Small Pleasures Novels & Stories

He was not fond of extravagant ones; not once was he able to find his comfort in them. "I may be in love with the idea of annoying you all the time, but I have to admit, you're the best when it comes to finding new places to eat." Jessica grinned as she walked with him inside the small café. The decorations were vintage. Pictures of Marlene Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly and Elizabeth Taylor were all around the place. Calm music was playing in the background. The walls were painted with a faded shade of grey and the coffee machines and most of the utensils were in black or white.

I replied as I grabbed my phone and headed downstairs in jean shorts and crop tops. They easily became my best wears in summer because they are super comfortable. The second my legs dropped down the stairs, Bryan’s eyes fell on me, making me pause for a second. His eyes left mine, dropping to my body and then, he looked away as if my body had burnt him. I was irresistible–now I knew. “Why are you standing there?” Mom”s brows furrowed, her cheeks swollen with food. “Nothing.” I offered her a smile and descended down the stairs.

The pastry appeared each morning in a white paper bag set beside Ethan's plate, and Ethan received it with the focused appreciation of someone for whom small pleasures had taken on increased significance. On Tuesday he brought a chess problem book — a slim volume from a secondhand shop he must have found on one of his evening walks, its spine worn, the problems increasing in difficulty from opening to close. He set it on the table without ceremony. Ethan picked it up and did not set it down for three hours. These were small things. She knew they were small things. She watched them accumulate across the days with the attention of a woman who had spent years tra

The breakfast had devolved into a masterclass in silent warfare. Vespera, the "friend" from the second household, sat between the two most powerful men in the ten households, their faces masks of forced composure. Sophie, completely oblivious, chattered happily about her day's plans.

I'd reorganized the spice cabinet—don't ask me why, it just felt right, like I was reclaiming control over small things since the large ones seemed so elusive—arranging tiny jars of oregano and paprika and cardamom in neat rows that made me unreasonably happy. I'd even caught up on that novel I'd been too tired to read all week, the one that had been gathering dust on my nightstand like a reproach. The story pulled me in completely, characters with problems that could be solved in three hundred pages, conflicts that resolved with satisfying completeness instead of spawning endless email chains and follow-up meetings. The afternoon passed in a haze of small pleasures<

All those faces reflected a life that kept moving—unnoticed, unrecorded, but quietly beautiful. She began to realize that peace didn’t come in grand forms—it arrived in small things: the clink of a spoon against a porcelain cup in a quiet café, a warm smile from a guesthouse receptionist, the earthy scent of rain on old wooden streets. Her nights were spent writing—not for virality or validation, but to greet the parts of herself that had long been silenced. She wrote about love that got lost, guilt that was never repaid, and small hopes slowly blooming again—without her even realizing it.

Later that evening my stomach growls loudly. “Hey Preye, you mind if we grab some dinner? I’m starving after… all that,” I say, giving her a small smirk, voice casual but laced with flirtation. She turns, towel still hugging her chest tight. “I don’t mind,” she answers, smiling like she’s trying hard to stay cool.

Maggie, my eight-year-old little sister, walks into the kitchen and then immediately gags, "It smells like a dead body!" I scrunch my nose in disgust. "Ew. I think I've lost my appetite." "Sorry about that, guys," my mother laughs nervously. "I was just trying to cook a nice breakfast for us to all have together and well . . ." "It did not go well," Captain Obvious, otherwise known as the idiot Isaac, laughs. I smack his neck. "Yeah, and like throwing a pot would help! Now it's broken!" "Hey! I didn't know that the pot would just break," protests Isaac.

Mia sat in the cozy corner of the small café, her favorite spot by the window where the soft sunlight filtered through the dusty blinds. It was a Saturday morning, and the little town had a peaceful, almost nostalgic feel to it. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods filled the air, making her feel at ease. She hadn’t had many moments like this in the past few weeks, where everything felt calm and unhurried. It was a welcome change from the whirlwind of emotions she had been drowning in.

“You know, Edith was wondering how to treat you from now on, earlier she was like; does that mean you’re going to become our boss also?” “Tell dear Edith not to fret, I’m still just a lowly secretary, is there something to eat around here?” I was getting hungry already. “Check that cupboard by your left, there might be some granola bar left” I moved to it, lifting to the tips of my toes to search the top, around instant coffee some sugar and milk, I push some energy drinks aside. Not here. Then bent to check the bottom cupboards. A smile stretching across my lips when my fingers wrapped around a familiar smooth packet, “Yes!”