Bad habits

Two strangers seated side-by-side on a long overnight train ride. Content Warning.
The notebook feels cheap under my fingers, the cardboard cover flimsy. This pen is already starting to skip. But it’s midnight, and the train is a dark serpent sliding through the sleeping countryside, and I can’t sleep. The hum is in my bones. That low, metallic thrumming that feels like being inside a giant, moving creature. It’s the sound of distance being eaten. The sound of leaving.
By Chahatabout a year ago in Confessions
The Things We Do in the Dark. Content Warning.
October 12th I saw him again today. It’s stupid, really. The way my body reacts. A full-system reboot from a thirty-second interaction in a coffee line. It’s not even about the words. It’s about the space between them.
By Chahatabout a year ago in Confessions
The Prize Hunter and the Junkyard Trick
The Prize Hunter and the Junkyard Lesson BY:Khan Bashir Ahmed Bhatti, my old friend, has an unusual obsession. He is always chasing after prize schemes. Over the years, he has won several items through lucky draws—small and big prizes alike. A washing machine, a motorcycle, household appliances—he has collected them all, free of cost. The secret of his winnings lies not in luck alone but in his peculiar habit. He never throws away wrappers. Soap wrappers, tea packets, biscuit covers—even empty cigarette packs—he hoards them all in his house like a treasure trove. Whenever a company announces prizes through a lucky draw, he is the first one to pull out a stack of wrappers, scribble his name, ID card number, and mobile phone on them, and drop them into the entry boxes. Most people buy the products just to participate in the scheme, but my friend never spends a dime. He scavenges wrappers from wherever he can find them—at shops, in trash heaps, or even in the junkyard. For him, every wrapper is a lottery ticket, and the more entries he sends, the better his chances of winning. And indeed, his tactic often pays off. The companies, of course, are not blind to this trickery. They know many participants send in wrappers without purchasing the products. But since a wrapper carries no proof of whether it was bought or found, they are forced to honor the winner. A currency note works the same way: whether earned through hard work or picked up from the street, it holds its value everywhere. Similarly, a wrapper is valid as long as it isn’t torn or soiled. Still, some companies have become smarter. They now mark new products with a golden star, insisting that only star-marked wrappers qualify for the draw. Others insert coupons inside the packaging, forcing customers to purchase the item to participate. These innovations have reduced the tricks of people like my friend, but his passion remains undimmed. One pleasant afternoon, with cool breezes sweeping the city, my friend and I were strolling down a busy street. As we neared the bazaar, rows of junk shops came into view. On one side of the road stood two warehouses, and on the other, three more yards buzzing with business. Pushcart vendors were weighing scrap paper, bottles, and broken goods while the junk dealers, dressed in shabby clothes, sat lazily on their chairs, paying cash and recording tallies. Among the piles of junk, my friend’s sharp eyes caught sight of something—a shiny, almost brand-new tea tin lying on top of a mound of scrap. Its retail price would have been around 190 rupees. To him, it wasn’t just an empty container—it was a golden ticket. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, picked it up, and examined it with delight. But his small act didn’t go unnoticed. The junk dealer, sitting nearby, shouted in a harsh tone, “Uncle, please put that back. It’s not yours.” The words struck like a whip. My friend froze. All eyes turned toward him. The other junk dealers, sensing a moment of drama, began staring, eager to watch him squirm. The tin itself was worthless, but his mistake was in picking it up without permission. The dealer’s voice had exposed him, and embarrassment is heavier than any burden. For a moment, my friend looked shaken, but being clever and quick-witted, he recovered instantly. Saving face was now more important than saving the tin. He beckoned the junk dealer over with a mysterious smile. Curious, the man walked up. I, too, drew closer, wondering what trick my friend would pull this time. Holding the tea tin, my friend pointed at the printed word “Supreme.” “What does this say?” he asked. The dealer, who was literate enough, replied, “It says Supreme.” “Good,” said my friend. “Now tell me, if you remove the letters ‘Sup,’ what remains?” “Then it becomes ‘reme’—or rather ‘reme,’” the dealer answered hesitantly. “And if we add the letter K before it, what word do we get?” The dealer thought for a second. “That would make it ‘Kreme’—or ‘Cream.’” My friend leaned in dramatically. “Exactly. And cream sounds like ‘Kareem.’ Tell me, Kareem and Raheem—what are these names?” The dealer chuckled. “Kareem was my father’s name. Raheem was my uncle’s.” “Wrong!” my friend declared firmly. “No ordinary human is named Kareem or Raheem on their own. These are sacred names—attributes of Allah Himself. That is why our parents always prefix them with ‘Abdul,’ making them Abdul Kareem, Abdul Raheem. Without ‘Abdul,’ they belong only to God.” The dealer scratched his back nervously. “Yes… yes, you are right. My father’s real name was Abdul Kareem, and my uncle was Abdul Raheem.” My friend pounced on the moment. “So you see, this word on the tin—‘Supreme’—contains the sacred letters that form the word Kareem. And here you are, letting it lie in the dirt among scrap and filth. Do you realize what a grave sin that is? Words connected to the divine should be kept in a clean, elevated place, not tossed onto a junk heap.” The dealer’s eyes widened. He folded his hands apologetically. “You are absolutely right. I have made a big mistake. Please, take this tin and place it somewhere respectful. I don’t want to be guilty of disrespect again.” My friend nodded gravely. “Good. Learn from this. Never let sacred words fall into dishonor again.” He shook the dealer’s hand, tucked the tin under his arm, and walked away with me. Once we were at a distance, I turned to him and asked, half amused, half amazed, “What was that all about? You turned a scolding into a sermon and walked away with the prize.” He grinned slyly. “If I had simply put the tin back, I would have lost face. The dealer wanted to embarrass me, but I outsmarted him. And besides,” he winked, “I didn’t lie. Respect for sacred words is indeed our duty.” I couldn’t help but laugh. That was my friend—always cunning, always ready with a trick, and forever chasing prizes, even if it meant turning a junkyard lesson into a theological debate.
By Khan about a year ago in Confessions
Secret Letter. Content Warning.
The fluorescent lights are too bright and they're humming secrets I can't quite catch. My feet are moving before my brain catches up—through the automatic doors, past the reception desk where the woman is staring (she knows something), into the parking lot where the air tastes like metal and fear.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Confessions
A House Divided: When a Father’s Betrayal Shattered a Family
A House Divided BY:Khan Khalid Mahmood Ashraf’s life took a turn the day his wife, Bushra, fell seriously ill. For years, she had been the heart of their home — the mother of five daughters and two sons, the anchor of a bustling household. But this time, when she was admitted to the hospital after her third heart attack, the doctors shook their heads grimly. “Pray for her recovery,” they told the family, “the rest is in God’s hands.” For three long months, Bushra lay in the hospital bed, her children constantly at her side, whispering prayers into the sterile air. Ashraf, however, was not as steadfast. Behind the façade of worry, he had already begun weaving a new plan for himself. Believing Bushra would not survive, he secretly married Salma, a distant relative — a divorced woman with a daughter from her previous marriage. He justified his decision by telling himself that his children needed a mother. But fate had other plans. Bushra survived. By what the family called nothing short of a miracle, she was discharged from the hospital and returned home. The children’s prayers had been answered. Yet, her recovery shattered Ashraf’s secret dreams. He had imagined welcoming a new bride into the house, but Bushra’s unexpected return meant his plans fell apart. From then on, peace left the home. Ashraf, a man with a weakness for women, found himself frustrated. Small arguments with Bushra turned into daily battles. The children, already traumatized by their mother’s illness, grew weary of their parents’ endless fights. One evening, when Bushra’s married daughters and their husbands came to visit, they confronted Ashraf. Why did he keep fighting with their mother? At first, he resisted, but then he blurted out the truth. “I want to divide this house into two parts,” he declared coldly. “Bushra will live in one part with her children. And Salma, my wife, will live in the other part with her daughter. I married Salma because I thought Bushra would not survive. I did this for the children, to give them another mother. And I gave shelter to a helpless woman. Now Bushra is standing in my way.” The room fell silent. His daughters and sons were stunned. They could neither oppose their father openly nor ignore the pain of their mother. His betrayal had already taken root, and there was no turning back. Tensions escalated until tragedy struck. Ashraf’s younger son, unable to bear the humiliation and family turmoil, consumed poison and ended his life. The loss devastated Bushra, who collapsed into a coma after her son’s funeral. A year later, she too passed away, unable to recover from her grief. The family home, once filled with love and laughter, became a place of sorrow. Yet Ashraf, hardened and obstinate, remained unchanged. He brought Salma openly into the house, dividing it as he had always wanted. But his eldest son, Javed, could no longer focus on his studies. Dropping out of school, he began driving a pickup truck to provide for his younger sisters. The burden of responsibility fell squarely on his young shoulders. Ashraf, unsympathetic, had further plans. One day, he summoned Javed and delivered an ultimatum: “If