Do you like stories that feel like memory, not plot; like this?

[A.M.]

1. "Static Hearts"
They told me I was found wandering off Highway 85, barefoot, in a hospital gown, muttering her name like a prayer.
"Marley. Marley. Marley."
But there’s no Marley in my records. No one by that name ever visited me during recovery. No calls. No photos. No trace.
Still, I remember her — vividly.
We met at a laundromat. She wore oversized headphones and was dancing slightly to music I couldn’t hear. Her laundry never spun. She said it was because her time ran differently.
We’d meet every Wednesday. Same time, same place. She hated phones. Said technology muddled real connection. So we talked in person. Always the same café, always the same drink: chamomile and oat milk.
She told me she worked in "remnants." I thought she meant vintage clothes. But once, she said, “I repair time the way some people fix watches.” I laughed. She didn’t.
One night, I woke up alone in her bed and wandered into her bathroom. On the mirror, scribbled in red lipstick:
"You're starting to remember too early."
________________________________________
Then it all fractured.
The city changed. Street names were off by one letter. My mother answered my call, but didn’t know who I was. The café was a hardware store. The laundromat? Abandoned for decades.
I searched for Marley until they found me on that highway. They told me I’d had a psychotic break. That it was all a delusion — a love fabricated by a lonely mind.
But I still dream of her.
Every time I pass a flickering streetlamp or see an unplugged television playing static, I feel her watching.
If Marley was a glitch — then so am I.
And maybe that’s love: a shared hallucination, perfectly synced.

[Arabella]

Yes!

[Aidan]

I love it