Raw Confide

They told us to chase happiness — like it was a destination, a room you walk into and finally rest. But the truth? Happiness isn’t a place, it’s a flash — a brief warmth between chaos and silence. We buy things, fall in love, laugh hard, and for a moment we believe we’ve found it. Then life reminds us that happiness was never ours to keep, only to visit. We spend years chasing it, forgetting that contentment, peace, even stillness — those are the real prizes hiding behind ordinary days. Maybe happiness isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you notice… before it fades again.

It started as a simple offer — a ride home after a long evening. The city lights painted her face in flashes of gold and red as she leaned back in the passenger seat, watching him steal glances every few seconds. They had spent the night talking — laughter, teasing, tiny touches that lasted just a second too long. Now the silence between them was louder than any words. “You’re awfully quiet,” he said, his voice low, like it was meant only for her. “Maybe I’m just thinking,” she replied, eyes still on the road. “About what?” She turned to him, a slow smile forming. “About how you keep looking at me when you should be watching the road.” He laughed — that kind of laugh that slips into a sigh — but he didn’t deny it. The car smelled like rain and cologne, the air thick with something neither of them wanted to name. When the light turned red, he looked at her again, and this time she didn’t look away. The seconds stretched — a heartbeat, then another. No words, just eyes locked and breaths...

The evening air carried the kind of softness that made the world slow down. Her apartment smelled faintly of vanilla and something else — anticipation, maybe. She had spent the last hour rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging, pretending not to care that he said he might come by. When he finally knocked, it wasn’t loud — just enough to send a quiet rush through her. She opened the door, and there he was — casual, confident, a trace of mischief in his smile. “Hope I’m not too early,” he said. “Maybe just in time,” she answered, stepping aside to let him in. The conversation came easy — laughter between sips, eyes meeting and drifting away, the air growing warmer with every exchange. There was no rush, just that charged silence between words. His voice dropped a little when he spoke her name, and she felt it — the weight of his attention settling softly on her skin. When his hand brushed hers, it wasn’t an accident. Neither of them pretended it was. The moment hung there, delica...

She had this way of talking that could make ordinary words feel like something else entirely. “I Dey ooo, like say I no Dey,” she once said — a sentence so simple, yet it carried a soft chaos. She was unpredictable, sweet and distant in the same breath. We never defined anything between us. We just moved in unspoken rhythms — late replies, playful teasing, a little flirting that always felt like it could tip into something deeper if one of us dared to push harder. But neither of us ever did. She wasn’t loud, but she left her mark. The kind of girl whose voice lingers in your head when the night is quiet. She’d say the most random things, but it always made sense when it came from her lips. It wasn’t love, not exactly. It was something softer — a maybe. A connection that felt like warm air brushing past your skin: not strong enough to hold, but too real to ignore. Some people don’t come into your life to stay. They come to make your world feel slightly tilted, to remind you how alive a ...

I never imagined that the person I used to laugh with would one day be the reason I’d carry bruises on my back. Vanessa wasn’t just anybody — she was someone who once made my days feel lighter. We’d joke, talk crazy, flirt without boundaries. But that evening, something snapped. What started as harmless teasing slowly turned into something darker. Words got sharp. Tempers rose. Before I knew it, the girl who used to hug me was throwing hands. I felt the sting of real pain, not just on my skin but deep inside my chest. My neighbor rushed in to separate us — and even he didn’t escape untouched. She didn’t stop there. In the heat of anger, she tried to set my bags on fire. My space — my safe place — suddenly felt like a war zone. And just like that… everything between us turned into ashes. People talk about heartbreak like it’s just emotional. But sometimes, heartbreak comes with bruises, police reports, and silence where laughter used to live. I didn’t fight back. I walked away, but I wa...

The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of the ceiling fan. She lay there, half asleep, when a warm breath brushed against her neck. His fingers traced lazy circles down her spine, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every inch of her skin. She shivered—not from cold, but from the heat gathering between them. “Can’t sleep?” he whispered. She didn’t answer. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, giving him more space to explore. His lips followed the curve of her shoulder, then lower… each kiss making her body ache for more. When he finally slid his hand beneath the thin fabric of her nightwear, she gasped—soft, but enough to make him smile against her skin. The night melted around them, and words became moans, whispers, and the soft sound of two bodies craving each other.

I’ve always loved how he looks at me. Not just a casual glance… no. The kind that undresses me without a single touch. That night, I told him not to move. I wanted him to watch. The lights were low, the air heavy with the scent of my vanilla oil. I stood in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but black lace. My skin shimmered against the soft glow, and I could feel his eyes tracing every inch of me. I dragged my fingers slowly down my neck… over my breasts… and lower—until I heard him exhale sharply. That sound lit something wild inside me. “Don’t touch me,” I whispered. “Just look.” Every movement became a performance, and he was my only audience. My back arched, my breath quickened, and I felt power in the way he trembled without a single touch. When he finally couldn’t hold it anymore and grabbed me from behind, it wasn’t gentle—it was hungry. His hands explored everything. My moans filled the room. And the mirror—oh, the mirror—caught every second of it. That’s the thing about me…...

The night had a humid sweetness that wrapped around Daisy like silk. Her melanin skin glowed beneath the dim amber light, every curve of her body catching shadows that teased and tempted. She loved nights like this—when the world went silent and desire spoke louder than words. He stood at the door, watching her sway gently to the slow music. Her hips moved like water—soft, deep, irresistible. Daisy didn’t need to say a word; her body was a language of its own. When he came closer, she didn’t flinch. She let him feel the warmth radiating from her, her scent wrapping around him like honey. His hands slid down her sides, following the soft dips of her waist, until they rested on her hips. She guided him with nothing but movement—slow, rolling, sensual. Daisy leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “I don’t want sweet words tonight,” she whispered. “I want fire.” His breath hitched. She smiled. Then she turned, pulling him into her heat, her body pressing against his. Their movements...

Sometimes I just sit and ask myself, what exactly am I doing wrong? I’ve learnt skills, I’m running two businesses, I barely sleep — yet money just slips through my hands like water. Every day feels like I’m pushing a mountain uphill. People say “just keep hustling,” but they don’t understand the kind of exhaustion that sits quietly in your chest when you give your all and still can’t breathe financially. I’m not lazy. I’m just tired of struggling without results. Maybe I need to learn something new… but what again will finally open the door?

She told me she was coming next week, and her words stuck in my head: “Prepare special for me.” I laughed at first, thinking it was just play. But later, alone, the thought kept replaying. What does “special” mean to her? A meal? A surprise gift? Or maybe the warmth of a welcome that’s not just about words? We’ve been talking for a while, sharing little laughs and teasing lines, but this felt different. It carried weight, an invitation that sounded both innocent and daring. Now, I catch myself planning. Should I cook for her? Should I hold her like I’ve been wanting to? Or should I keep it simple, hide the deeper thoughts, and act like it’s nothing? Sometimes, it’s the smallest messages that awaken the biggest questions inside us. And right now, I’m torn between being the perfect host… and being the man who shows her exactly what “special” means. The days kept crawling, but my mind was racing. Every time my phone buzzed, I wondered if it was her again, teasing me with another line. But...