Embarrassment
My Maid of Honor Slept with My Fiancé
Weddings are supposed to be the happiest day of your life. I spent two years preparing for mine—carefully planning every detail. The flowers. The playlist. The dress. And most importantly, who would stand beside me: my best friend since fifth grade, Amanda, as my maid of honor.
By Kevinabout a year ago in Confessions
Is Masturbation a Sin?. Content Warning.
Masturbation is a topic that stirs up a lot of debate, especially within religious circles. Many people wonder if it's something that goes against their faith. The Bible doesn't explicitly mention masturbation, which complicates the discussion.
By Thakur Sabout a year ago in Confessions
Fair Travel
Most people dream of traveling, some are commissioned to travel, and others are born to travel. Whatever category you fall under, we're all responsible for being fair and respectful during our travels. This may be considered a common concept to some; however, to others, this is a far reach to achieve. I've been traveling across the world for over 15 years, and it never ceases to amaze me the gall some people have when visiting another country. I suspect that if you never learn humility or the basics of human respect from either your family or school, it's difficult to acquire or display the characteristics of a noble soul. I wrote a blog post 10 years ago about this topic, and it seems humanity is not improving, more specifically, people from the West. Now, before I get too many boos and hisses, I grew up in North America, so I have credibility when it comes to knowing Western culture, and I am not leaving out bad actors from the East either. I will have to say, compared to the rest of the world, Western culture is one of the most abrasive and unyielding. I don't know why the erragance persists, I just wish it would stop or at least decrease. We're in 2025, and people still haven't learned diplomacy and tolerance.
By Char Chaseabout a year ago in Confessions
Confessions of a Former Alcoholic Part 2
These days, I am in a position to maintain my sobriety in general. Having a large level of self-control is required in order to engage in activities such as writing and serious hobbies. Deals are made in an atmosphere where alcohol is prevalent, particularly in the business sector, in order to weaken the willpower of business people. However, I am aware that now I want to avoid going to bars as much as possible.
By TheNaethabout a year ago in Confessions
The Silence I Inherited
In the country where I currently live, the world often feels upside down. Every day brings a fresh dose of absurdity. People drive recklessly, drunk and unaware of consequences. Laws seem like mere suggestions, and the streets are filled with chaos. I don’t engage with much of it—I stay away. I have learned to withdraw, to protect my peace by limiting my contact with others.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Confessions
“When Silence Echoes Between Us”
It’s strange how, after all this time, my mind still drifts back to you. Not daily. Not intensely. But enough to make me stop and wonder: Why now? Why still? By any logic, I shouldn’t be having these feelings. We haven't spoken in well over a year. We parted ways on terms so fractured that it was almost a relief to stop trying. And yet, here I am — remembering. Our last words weren’t exactly kind. If anything, they were laced with exhaustion. Not rage. Just a tired sort of detachment that signaled we had finally run out of fuel. And maybe, that was for the best. Still, some part of me replays those days. Quietly. Without meaning to. I know I’m better off. That much is clear. What we had — if it can even be called that — wasn’t healthy. Our connection was riddled with chaos, unspoken power games, and a constant undercurrent of discomfort. There was always this sense that I was walking on a ledge. One misstep, and I’d fall into an argument, a cold shoulder, or worse — silence. You always had more power. More influence. More say. Even when I spoke up, it felt like speaking into a tunnel where my words returned to me distorted and hollow. I gave too much. You took too easily. And no, you didn’t abuse me. But you didn’t respect boundaries either. Trust was a weapon in your hands. You never held it with care. The very things I confided in you — the vulnerable, trembling pieces of my inner world — were thrown back at me during disagreements. Used as reminders of my weaknesses. I remember the early days. It took less than a week for warning signs to show. Little things. Thoughtlessness. Inconsistencies. A coolness when I needed warmth. I ignored them — as we so often do when we want something to work. When we believe someone could be good for us. Red flags followed. Slowly. Surely. I started to see how little you actually listened. How you made everything a transaction. I called you out, but I didn’t let go. I should have. But I didn’t. Looking back now, I stayed far past the expiration date. By the time I walked away, it was no longer a decision — it was survival. You had taken up too much space in my mind. You weren’t actively there anymore, but your shadow lingered. The damage had already been done. But here's the part I don’t want to admit: I still think about you. It’s not longing. It’s not even regret. It’s… a weird, quiet ache. A part of me misses how bizarre and unpredictable our bond was. Like something you know you shouldn't touch, but you do anyway — just to feel something. There were moments, rare and fleeting, where our conversations felt electric. Where I could pretend, even briefly, that we had something special. That’s the part that haunts me. Sometimes, I wonder if we’ll ever run into each other again. Not dramatically. Not fate-driven. Just… maybe, someday. At a coffee shop. Or in some corner of the internet. Will we say anything? Will we look away? Will there be silence or a nod? I’ve checked your profiles. Not often. Just sometimes. I’ve seen traces of myself — my words, my creations — echoed there. Not always kindly. Sometimes, mockingly. But you didn’t forget me. That much is clear. I doubt you think about me as much as I think about you. You have your own world now. New pursuits. New responsibilities. A life far removed from our old connection. And that’s good. You needed it. I needed it too. But if we ever cross paths again, I won’t be the same. I won’t shrink myself for your comfort. I won’t try to please. I won’t hand over trust without reason. I’ve learned — painfully, deeply — how to hold myself with more care. I’m not waiting. I’m not hoping. But I’m not denying either. The past doesn’t disappear. It lingers. It echoes. This isn’t a plea. It’s not an open door. It’s just an acknowledgment. Of something that once was. Of someone I once knew. Of a version of me that existed in your presence — and had to leave to survive.
By Saeed Ullah about a year ago in Confessions
Rekindling My Childhood Love for Writing
Story: There was a time when I believed words could fix everything. I was eight years old when I wrote my first story. It was about a time-traveling pigeon who rescued lost socks from dryers. The plot made little sense, but I remember the feeling that coursed through me as I scribbled page after page in a wide-ruled notebook: a quiet kind of joy, like building a secret world no one else could see unless I let them.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Confessions
The Day I Stopped Apologizing for My Anxiety
It happened after another draining day at work, a day tangled in nervous energy. I kept hearing myself say, “Sorry I’m so anxious,” and “Sorry if I’m a bother.” My cheeks were hot with embarrassment every time a flush of panic crept in. That afternoon, after excusing my shivers and silence for what felt like the tenth time, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My eyes looked tired, old even, weighed down by invisible baggage. At that moment, I felt a swell of anger and stubborn hope rise—the realization that I deserved more than a cycle of apologies for simply being me.
By Wilson Igbasiabout a year ago in Confessions
Black Flower in My Hands
I remember the moment the black flower first appeared in my hands. It was early morning, just before dawn, when the sky still wore its veil of soft gray. I woke up as usual, groggy and fumbling for my phone, only to see something dark and unfamiliar resting on my palm.
By Ameliaabout a year ago in Confessions
And forgiveness was granted
Fahad's feet were not touching the ground with joy. He could not believe that he had become the owner of a new house. He loved his ancestral home very much, but now the space there was starting to feel a little cramped. The children of the three brothers were still young, so one day the three brothers sat together. The elder brother Farooq addressed the two younger brothers: "This house was built by Abu Jan with a lot of hard work. Although his business was not very large, he somehow built this house for us little by little.
By Echoes of Lifeabout a year ago in Confessions
