Friendship

Gudia’s Prayer: A Child’s Hope for Her Friend Guddu
Gudia’s Prayer BY:Khan I am Gudia. Right now, I am sitting in the long, silent corridor of a hospital. The floor beneath me is cold, and so is the air around me. It feels like the whole world has fallen asleep, except for me and the sound of my own thoughts. I know my mother must be worried at home. I never returned last night, and she must be pacing, waiting, maybe even crying. In the morning, when I finally go home, she will scold me, perhaps even beat me with the corner of her dupatta the way she does when she is angry. And I will take it silently, because I know she is worried out of love. But how can I leave? How can I go home when Guddu is lying here in this hospital, fighting for his life? Maybe you don’t know who Guddu is. How would you? Let me tell you. Guddu is not just a friend—he is my secret-keeper, my laughter, my world. He is the one who buys me small pieces of roasted corn from the street, who treats me to a kulfi when the heat becomes unbearable, who listens to me when no one else does. But let me tell you how we first became friends. One afternoon, my mother sent me to the market to buy vegetables. On the way, I saw Guddu sitting outside his house, selling candies. I wanted one so badly. I asked him, “Please give me a candy. I’ll bring the money tomorrow.” He didn’t ask questions, didn’t frown. He just smiled and handed me a candy without taking a single coin. That was the beginning. After that day, we were always together. Our neighborhood is dirty, filled with garbage dumps at every corner. The air often smells of rotting food, and stray dogs fight over scraps in the alleys. But somehow, in that ugliness, our friendship blossomed. Guddu and I would sit near the railway crossing, right by the old iron gate where trains would thunder past. He would count the coins he earned from selling candies, his small hands moving carefully as if every coin was a treasure. And I would chatter endlessly—about my school, my mother, my dreams. He would listen, smile, and sometimes laugh out loud. Life was simple, even if the world around us wasn’t. But then came the day everything changed. We were walking home together, chatting as usual, when we came across one of those garbage piles. We tried to walk carefully, stepping around it, but in the blink of an eye, something sharp hidden inside the trash pierced Guddu’s foot. He winced in pain. Blood began to flow from the wound, staining the dust beneath his feet. I quickly tore a strip from my dupatta and pressed it against his foot to stop the bleeding. Guddu tried to laugh it off, pretending it was nothing, but I could see the pain in his eyes. After that day, he was never the same. He started falling sick more often. His laughter faded, his energy drained. His mother took him to the hospital, and then came the words that no child should ever hear: “He has AIDS.” At first, I didn’t understand what that meant. All I knew was that the doctors whispered as if they carried bad news, and people began to look at Guddu differently, as if he was carrying a shadow that could spread. But I knew only one thing: Guddu was my friend. And friends don’t leave each other behind. Now I sit here on the cold floor of the hospital corridor, praying with all my heart. I press my hands together tightly, whispering every prayer I know. “Please, God. Don’t take Guddu away. Please don’t let him die.” Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I believe that if I keep praying hard enough, if I keep believing, then maybe a miracle will happen. Maybe Guddu will open his eyes tomorrow, smile at me, and say, “See, Gudia? I told you I won’t leave you.” I believe in that hope. I must. Because what is friendship without hope? Dear children, if you are reading my story, I want to ask you something. Please whisper a prayer with me. Say it softly, in your heart: “Gudia’s Guddu will live. He will not die.” Because when many hearts pray together, miracles can happen. I know life is cruel sometimes. Our world is full of dirt, pain, and poverty. Children like Guddu and me are often forgotten. But in the middle of all this, love still exists—love in the form of friendship, kindness, and loyalty. That is why I believe Guddu’s story will not end here. Yes, maybe the doctors have given up. Maybe the neighbors whisper that his days are numbered. But I believe differently. I believe that prayer is stronger than fear, and friendship is stronger than disease. So I sit here through the night, on the cold hospital floor, waiting for dawn. The world sleeps, but I stay awake. Because somewhere in that room, on that hospital bed, my best friend is fighting for his life. And I will not leave him alone. Not tonight. Not ever.
By Khan about a year ago in Confessions
Behind the Curtain: The Real Story of the Pakistan–Saudi Deal”
The recent Pakistan Saudi defense agreement has been hailed in official statements as a symbol of “brotherhood” and “mutual protection.” But a closer look reveals a different story one that raises troubling questions about Pakistan’s sovereignty, regional stability, and future
By Izhar Ullahabout a year ago in Confessions
The Secret I Never Planned to Share
Secrets are strange. They start off as little shadows that you might decide to overlook. But the longer you hold on to them, the heavier they become—they speak in your ear at night, sit on your chest, and tug at your conscience. I wasn't going to share mine. For years, I even convinced myself that I would take it into the next world.
By jawad aliabout a year ago in Confessions
Is God a man?
