Friendship
Do You Unintentionally Hurt Others?
Right now, I’ve just returned from a friend’s gathering. Sitting in my dedicated office chair, I light a stick of agarwood incense. The calming scent relaxes me as I gaze out the window at the island’s late twilight. My room is dimly lit — dull and sluggish, much like my current mood. I lean back in my chair, and waves of thoughts surge in like the tide.
By Cher Cheabout a year ago in Confessions
The Silence Between Words. AI-Generated.
Sana had always been quiet. Not because she lacked things to say, but because she believed most things didn’t need to be said out loud. She spoke when necessary, and when she did, her words were soft, measured, and deliberate. But to the world around her—especially in the noisy classroom and social world of college—her silence was often misread. She wasn't invisible, exactly. People noticed her, but not in the way she hoped. They whispered things behind her back when they thought she couldn’t hear. Some called her "the ghost," others said she was “too proud to talk,” and once, she overheard someone say, “She probably thinks she’s better than all of us.” None of it was true. Sana was just… quiet. In her second year of college, she was paired with a group of three classmates for a project in her Communication Studies class—an ironic twist she couldn’t ignore. There was Ayesha, the loud and confident leader; Bilal, the laid-back joker; and Mariam, the kind one who always tried to make everyone feel included. Sana sat silently as Ayesha assigned tasks. "I'll handle the presentation part," Ayesha said quickly. "Bilal, you’re good with visuals. Mariam, research and structure. Sana... maybe proofreading?" Sana nodded. Mariam glanced at her and smiled. “You okay with that?” “Yes,” Sana replied softly. That was all she said. As the days passed, the group would meet often, usually in the café or library. And each time, Sana listened more than she spoke. She paid attention to every detail, quietly finishing her assigned part and even doing a little extra to help Mariam when needed. But she rarely joined in the laughter or side conversations. She didn’t know how to jump into a conversation that had already taken off. Her silence made her feel safe. But one afternoon, as she arrived at the library earlier than the others, she overheard Mariam and Ayesha talking. “I feel like she doesn’t want to be here,” Ayesha whispered. “She just sits there with that blank face. Like she’s judging us.” “No, I don’t think that’s it,” Mariam replied. “Maybe she’s just shy.” “Or stuck up,” Ayesha muttered. “I mean, we’re trying. But she gives nothing back. It’s weird.” Sana froze behind the shelf, her heart sinking. So this is how they saw her. Later that day, Bilal joked during their meeting, “Hey, Sana, do you speak or just communicate through mysterious eye contact?” The others laughed. Sana forced a smile. It was easier to smile than explain. Easier to pretend it didn’t hurt. That night, she stared at the ceiling in her room. Why do they always assume the worst? Why does being quiet mean you’re broken, angry, or proud? She thought of the quote she once read: “When others can’t read us, they write their own story.” And maybe that was it. Her silence was an empty page, and everyone around her was writing their own version of her story. --- Weeks passed. The group finished their project and gave the final presentation. True to her promise, Sana had helped Mariam perfect the structure and had polished every word of the script. They got an A. But Sana was still "the quiet one." And the label didn’t go away. Until one day. It was raining—soft, steady rain that painted the windows in silver streaks. Sana was walking toward the bus stop when she saw Mariam sitting alone on a bench, crying. People walked past her. Some looked. None stopped. But Sana did. She sat beside her and didn’t say a word. Just sat. Mariam didn’t look up at first. But after a moment, she wiped her face and whispered, “Hey.” Sana gave a small nod, her eyes warm. “My mom’s sick,” Mariam