Bad habits
Was I Just A Phrase To You ?
One day you were my home; the next, you packed up and left. A few days ago, his mother called me faking her emotions that how she misses me. I realised that it was fake because she did not miss me for 2 months and all of a sudden she contacted me. There was this trap she prepared unknowingly for herself and her family, she told every single of her relatives about me being the future wife of her son. Recently, one of her relatives were staying at her house, they asked her about me and so, she called me to ask if I want to do a video call to show my face.
By Phoenixabout a year ago in Confessions
The Day I Mistook Laxatives for Breath Mints
A Hilarious Journey That Started with Fresh Breath and Ended in a Public Restroom Let me start by saying I have a very delicate relationship with public restrooms. I avoid them the way a cat avoids water — with calculated elegance and deep suspicion. So, the fact that this story ends in one, with me clinging to a toilet seat like it was a life raft, should tell you everything you need to know about how terribly my day went.
By Habibullah khan about a year ago in Confessions
India-Pakistan Conflict Escalates
May 2025 Military Tensions Erupt After Kashmir Massacre On May 6, 2025, the fragile peace between two nuclear-armed neighbors—India and Pakistan—was shattered as India launched a series of missile strikes into Pakistani territory. This unprecedented escalation comes just two weeks after a deadly attack in Indian-administered Kashmir, which killed 26 Indian tourists. India has blamed the massacre on Pakistan-based militants, and these strikes appear to be a direct retaliation.
By gul malookabout a year ago in Confessions
Beneath the Surface
When Ethan Hayes woke up in the burn unit of St. Joseph’s Hospital, his world had already changed. The sterile white ceiling, the muffled beeping of machines, and the antiseptic sting in the air were the first things he noticed. The second was the absence of feeling on the right side of his face. He tried to speak but found his mouth wouldn't move properly. Panic crept in, but the drugs pulled him back under before he could fight.
By Gabriela Toneabout a year ago in Confessions
Youella, The Young Prophet
YOUELLA THE YOUNG PROPHET AND HIS SIX UNCLES Chapter 1: The Six Brothers' Evil Conspiracy In a quiet land touched by the breath of the divine, there lived a young prophet named Youella—a child unlike any other, anointed from birth and filled with light. But where light shines, shadows often gather.
By Joel Miftahulabout a year ago in Confessions
Shattered Respite
Primi: The Mystery Three things to write about. Waking myself up thinking about hell and the terror of being trapped. Mourei telling the soldier who shoots her to run. The Al Bhed telling Mourei about the board and how to get off of it. What is the point? To play. Why are we playing? To get off the board.
By Stéphane Dreyfusabout a year ago in Confessions
The Tragic Tale of Nutty Putty Cave: A Story of Exploration and Survival
Nutty Putty Cave, located in the rugged wilderness of Utah, is a name that brings both wonder and sorrow to those who hear it. This underground maze of tunnels and passages, known for its narrow, winding pathways and stunning rock formations, has captivated adventurers and spelunkers for years. However, one fateful story has forever etched Nutty Putty Cave into the annals of tragic exploration—the story of John Jones, whose life was forever changed within the dark, twisting confines of the cave.
By Talkzillaabout a year ago in Confessions
The Silence That Spoke Louder Than Words: A Woman’s Strength in the Shadows
They say silence is weakness. That if you’re not loud, if you don’t demand, if you don’t shout back — you’ll be forgotten. I used to believe that, too. Until life taught me that sometimes, silence is not surrender. It’s strength. For years, I lived behind the scenes. Not because I lacked a voice — but because I chose to protect others with it. I believed in peace. In holding the family together, even when I was falling apart inside. On the outside, I had everything: a husband, children, a home. But behind those closed doors, I was alone. My husband wasn’t cruel in obvious ways. He never shouted, never hit. But his silence, his detachment, his disregard — that hurt in ways words never could. He stopped seeing me long before I realized I had disappeared. And yet, I stayed. I cooked his meals, raised our children, hosted his guests. I smiled when I wanted to scream. I stood quietly while others whispered about his "friendships." I heard the late-night calls, saw the change in him — and still, I endured. Not out of weakness. But because I thought love meant sacrifice. That family meant swallowing pain. That dignity meant silence. But silence is a strange thing. It can either break you — or build you. I didn’t fight. I didn’t accuse. I simply observed. Every night he came home later, every lie he wrapped in a smile — I saw it all. And I kept going. I made tea the next morning, helped the kids with homework, folded laundry — and somewhere in the middle of all that, I found a part of me I’d forgotten. The woman before the wife. The soul before the silence. And one day, my daughter said something that stayed with me. “Ammi, I don’t know how you do it. You carry everyone and never ask for anything.” I smiled. But inside, something shifted. I realized I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t small. I wasn’t broken. I was strong. Not the kind of strength that roars — but the kind that endures. Quietly. Steadily. Powerfully. So I stopped begging. I stopped hoping. I stopped breaking myself into pieces to keep someone else whole. I didn’t leave — not because I couldn’t, but because I chose to find myself right where I had been lost. I started reading again. Started praying with focus. Started talking to myself with kindness. I didn’t need revenge. I didn’t need drama. I needed peace. And I found it. Not through him. But through me. He noticed. My silence, once convenient for him, became uncomfortable. He asked if I was okay. I smiled and said, “I’m learning to be.” That was the truth. I was healing. And he didn’t know what to do with a woman who no longer needed him to feel whole. I no longer waited for an apology. I stopped waiting for the love I had long deserved. Instead, I gave it to myself. And it changed everything. With each passing day, I stopped walking on eggshells. I took long walks by myself. I visited my parents more often. I picked up a hobby I'd long buried under diapers and deadlines. For the first time in years, I slept without waiting for the sound of the front door late at night. I started journaling. Every thought, every buried emotion, every suppressed scream — I poured it all onto paper. And slowly, the weight on my chest began to lift. Writing became my therapy. My outlet. My mirror. My children noticed the change too. The woman who had once tiptoed around the house now played music while cooking, laughed with them, told stories from her childhood. I became more than their caretaker. I became their role model. One evening, while we sat on the floor folding laundry together, my son looked up at me and said, "Ammi, you seem happy now." I paused. That word — happy. It had been missing from my vocabulary for so long. I had learned to survive. But now, I was learning to live. And the most powerful part? I did it without revenge, without confrontation, without hatred. I simply reclaimed myself. To every woman reading this — if you’ve ever felt unseen, unheard, unvalued — know this: you are not alone. Your worth does not diminish just because someone fails to see it. Your silence does not mean weakness. It can be your sanctuary. Your weapon. Your revolution. You don’t need to burn bridges to find light. Sometimes, the quiet act of choosing yourself is the loudest declaration of strength. So walk in silence if you must. But walk with purpose. Walk with pride. Walk knowing that even in your quietest moments, you are making the loudest impact. Let the world underestimate you. Let them mistake your grace for submission. Let them learn too late that the woman they overlooked was the pillar holding everything together. And when they finally look back, they will realize: The quietest woman in the room was the strongest all along.