Although my faith has been renowned. I still believe that many of us can follow the teachings of Christ and his righteousness. Doesn’t mean that my righteousness views are going to be the same as everyone else’s. We are all different and view things differently. It doesn’t make sense to me that if a god is loving and so vast in his creation that he would create each of us the with the same perspective. So, although I believe we should have high value and be righteous towards god. Being one that follows the same views as another is not agreeable to me. If one church is saying the Bible says we are all sinners. You must know that. I think deep down it may be true for that era of time that they were all sinners. They did very wrong things apart from gods righteousness. I think we can all agree though that most people make mistakes and don’t know god and who god really is to us. That is the most important questions because god is so vast and moving and shows up in different ways. It’s important to recognize that he may not be the same god as another. Just because we don’t agree that my god and your god are the same doesn’t mean we are wrong and should go to hell for it. Why people get so mixed in this idea is beyond me and not sustainable for human lives and culture. One thing does remain and brings us in unity as the ideology that there is a god of creation.
By Cerina Galvanabout 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 Date
Passing the time, looking around and looking for a soul to accompany to follow, she continues to walk towards the dark small alley. So many feelings to hold, to resist, to procrastinate so no one will know how she feels. She continued to look, to see if she could find the smell, the shadow left by that man.
By Lasha Deselaabout a year ago in Confessions
The Day My Mistake Became a Public Spectacle at Work
A Personal Story The office was small — just four desks, each occupied, the sound of keyboards and phones filling the space. I shared it with three colleagues, one woman and two men, each focused on their own tasks. On that week, one of my responsibilities was to make changes in our systems and move them into production so the whole team could keep working smoothly.
By BehindTheDeskabout 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
The Lake at Twilight
You look out over the reflection of the sun, through the still waters of the lake, as the sun sets behind the gentle darkening mountains. The sky recedes from yellow to orange, to red, before hinting a shade of violet and blue. The clouds once gentle shades of off-white are now turning into darker shades of gray.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Confessions
The Night We Met: A Love That Changed Everything
A Stranger’s Smile It was a rainy evening in Lahore when Ali ducked into a small café to escape the storm. The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee and damp earth. He shook the raindrops from his hair and looked around for a seat. That’s when he saw her. She sat near the window, sketching in her notebook with quiet concentration. Every so often, she smiled at something only she could see. Ali didn’t know her name, but something about her calm presence pulled him in. When their eyes met briefly, she gave a soft, polite smile. Ali felt a warmth in his chest, the kind that refuses to be ignored. It was the kind of smile that says, “I see you, even if just for a second.” --- Letters of the Heart Days turned into weeks, and fate seemed determined to bring them together. Ali started visiting the café more often, and soon enough, small conversations began. Her name was Hania, an art student who loved sketching rainy streets. Ali found himself looking forward to these brief exchanges. He wasn’t brave enough to say much, but he started leaving little notes on the napkins when she wasn’t around—tiny quotes, sketches of raindrops, or even a single word like “hope”. To his surprise, the next time he visited, there was a napkin waiting for him too. On it, Hania had drawn a flower. Slowly, their silent language grew. What started as napkin notes turned into exchanged journals—pages filled with thoughts they couldn’t say aloud. In those letters, they shared dreams, fears, and hidden pieces of themselves. It wasn’t just ink on paper; it was their hearts speaking in secret. --- When Distance Spoke Louder Just as their bond grew stronger, life tested them. Hania received an offer for an art scholarship abroad. It was the opportunity she had always dreamed of—but it meant leaving Ali behind. The night before her flight, they met at the café one last time. No words were enough. She placed her hand over his journal and whispered, “Distance doesn’t erase what’s real.” For months, they kept writing, this time through long emails and late-night video calls. But the time zones stretched their patience, and the silence between calls grew heavier. Ali felt the ache of missing her in every empty chair at the café. --- The Moment of Truth One evening, Ali sat at the café with their old journals spread before him. The pages smelled faintly of ink and coffee, carrying the memory of her presence. He realized then that he couldn’t let silence win. He bought a ticket and flew across continents, his heart pounding harder with every mile. When he finally stood outside her art studio, his hands trembled. Hania looked up in shock as he entered. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Ali whispered, almost breathless, “I was afraid of losing you more than I was afraid of the distance.” Tears filled her eyes as she closed the gap between them. The words they had hidden for so long were finally set free. A Promise Forever That night, they walked under a foreign sky, stars scattered like promises waiting to be kept. Hania leaned on his shoulder, and Ali finally felt the peace he had been missing. They promised each other—not of a life without challenges, but of choosing love despite them. Their story was no longer just about chance meetings or letters on napkins. It had become a choice, a commitment, a bond written not on paper but in their lives. As they stood under the stars, Ali whispered, “The night we met changed everything. And every night after this, I’ll keep choosing you.” And with that, their love became not just a fleeting storm, but a forever calm.