said. “We just found out. It’s cancer.” Sana reached into her bag and pulled out a small notebook. She gently tore a page and scribbled something. Then she handed it to Mariam. It read: “You don’t need to say anything right now. I’ll sit here with you as long as you need.” Mariam looked at her, surprised. Then she began to cry again—this time not because she was alone, but because she wasn’t. They sat there for almost thirty minutes. No words. No judgment. Just quiet, shared presence. When Mariam stood to leave, she turned to Sana. “Thank you. For understanding… without even needing to speak.” Sana smiled, and for once, it felt understood. --- A few days later, Ayesha approached Sana in class. “Hey,” she said, shifting awkwardly. “I think… I owe you an apology. Mariam told me how much you helped her. And I realized… maybe we were wrong about you. I was wrong.” Sana looked at her and nodded. “It’s okay.” “No, it’s not,” Ayesha said. “We all assumed things. You were always there, doing the work, helping quietly. I guess we just didn’t know how to see it.” Sana didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. But something changed after that. Bit by bit, the way people saw her shifted. Not because she spoke louder or changed who she was, but because someone finally told the true story behind the silence. --- Epilogue Years later, Sana became a writer—ironic, perhaps, for someone who never spoke much. But her words found their voice on paper, where no one could interrupt, and where silence could be beautiful. She wrote essays, poems, and stories—many about the quiet ones. About how silence is often misunderstood. About how not every quiet person is sad, stuck up, or strange. Some are just listeners. Some are just thinkers. Some are just… being. And one day, she wrote these lines in a book that would reach thousands: > “Silence isn’t always emptiness. Sometimes, it’s presence. Sometimes, it’s care. But the world doesn’t like gaps—it fills them with stories. So if you ever meet a quiet person, ask them their story… Instead of writing it for them.”
By Asad Ullah khan about a year ago in Confessions
The Last Text I Never Sent
We met in the most unexpected way—on a delayed train. He sat beside me with a backpack covered in band patches and a crooked smile. He asked if I liked The Smiths. I said I didn’t know who that was. He laughed and said he’d make me a playlist.
By Express Laneabout a year ago in Confessions
Gaslighting Took Me
It didn’t happen all at once. There wasn’t a loud explosion, a screaming match, or a dramatic exit. No, the unraveling of who I was happened quietly, like a thread pulled from the hem of my identity. I didn’t see it then, but now I know the name for it—gaslighting. And it took me. Slowly, surely, and almost completely.
By Hamad Haiderabout a year ago in Confessions
The Cost of Being “The Strong One”
By Nadeem Shah “You’re so strong.” “You’ve got this.” “I don’t know how you do it all.” At first, those words feel like praise. Like you're doing something right. You’re dependable. Unshakeable. The go-to person when things fall apart. You become the listener, the fixer, the shoulder everyone cries on.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Confessions
I Exposed My Best Friend’s Wedding Secret—And She Still Doesn’t Know It Was Me
Some secrets are too dangerous to keep—especially when they could ruin someone’s life. Or in this case, their marriage. It’s been eight months since the wedding. Everyone still thinks it was perfect. Beautiful dress. Gorgeous venue. Tears during the vows. But what they don’t know is that behind the scenes, I pulled a string that nearly unraveled the whole thing.
By Elliabout a year ago in Confessions
The Summer That Never Turned Out the Way It Was Supposed To
This was supposed to be the summer. The one with beach trips, late-night bike rides, and memories stitched together like fairy lights in July. We had it all planned—me, Asha, and Imran. Every detail scribbled in the back of Asha’s math notebook: “Summer of Freedom,” we called it.