you want to stay in this house, you must marry Salma’s younger sister. If you refuse, you will be thrown out and cut off from my inheritance. Decide wisely.” Javed was horrified. To him, Salma was the reason his mother and brother were gone, the root of his family’s destruction. The thought of marrying her sister was unbearable. But Ashraf’s authority was ironclad. Resistance meant losing everything. For months, Javed stalled, avoiding his father’s demand. But eventually, under relentless pressure, he surrendered. With his sisters’ futures in mind, he reluctantly married Salma’s younger sister. His sacrifice was silent, but it tore at his soul. Life moved on. Javed devoted himself to supporting his sisters and caring for his new wife. Surprisingly, she turned out to be kind-hearted, and though he never loved the circumstances, he treated her with respect. In time, she too became a partner in his struggles. But Ashraf’s selfishness did not end there. With Salma by his side, he continued to control the family. Javed, however, grew stronger. He worked tirelessly, saving every rupee he could. Finally, he convinced his wife to demand that Ashraf transfer the house into Javed’s name. Desperate to appease them, Ashraf agreed. The day the papers were signed, Javed wasted no time. He tore down the dividing wall of the house. With tears streaming down his face, he remembered his mother and brother. The family wept together, grieving the home that had once been whole. A short while later, Javed sold the house. He gathered his sisters and wife and moved to the city, determined to build a new life away from his father’s shadow. Ashraf begged him not to go. “My job is here. My life is here. Don’t leave me alone,” he pleaded. But Javed’s heart had hardened. “When you were strong, you thought only of yourself,” he told his father. “Now that you are weak, you expect us to care for you? You must learn what helplessness feels like.” And so, Ashraf was left behind, an old man surrounded by silence. Even Salma eventually left to live with her daughter and son-in-law in the city. Ashraf, once proud and domineering, now faced the twilight of his life alone, haunted by the ruins of the family he himself had destroyed.
By Khan about a year ago in Confessions
My Long Battle with Excessive Sweating — and the 4 Life-Changing Hacks That Finally Worked
I am a 32-year-old man, and for more than a decade I carried a heavy secret that affected almost every part of my life: excessive underarm sweating. It started when I was around twenty, and at first, I thought it was just normal. But as the years went by, it became something that completely shaped my social life, my confidence, and even my career.
By zinatabout a year ago in Confessions
Grandpa’s Nighttime Tale: The Thousand-Year-Old Al-Azhar
A Nighttime Tale: Grandpa’s Story About Al-Azhar BY:Ubaid “Hey children! You’re still awake?” Grandpa Aslam’s voice broke the silence of the living room. He had just walked in and found Maryam and Abdullah glued to a mobile phone, playing a video game with intense focus. His tone carried a mix of surprise and mild disapproval. “You two are usually good kids who go to bed early. What’s going on tonight?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Grandpa, we just can’t fall asleep,” Maryam replied quickly. “And tomorrow is a holiday, so we asked Mom and Dad if we could play some games a little longer. They said yes.” “Oh, I see,” Grandpa said with a smile. “But tell me, why must it always be games on your phone? You could read a book or a magazine instead.” Maryam shook her head. “But Grandpa, we’ve already read all the books and magazines we have.” This time Abdullah added, “Yes, we’ve finished them all. That’s why we’re playing games.” Grandpa chuckled softly. “Well then, no problem. How about tonight I tell you about a place that perhaps you’ve never read or heard about before?” The children’s eyes lit up instantly. They had grown tired of their game and loved the idea of listening to one of Grandpa’s stories. Maryam quickly put the phone aside and said with excitement, “Yes, Grandpa! Please tell us. We’re bored of playing anyway.” Both children turned their full attention to him. Grandpa adjusted his glasses, leaned back in his chair, and began. “All right then. Tonight, I’ll tell you about a thousand-year-old center of learning in the Islamic world, a place called Al-Azhar University. It’s located in Cairo, the capital of Egypt.” Maryam immediately interrupted. “Grandpa! Egypt? Isn’t that the same country where the Pyramids are? Our teacher told us that the pyramids are one of the wonders of the world.” “Yes! And Egypt has a huge river too,” Abdullah added proudly. “Our Quran teacher told us that the River Nile is even mentioned in the Holy Quran.” Grandpa nodded approvingly. “Exactly, my dear children. You both are right. Egypt is indeed the land of the pyramids and the Nile. Its history goes back thousands of years, and that’s why historians and travelers take such deep interest in its monuments and culture. Among these historical treasures is Al-Azhar, one of the greatest universities in the world.” The children leaned in closer, curiosity sparkling in their eyes. “You