Stories (79)
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The Overnight Bus Where a Random Man Explored Every Inch of Me in the Back Seat (True Story). Content Warning.
Hi… it’s me, Lila. Twenty-five, sitting here in my little apartment with the rain tapping the window, thighs pressed together just thinking about it. This is what really happened on that long, sweaty overnight bus from Toronto to Montreal last summer. I never thought I’d do this. But my body betrayed me the second the engine started rumbling, and I couldn’t stop it if I tried.
By Chahat Kaurabout 20 hours ago in Fiction
A Secret. Content Warning.
I still remember that night because nothing dramatic happened at first. That’s the part people never understand about desire. It doesn’t always arrive like thunder. Sometimes it comes quietly. In steam. In half-finished sentences. In the way someone looks at you for two seconds too long and then pretends they weren’t looking at all.
By Chahat Kaur5 days ago in Confessions
Humiliation Made Me Submissive . Content Warning.
October 28th (Later) The party was a dying animal. Its pulse, the music, had slowed to a thrumming, melancholic love song from a decade ago. The roar of a hundred conversations had dwindled to the low murmur of the last few stragglers, the clinking of bottles collected by the help, the weary groans of furniture being shifted. The air in the main hall was stale, a graveyard of spilled drinks, shattered papadum, and exhausted perfume.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Filthy
Meeting My Ex At A Party. Content Warning.
The Balcony October 28th I saw him across a sea of familiar-unfamiliar faces, and for a second, the last five years didn't just vanish; they were violently erased. The air, thick with the smell of tandoori kebabs, spilled whiskey, and too much perfume, went thin. The bass of the bhangra track thumping from the speakers inside seemed to sync with a sudden, hard pulse in my throat.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Filthy
The Monsoon and the Memory. Content Warning.
July 12 A soft, percussive thud from down the street—the transformer giving up its ghost to the humidity—and suddenly, my world shrank to the four walls of my room, the only light a sickly grey bleed from the monsoon sky. The fan’s lazy whir stuttered and died, and in the silence it left behind, the rain took centre stage. It wasn't the gentle pitter-patter of romantic films; this was a full-throated roar on the terracotta tiles, a relentless, drenching downpour that turned the world outside my window into a watercolour painting left in the rain. Mumbai was drowning, and I was marooned in my third-floor apartment.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Confessions
My Bf - Small Dick. Content Warning.
October 12th I’m writing this down because if I don’t, I think my skin might just split open from the pressure of keeping it all inside. My name is Anya, I’m twenty-four, and I live in a shared apartment in a dusty, loud, beautiful corner of South Delhi. And I have a secret that is so loud, it’s a wonder the entire neighbourhood can’t hear it screaming in the silence between my heartbeats.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Filthy
A Situationship. Content Warning.
October 15th It’s 2 AM. The city outside my window is a sleeping beast, all quiet hum and distant, lonely lights. I can’t sleep. My skin feels too tight, my thoughts too loud. It’s on nights like these that the memories don’t feel like memories at all. They feel like ghosts living just under my ribs, pressing to get out. And tonight, the ghost is him. Aarav.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Confessions
First time someone touched me in crowd. Content Warning.
October 12 I always think of the smell first. Like a heavy blanket, it's jasmine and marigold from the flower guy's cart. Then it smacks you – the sharp smell from those beat-up rickshaws. A warm, wet feeling of so many folks huddled together, all moving like one big thing. Silk, cotton, sweat – all heading towards the river. The Ganga Aarti in Varanasi? It's not something to watch from the stands. It’s like jumping headfirst into a pool. You don’t just see it; it gets into you.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Filthy
Why My Body Remembers. Content Warning.
The night bus to Bangalore smells of diesel and longing. I press my forehead against the cool, vibrating window, watching the neon signs of Chennai blur into streaks of fuchsia and gold. My phone is dead. My backpack, stuffed under the seat, holds a single change of clothes and a dog-eared copy of a Rumi translation I pretend to understand. This is not a pilgrimage. It’s a flight. A crack in the surface of my well-ordered life, and I have slipped through.
By Chahat Kaur6 months ago in Fiction