By Unaishah Mostafa about a year ago in Confessions
I Wish To Be
used to think that love was about something I earned. I thought it was about collecting reason by reason. It feels like I will get a lot of love as a prize for having good behavior. It really seems like a reward for being the shiniest version of myself. Love makes me feel like I had to earn it. I had to be something more before I was allowed to be loved. Some say, the bitterness had to be distilled into something sweeter, before it was worthy of being swallowed. I had to carve myself into a shape that fit the hands of someone else. I had to smooth out my jagged edges, or else, I was just a burden. I was just a problem waiting to be solved. In another sentence, I was just a rough sketch no one wanted to finish. Love was not love unless it came with reasons. Unless it was because. Because, I loved them. Because, I was easy. Because, I was willing to do anything for them. Never despite. Never when I was dull. Never when I was nothing, but a quiet aching thing in my own life. Love was not love unless it was conditional. Unless it was because of. Because of my love and affection. Because of my willingness and usefulness. Because of I was easy to love. Never in spite of. Never when I was quiet. Never when I was nothing. And maybe, maybe that was why it hurt so much. Because, love was never really about me. It was about what I could be, what I could give, and how I could pay it off in return. I wish to be seen without performing. What if someone loved me when I was not even trying? When my hair was a mess from sleeping too long. When I am quiet at breakfast just watching the steam rise from my coffee. Not the me that tells good stories at parties nor holidays, but the one who sometimes stares too long at nothing. The me that exists between the big moments. Would they still look at me, then? Or would their eyes slide right past and start searching for someone more interesting? I wish to be heard without screaming. I have spent so long turning my thoughts into a bunch of fireworks. My thoughts feel loud and impossible to ignore. But, what if someone cared about the embers too? The half-formed worries I swallow down with my morning tea. The dumb little thoughts I am embarrassed to say out loud. What if they listened to my silences like they were just as important as my words? I wish to be missed without disappearing. I want to be wanted when I am right here. Right in front of the eyes that could not see me as a whole. Not when I have gone somewhere else. Not when I am just a memory wrapped in the deep memories of nostalgia. Cannot someone ache for me while I am sitting across from them at the dinner table? While my hand is in theirs on a Tuesday afternoon? I wish to be enough without proving it. There is no checklist of accomplishments. No desperate showing off of my best qualities like a street vendor displaying his wares. Just me. Me with my weird laugh and bad moods and all the unremarkable parts being sufficient. Not because I have earned it, but because love is not something I earn. I wish to be held without falling apart. I am so tired of love only finding me in pieces. What if arms wrapped around me while I was still whole? What if tenderness was not just for the broken, but for the barely holding on, for the not-quite-falling-yet? Why does kindness always come after the breaking? Why do arms only open when I am already in pieces? I want to be held when I am whole. It is not because I need it, but because someone wants to. Because my ordinary and unbroken self is worth holding too. I wish to be understood without explaining. I will not bother to translate my heart into simpler words. I will not bother to cut off the messy bits of myself to make it easier for people to love me. I will just take that quiet moment when someone nods and says ‘I know’ and actually does. I wish to be wanted without conditions. Not when I am happy. Not when I am easy. Not when I am useful. Not when I have something to offer. Not when I have to hide my flaws to be the definition of perfect. Not when I have to be someone else just to fulfill someone’s expectations. Just because, I am wanted. Just because, I am me. I wish to be. Not to be better. Not to be more. Just to be. I do not know if this kind of love exists anywhere or not, but in the margins of dog-eared poetry books, maybe it will end as a story I tell to me and myself only. A story full of beautiful lies to make the loneliness shift, like the way children imagine monsters under their beds just to explain the creaking floors. Maybe real love was not about some sort of unconditional thing. Maybe it is always a little selfish. A hunger that asks to be fed in return. Maybe it was never just take me as I am, but take me as I am… and here is what I need from you, too. Maybe that is all we ever get. And maybe, that is okay. Maybe I will learn to love the hunger instead of resenting it. Maybe I will stop waiting for someone to love me without wanting anything back and realize that is not how people work. We all want something. We all need something. Maybe the miracle is not being loved perfectly, but being loved anyway, even when it is messy. Or maybe, maybe I will spend my whole life chasing after some perfect, weightless love that does not ask me to bend. Only to realize, years too late, that I was the one who refused to bend. That I was so afraid of being loved for the wrong reasons, I would not let myself be loved at all. And that sounds like the cruelest joke, no? To finally find someone who wants me as I am, only to realize I have spent so long bracing for rejection, I forgot how to open the door when love finally knocked.
By khalidabout a year ago in Confessions
She Told Me I Was Her Best Friend — Then Tried to Replace Me Behind My Back. AI-Generated.
I used to think me and her were locked in. Like, for real. We’d talk for hours — the kind of convos where time doesn’t even exist. We had dumb inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. We’d trauma dump on each other at 2 a.m., vent about life, family, the stuff nobody else really cared enough to ask about. She told me I was her “safe space,” and honestly, I believed her. Felt like I finally found someone who got me. Someone who saw me — not just some random dude in the background.
By Mic Henryabout a year ago in Confessions