By Muhammad suliman about a year ago in Confessions
A Lesson in Friendship: The Cost of Misunderstanding
Memory of Friendship: A Lesson in Misunderstanding By Hafiza Ayesha Mohsin, Karachi BY:Ubaid “Aunty! Where is Rahman? He didn’t come to school today.” Aqib asked as he arrived at Rahman’s house, concern written all over his face. Rahman’s mother looked at him with a gentle smile, trying to soothe his worry. “Beta, actually, he had a high fever today. That’s why he took a leave from school.” Aqib’s face reflected both concern and disappointment. Rahman and Aqib were not just friends—they were the best of friends. Their friendship was truly exemplary. They shared everything with each other and were always there to support one another. “Oh! He didn’t even tell me… I wanted to see him,” Aqib said, feeling upset that he wasn’t informed about Rahman’s illness. Rahman’s mother reassured him, “He’s inside his room. Go meet him, but be gentle.” Aqib nodded and quietly walked toward Rahman’s room. When he entered, he saw Rahman sleeping peacefully, unaware of his friend’s concern. Aqib hesitated. He didn’t want to disturb Rahman’s rest. After a brief pause, he decided it would be better to leave quietly rather than wake him up. Silently, he turned and left the room, feeling a little heavy-hearted but hopeful that Rahman would feel better soon. Later, Aqib informed Rahman’s mother about his visit before heading home. The next day, Rahman woke up feeling much better. As he sipped his soup, he asked his mother, “Mom, did anyone call to ask why I didn’t go to school?” His gaze subtly hinted at Aqib, expecting to hear about his friend’s concern. However, Rahman’s mother, having forgotten to mention Aqib’s visit, replied, “No, beta. No one called.” Hearing this, Rahman’s heart sank. Doubts and misconceptions began to cloud his mind. Does Aqib even care about me? Does it make any difference to him whether I go to school or not? Maybe I’m not that important to him after all. Thoughts of neglect and betrayal spiraled in Rahman’s mind. Slowly, he allowed himself to be consumed by these misunderstandings, thinking, Why should I even care about someone who doesn’t care about me? He couldn’t even spare a few minutes to check on me. Feeling hurt, Rahman decided it was better to distance himself emotionally. He thought, I don’t need this friend; I can manage without him. With this mindset, he drifted back into sleep, nursing feelings of sadness and resentment. The following day, Rahman recovered fully and went to school. As soon as Aqib saw him, he rushed toward him with a wide smile. “Hey Rahman! How are you feeling?” But Rahman, still wounded by his assumptions, responded coldly, “Leave me alone, Aqib! Why should it matter to you how I am?” He walked straight to his classroom, ignoring his friend’s attempts to reach out. Aqib was left standing in shock, confused by Rahman’s sudden coldness. “Rahman! Please listen to me!” Aqib called, desperate to explain. Later that day, when Rahman was walking home for the first time without Aqib, he heard his friend’s voice behind him. “Wait, Rahman! Don’t go!” But Rahman, stubborn and hurt, shouted back, “I don’t need a friend like you! Go away!” He quickened his pace, leaving Aqib behind. Aqib’s eyes welled up with tears. He felt the sting of rejection, even though his intentions were pure. It was only when Rahman’s mother spoke to him later that everything became clear. “Beta, did you talk to Aqib? I forgot to tell you yesterday, but he came to ask about you. When he saw you sleeping, he didn’t want to disturb you, so he left quietly.” Rahman froze, his mouth opening in shock and realization. “Really?” he whispered, feeling a rush of embarrassment and guilt. He had allowed a simple misunderstanding to create unnecessary pain and distance between two best friends. Aqib’s actions had been thoughtful and considerate all along, but Rahman’s assumptions had turned his concern into imagined neglect. Feeling regretful, Rahman understood the gravity of jumping to conclusions without clear communication. He realized that sometimes misunderstandings can grow unnecessarily if one doesn’t ask questions or seek clarity. Aqib had cared deeply for him, and Rahman had almost ruined their beautiful friendship based on assumptions. This experience left a lasting impression on Rahman. He learned that friendships require patience, trust, and open communication. Sometimes, people care in ways we may not immediately see, and it’s essential not to let doubt or pride cloud the truth. From that day forward, Rahman became more thoughtful in his friendships, ensuring that misunderstandings would never come between him and those he valued. Aqib, too, continued to be the loyal friend he had always been, proving that true friendship withstands even moments of doubt and confusion. In the end, Rahman and Aqib’s bond grew stronger. They both learned that friendship is not just about being together during happy moments but also about trust, understanding, and the willingness to forgive and move past mistakes.
By Ubaid 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