see,” Grandpa continued, “Muslims conquered Egypt during the caliphate of Hazrat Umar (may Allah be pleased with him) in the seventh century. Later, in the tenth century, a mosque was built in Cairo. This mosque was named Al-Azhar, after Hazrat Fatimah al-Zahra (may Allah be pleased with her), the beloved daughter of our Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). Alongside the mosque, a school was established, and with the passage of time, that school grew into what we now know as Al-Azhar University.” “Grandpa, what do they teach there?” Maryam asked eagerly. “Well, in the beginning,” Grandpa explained, “there were only thirty-seven teachers. They taught subjects like the Holy Quran, Islamic jurisprudence, and the Arabic language. But over the centuries, Al-Azhar expanded enormously. Today it has hundreds of professors, and students can study not only religious sciences but also modern subjects—astronomy, medicine, physics, chemistry, engineering, commerce, and many more.” Abdullah’s eyes widened. “That’s amazing! So people from all over the world study there?” “Absolutely,” Grandpa said. “Scholars who graduate from Al-Azhar are respected worldwide. Its religious rulings, or fatwas, are considered authentic and authoritative across the globe. That’s why Al-Azhar is one of the most influential universities in the Islamic world.” The children were now completely engrossed. Grandpa smiled, enjoying their attention. “And do you know?” he added. “Even non-Muslims recognize its greatness. When Napoleon Bonaparte led the French invasion of Egypt in 1798, he was astonished by the level of knowledge, discipline, and organization he found at Al-Azhar. In fact, he wrote about it in his diary, praising its teachers and students. Later, when he formed a consultative council to govern Egypt, he included Al-Azhar’s senior scholars in it. That shows you how much respect he had for this institution.” Maryam gasped in wonder. “Grandpa, can we visit Al-Azhar one day?” “Of course, my dear,” Grandpa said warmly. “Not only can you visit it as tourists, but if you wish, you can even study there. Students from all over the world come to Al-Azhar to seek knowledge.” “That’s wonderful!” Abdullah said with excitement. Maryam clapped her hands. “Thank you, Grandpa! You always tell us such amazing stories. Tonight we learned something so new and inspiring.” Grandpa smiled, his eyes twinkling with pride. “Remember, children, true knowledge is a treasure greater than any game or toy. Always value it, and never stop seeking it.” The children nodded eagerly, their earlier desire to play games long forgotten. That night, as they finally drifted off to sleep, their young minds were filled not with flashing screens but with dreams of pyramids, rivers, and the thousand-year-old halls of learning at Al-Azhar.
By Ubaid about a year ago in Confessions
The Promise That Shattered My Life
A Promise That Shattered My Life BY:Khan Every morning at seven, I arrived at the agency, ready to dive into the day’s work. One morning, around ten, the postman handed me a letter. As I opened it, I found myself reading the words of a woman who had written: “Assalamu Alaikum, son. I am a reader of your magazine. I’ve heard that you write about people’s pains and struggles. I too wish to share mine—so that perhaps others read, understand, and maybe, my sorrow becomes lighter.” The very next day, she sent me her full story. What follows is her account—raw, painful, and unforgettable. --- A Childhood of Neglect From as far back as I remember, my home was never peaceful. My parents rarely got along, and the greatest tragedy of our household was the preference for sons over daughters. Girls were treated like a burden, as though we were born only to tolerate neglect. This discrimination shook me deeply. My brothers were given importance, while I was invisible. I often wondered why our home wasn’t like others—why daughters couldn’t receive the same love as sons. Many nights, I cried myself to sleep, thinking, If only I had been born somewhere else. My mother, however, had one dream: that her children should study. She herself was denied education, and her in-laws constantly mocked her for being uneducated. Out of her insecurity, she pushed us toward books. Yet, how could a child flourish in a house full of tension? Though I was intelligent and hardworking, when it came to exams, I froze. My heart pounded, my hands shook, and the paper remained blank. Finally, my father realized I needed extra help. --- The Arrival of a Tutor Enter Buland Bakht, a young man who had just graduated and was searching for a job. To support himself, he gave tuition lessons to students—including my brothers. One day, my father asked him to also teach me. I needed more than a tutor—I needed kindness, care, and understanding. Buland Bakht became all of that. His gentle encouragement awakened my interest in studies, and slowly, he became the center of my world. What started as respect turned into affection, and soon, we crossed the threshold of love. He promised me that once he secured a job, he would speak to my parents and marry me. His words were my lifeline, and I believed him with all my heart. --- The Promise of Marriage My