Bad habits
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 Chahat11 months ago in Confessions
The Day I Stopped Chasing People Who Didn’t Care.
The Day I Stopped Chasing People Who Didn’t Care When I stopped running after them, I finally found me. I used to believe that if I just loved people hard enough, they’d eventually love me back. I thought devotion could rewrite disinterest, and persistence could melt indifference. Every unanswered text felt like a challenge to prove my worth, every canceled plan a sign that I just needed to try a little harder.
By Muhammad Ilyas11 months ago in Confessions
The Day I Realized I Wasn’t Happy Anymore.
The Day I Realized I Wasn’t Happy Anymore A Journey from Emptiness to Self-Discovery It started like any other ordinary morning. The alarm buzzed relentlessly, a sound I had grown to hate but somehow ignored for years. I rolled over, rubbed my eyes, and reached for the phone that had become my lifeline to the world. Notifications flashed across the screen: emails from work, messages from friends I hadn’t really spoken to in weeks, reminders of bills, appointments, tasks, and a million tiny responsibilities. Everything seemed “normal,” yet something inside me felt hollow. That strange, gnawing emptiness had been building for months, but I had cleverly buried it beneath routines and obligations.
By Muhammad Ilyas11 months ago in Confessions
Letter to the girl at the Falling in Reverse concert in Indy 2025-
To the girl at the Falling in Reverse concert in Indy 2025- I saw the skinny snot that laughed at you as you walked up the stairs minding your own business and excitedly going to catch up to your friend. I’d just walked past her at the bottom of the stairs as I went up to find a spot on the lawn after having just purchased a shirt. I saw her point you out to her boyfriend and they laughed as you walked up. I was just a few steps behind you but you paused when you reached your friend and I kept ascending. I had thought about what I might say to you as I passed but ended up not saying anything, although in my mind, I had already known you were aware of the laughter following you up the steps as I was hearing it clearly myself.
By Sarah Lynn Jones11 months ago in Confessions
Do You Trust Me?
Some lessons don’t come through sermons or scriptures. Sometimes they come quietly, when you least expect them, through something as simple as a phone screen and a voice that asks one question you can’t ignore. This is the true story of how God spoke to Joey one night while he played poker on his phone, preparing him for a storm he didn’t see coming.
By Joey Raines11 months ago in Confessions
The Yes Next Door. Content Warning.
We make it to the kitchen because water sounds wise and the bed was becoming a storm with no edges. The light over the sink is a warm coin; the counter is cool, slick under my palms. She hands me a glass and watches me drink like the act itself is foreplay. Maybe it is.
By Chahat11 months ago in Confessions
The Dark Spell
The Dark Spell By Sehar Rana Black magic, evil charms, and spiritual manipulation — things we often dismiss as superstition — have become a silent disease spreading through our society. People fall prey to so-called spiritual healers, destroying lives and families. In our home, there was never a concept of charms, amulets, or black magic. We were a modern, practical family. We believed in hard work, prayer, and compassion. But the storm that hit our family changed everything I had ever believed in. Our home once felt like a piece of heaven — full of laughter, peace, and love. But slowly, that heaven turned into a house of grief. It all began when my mother’s brothers — whom she loved more than her own daughters — stepped into our lives with darkness hidden behind smiles. My mother loved her brothers’ daughters like her own. She gave them love, gifts, and respect beyond measure. But the same people she cared for became the reason for her death. It’s a long story — a painful one — but I will tell it briefly, not to make you cry, but to share what blind trust can cost. My parents got my uncles married, and since we sisters were much younger, we helped our parents in every way we could. When our sisters-in-law came, we treated them like queens. Every wish of theirs was fulfilled. My parents taught us to obey them, even when they were wrong. If they shouted, we stayed quiet. If they complained, my parents scolded us instead. When the first brother got married, happiness filled our home — until, a week later, my mother fell sick. She never recovered fully after that. We didn’t know anything about “black magic.” We thought it was a myth. But neighbors who came to visit whispered, “Someone has done something to your mother.” We didn’t believe them. We trusted doctors instead. For five long years, we took her from one clinic to another. She would get better for a while, then fall sick again — especially after her brothers visited. Then, one day, my uncle forced my mother to fix a marriage between my brother and his daughter. From that day, her health collapsed completely. She could barely walk. Still, we kept denying the rumors about magic. Our mother stopped eating, stopped smiling. She cried in pain every day. For years, we fed her only porridge because she couldn’t digest anything else. Then, one by one, my sisters and I also fell ill. Strange, unexplainable sicknesses that no doctor could diagnose. The same whispers echoed again: “Someone is doing black magic on your family.” But we kept silent. We were taught to be patient, to never accuse anyone. Our brothers, influenced by others, began fighting with us. The same brothers we loved and served started believing that we were hiding things from them — that we were taking their share. They shouted, they cursed, and our house echoed with arguments for years. My mother’s health worsened every time there was a fight. For ten years, we stayed silent — out of respect, out of fear, out of love. Then one day, something even worse happened. My father became seriously ill. Later, we found out that charms and spells had been used against him too. But God saved him. My uncle and his wife weren’t so lucky — the same curse took their lives; my uncle died, and my aunt was left paralyzed. After three more years, the same darkness came for my mother again. She developed a mysterious disease. The doctors couldn’t find the cause. She screamed in pain at night, saying something was burning her from the inside. We could do nothing but watch helplessly as her body weakened day by day. And one morning, our home fell completely silent. My mother was gone. She left this world after years of suffering — not because she did wrong, but because she loved the wrong people too deeply. I wrote this story briefly because if I describe every moment, I would cry while writing — and you would cry while reading. There are things too painful to relive. All I ask is one thing: Pray for my mother. Pray that her soul rests in peace. Pray that her grave is filled with light and that she is granted a place in Jannat-ul-Firdous. Sometimes I still feel her presence — calm, gentle, forgiving — as if she’s whispering, “It’s all right, my daughter. Be patient. God sees everything.” And that’s what keeps me alive.
By Khan 11 months ago in Confessions
Waiting to Be Wanted. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
Copyright & Disclaimer Copyright © 2025 by Latissha S. Perry (LSP) All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
By Tish11 months ago in Confessions