By Zia Udinabout a year ago in Confessions
The Stranger on Platform Nine
It was a rainy afternoon in Prague, and the train station buzzed with the usual chaos—loudspeakers echoing destinations, footsteps clattering on old tiles, and the scent of coffee blending with metal, rain, and the faint smell of diesel. I was on Platform Nine, backpack in hand, waiting for a train to Vienna.
By Sultan durani about a year ago in Confessions
I Failed, I Lost, I Learned: The Unexpected Lesson That Changed My Life
We don’t talk about failure enough. Not the filtered version with tidy lessons, but the raw, painful kind—the type that makes you question everything you believed about yourself. I didn’t expect to fall apart in my 30s, but life has a funny way of handing you the exact storm you need to rebuild. And that’s exactly what it did when I lost my job, my confidence, and temporarily, my sense of self. It started with an email. Just one. “We regret to inform you…” That cold, corporate tone shattered years of loyalty in an instant. I was let go—fired from the job I had given everything to. It wasn’t just work; it was my identity. I was the dependable one, the hard worker, the "first in, last out" kind of employee. So when it ended, it wasn’t just my paycheck I lost. I lost who I thought I was. At first, I tried to brush it off. “It’s just a rough patch,” I told myself. But the truth was harder to swallow. My routine vanished. My days became quiet, and that silence grew louder with every passing hour. I stopped waking up early. I stopped answering texts. I stopped showing up for myself. The Emotional Weight of Failure What I didn’t expect was how physical failure could feel. My chest felt heavy. I developed headaches and stopped sleeping. I kept replaying conversations in my head, trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong. And while friends offered support, their words felt distant. No one really understood how much I had tied my value to my work—until it was gone. Then came the practical side of things. Bills. Rent. Groceries. I began cutting costs, selling off things I once treasured. My favorite watch, a vintage camera, old vinyl records—all gone. With every sale, I felt like I was shedding layers of a life I once lived. But perhaps that was the point. I needed to strip down to see what was underneath. Rediscovering Myself in the Silence In the thick of it all, one night changed everything. I found an old notebook tucked behind a drawer. In it were notes from my early 20s—half-written poems, dreams of starting a blog, random photography ideas. I hadn’t seen it in years, but the moment I opened it, something stirred in me. That notebook reintroduced me to a version of myself I had forgotten. A person who was curious, creative, and hopeful. I started writing again—at first just journaling. Then stories. Then articles. I took long walks with my old DSLR, capturing the world like it was brand new. And for the first time in months, I started to feel alive again. Eventually, I submitted one of my stories to a small online magazine. I expected rejection. Instead, I got an acceptance email. It wasn’t a big publication, but it was validation. A reminder that I still had something to offer. That maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t finished yet. The Unexpected Lesson Losing my job was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced—but it was also one of the most necessary. It forced me to confront truths I had been avoiding: that I had wrapped my identity in productivity, that I was afraid to fail, and that I had neglected the parts of me that didn’t generate income or praise. The most powerful lesson I learned? Failure isn’t the end. Sometimes, it’s the beginning. When everything I thought I needed was stripped away, what remained was who I truly am. Not the job title. Not the accolades. Just a person who loves to create, connect, and keep growing. Moving Forward with Purpose Today, I still face uncertainty—but I face it with a new mindset. I’ve launched a personal blog, taken on freelance projects, and built a small but supportive online community. Most importantly, I’ve learned to value myself beyond the paycheck. To appreciate stillness. To find purpose in progress, not perfection. If you’re reading this and facing your own failure—know this: You are not alone. And your story doesn’t end here. In fact, this might just be the chapter that changes everything. Sometimes, you have to lose yourself to find yourself again. I did. And I’m better for it. Liked this story? Support my journey by leaving a heart, sharing your thoughts in the comments, or checking out more of my stories. Every read helps me keep writing and reaching others who need it.
By NextGen Mobile Techabout a year ago in Confessions