father admired him greatly. “He is like the son I never had,” he often said. With such praise, I was convinced that our path to marriage would be smooth. When Buland hesitated to approach my parents, I gathered courage and shared my feelings through my sister. To my surprise, my mother responded positively. “If this is true, then let him bring his parents to formally ask for your hand.” Buland looked uneasy when confronted, but eventually, his mother visited our home. To everyone’s surprise, she liked me instantly, and soon, our engagement was announced. My heart soared—I felt my dreams coming true. --- The First Betrayal But fate had other plans. Just days before the wedding, my brother spotted Buland at the railway station buying a ticket to Murree. When questioned, he casually replied, “I’m traveling with a friend.” My family laughed it off as a joke. That evening, when my mother went to his home, his parents looked worried. They explained that he had been offered a new job and had to leave immediately. “The wedding date will need to be postponed,” they said. Imagine our humiliation. Invitations had already been sent, relatives had started arriving, and suddenly, we had to call it all off. My parents faced endless embarrassment. Still, we waited patiently for him to return. --- The Shocking Truth Weeks turned into months. Each time, he gave excuses. Finally, another date was fixed. Guests gathered once more, preparations were made, and my bridal dress lay ready. But the night before the ceremony, devastating news arrived: Buland had returned—with a wife. As it turned out, while tutoring me, he had also been teaching the daughter of a wealthy businessman. He had lured her with the same promises. When her family discovered his upcoming wedding, she threatened to take her life unless he married her. Pressured and frightened, he chose her wealth and influence over his promise to me. My dreams collapsed in an instant. --- A Life Forever Changed That day marked the death of my innocence. My wedding canopy was never raised, and the yellow of my bridal henna turned into the yellow of mourning. Years passed, my hair turned white, but the scars remain as fresh as ever. Since then, I never married. Weddings now terrify me. The laughter, the music, the rituals—everything feels like a cruel reminder of betrayal. My sisters went on to live happy, stable lives. But I, being more sensitive, broke under the weight of deception. I often reflect: if my parents had given me love and attention, perhaps I wouldn’t have fallen so easily for the false affection of a stranger. --- Lessons Learned Parents often forget that not all children are the same. Some are strong; others, fragile. A tender heart needs extra care, or else it shatters. In my case, neglect at home made me vulnerable to the first person who showed me kindness. Buland Bakht—was he a coward, a fool, or a deceiver? I will never know. But what I do know is that his betrayal destroyed my chance at a normal life. Today, I wish to tell every parent: your love and harmony at home is the greatest gift you can give your children. If denied, they may seek it elsewhere—and sometimes, that search ends in tragedy.
By Khan about a year ago in Confessions
The Phone That Stole My Sister’s Life
The Phone That Stole My Sister’s Life BY:Khan Kiran woke Noor one morning with a scolding she meant as affection. “Kiran, get up — it’s morning. You stay up on your phone all night and then pretend you don’t hear the alarm. What do people even talk about on the phone all night? It’s nonsense, a waste of time.” Noor rubbed her eyes, used to Kiran’s teasing. They were only two daughters at home now; their father had died and their mother worked long hours cleaning houses to make ends meet. Kiran was restless by nature. She called late-night phone chatter “time-pass” and said it made people foolish. Noor worried about her sister — she prayed after each of the five daily prayers for Kiran’s safety. Noor kept the house in order and watched the bills while Kiran joked about romance and rebellion. “If only you had a boyfriend,” Kiran said one morning, “you’d be awake talking to him all night, whispering love vows. Life would be so much sweeter.” Noor only shook her head and asked her to eat breakfast. Two days later Kiran told Noor she would go out to celebrate a friend’s birthday and stay overnight. Noor’s eyes filled with tears. “If you don’t come back at night, I don’t want you to go at all,” she said bluntly. Kiran pushed back fiercely. “I’m not a child. This is my life and I’ll live it how I want. Please stop interfering.” Noor’s fear was not pious prudery; it was a sister’s worry. Their mother was ill and needed care. They had no brothers, no one else to rely on. Noor tried to reason, to remind Kiran that the world could be cruel, that strangers who praised could later hurt. “Once a woman’s honor is lost, it’s very hard to recover,” Noor murmured, prayers mixing with heartbreak. “If you go, be careful. Protect yourself.” Kiran laughed it off — till the night she met Samir. Samir was everything Noor had warned about: charming, well-dressed, used to winning trust and then vanishing. He was the kind of young man who courted girls on their