited so I apologise if it's not super accurate and seems a bit unorganised.
This is more of a side project so there is no set update schedule
Shout out to Esfandiar C. Hale and my other idea Contributors (who you should check out!) for helping me with this!
Flowers drawn by: Kate Misra, Dymocs link:https://www.dymocks.com.au/books/?author=kate+misra
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