phones, spent hours on flattery and promises, then discarded them when he was done. To Kiran, desperate for affection and excited by the secrecy, his attention felt like validation. At a five-star hotel where Kiran thought she was going to celebrate a friend’s birthday, Samir waited and smiled when she arrived. He wrapped her hand in his and whispered declarations. “You belong to me,” he told her, and Kiran, under the spell of sudden romance, believed him. They ate, they laughed, and later they left for a room where the storm outside seemed to make everything cinematic. Samir’s words were like a promise made to a gullible heart: “I’ll never leave you.” Kiran believed that, too. What happened that night was not spoken of in explicit detail, but it was enough. Samir took advantage of Kiran’s trust. He used her vulnerability and treated her like an amusement, then vanished when morning came. He left her ashamed and alone. He disconnected his number, and Kiran’s calls went unanswered. The texts stopped. It was the pattern of a predator: connect, consume, disappear. Kiran returned home with downcast eyes and a wounded conscience. Noor saw the shame in her sister’s face, but it was only when Kiran’s health began to fail that the full tragedy unfolded. Weeks after that night, Kiran grew weak and pale. She fell ill and when she was taken to the hospital, doctors discovered a pregnancy — and, shockingly, they found the baby had already died inside her. Emergency surgery was required. The surgeons warned Noor that Kiran’s life might be at risk. Noor prayed until her voice broke. She begged God to spare her sister. In the operating room, Kiran spoke with halting sincerity. “Forgive me,” she said to Noor. “This is my punishment. I ignored you. I thought I knew better. I was wrong. I am so sorry.” After hours of waiting, the surgeon emerged with the worst possible news: Kiran had not survived. The life that had caused so much grief, the girl who had been reckless and bold, who wanted to seize her freedom, was gone. Noor collapsed, grief swallowing her like an ocean. People murmured around her; she kept repeating only one thought, a single bitter, futile question: “If only she had not had a phone. If only she had listened.” The tragedy of Kiran and Noor is not just a private sorrow; it is a portrait of how social media and instant, intimate connections can be manipulated. Kiran trusted a voice on the phone and the warm glow of attention. Samir used that access to take advantage of her. Their story shows how easy it is for predators to present themselves as lovers, friends, or saviors online and then disappear when there are consequences. This is also a plea to families to talk — honestly, without shame — about risks and boundaries. Noor’s warnings were rooted in love, not control. Her sister’s defiance sprang from loneliness and a hunger for belonging. Social media, with its flattering comments and private chats, can make lies feel like truth. It can isolate the young from the protection of those who care, and it can turn a private betrayal into a catastrophe. Noor stayed behind to care for their mother, carrying the weight of loss and the bitter lesson that came too late. She became quieter, more protective of the people around her. She spoke up at neighbors’ gatherings about caution and compassion, asking families to watch their children’s late-night habits and to help rather than scold. She asked communities to teach young people how to spot false affection, how to value their bodies and choices, and how to seek help before a secret becomes a tragedy. Kiran’s story is a warning and a grief at once: the promise of connection can be a trap when it replaces real human anchors. Phones and social apps are tools — they can bring good, but in the wrong hands they can put lives at risk. Noor’s prayer did not save her sister, but her voice can still save others: speak to your loved ones, keep lines of trust open, and remember that no glowing screen is worth a human life.
By Khan about a year ago in Confessions
Scattered Thoughts of a 36 Year Old Woman
I’ve always been a woman with so much love to give, and so much love in my heart, I’ve just never known where to direct it. People don’t notice someone like me in the grand scheme of things, but maybe I think if I can at least touch one person’s heart, the world could be better. If only it were that easy.
By Slgtlyscatt3redabout a year ago in Confessions
Confessions of a Former Alcoholic Part 22
It is definitely a lesson for people to learn about the awful facts of life. I can honestly tell that the social experiment I performed on myself and my findings regarding the causes of alcoholism caused me a great deal of suffering.
By TheNaethabout a year ago in Confessions
The Village That Taught Me How to Breathe Again
Most of the world knows Vietnam through travel magazines, war documentaries, or postcard-like images of Ha Long Bay and lanterns in Hoi An. But Vietnam, for me, is not just about breathtaking landscapes or famous tourist spots. It is about a small, quiet village tucked away in the northern countryside—a place that taught me the meaning of stillness, patience, and peace.
By Quangabout a year ago in Confessions