Friendship
He Said I Was His World — But He Meant It Temporarily
I loved him like a child loves the first rain — with all my heart, without understanding its danger. We met at a university orientation. He wasn’t the most handsome or the loudest guy in the room. But there was something about him — the way he spoke, the calm in his voice, the ease in his smile — it drew me in like gravity. He made me feel seen in a world that often looked past me. The first few months were magical. Every morning started with a “good morning, beautiful,” and every night ended with an “I wish you were here.” He would text me constantly — “You’re my whole world,” “Don’t ever leave me,” “I’ve never felt this way before.” And I believed every word. Because I wanted to. When you’re starved for affection, even breadcrumbs feel like a feast. We would go on late-night drives, talk about our childhoods, our dreams, our fears. He told me about how he was “never lucky in love” and how I was “the one who changed everything.” He held my hand like he meant forever. So I started imagining one with him. I began molding my world around his. I canceled plans with friends, changed my routines, even let go of opportunities — all for love. All for him. But slowly, things started to change. The messages became shorter. The replies slower. He started missing our calls. Stopped sharing his day. Laughed less. Smiled less. Touched me less. I asked him once, “Are we okay?” He said, “You overthink too much.” I blamed myself. Maybe I was too emotional. Too needy. Too sensitive. But my gut knew something I wasn’t ready to accept. One weekend, he completely disappeared. No calls, no texts, no updates. His last message was “I’ll call you in 10 minutes.” That was two days ago. Worried, I reached out to a mutual friend — someone who had always been close to him. What she told me shattered everything. He had been seen with someone else. At a party. Holding hands. Whispering things in another girl’s ear that he used to say to me. And he wasn’t hiding it. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a replacement. When I confronted him, he didn’t even flinch. He said, “Look, things were good. But people grow. You’ll be fine.” That was it. No apology. No closure. Just… detachment. I sat there in silence, tears welling up in my eyes, heart pounding so hard I thought it might explode. “You said I was your world,” I whispered. He smiled faintly and said, “Yeah, back then.” Back then. How quickly someone can go from “forever” to “back then.” --- The weeks that followed were a blur. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. I kept replaying every conversation, every moment. I wondered what I did wrong. Why I wasn’t enough. Why love wasn’t enough. But the truth is: love isn’t supposed to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to make you doubt yourself. It isn’t supposed to make you feel like you're hard to love. --- Eventually, I realized something important. He didn’t lie when he said I was his world. I was. But only temporarily. Only until he got bored. Only until he needed a new escape. Only until I stopped being convenient. And people like him don’t love you — they love the way you love them. They feed on it. Until there’s nothing left of you. But I refuse to let him take the last piece of me. --- Healing isn’t quick. It’s messy. It’s crying on the bathroom floor at 2 AM. It’s writing messages you’ll never send. It’s deleting pictures, only to stare at the recycle bin. But slowly, I’m learning. I’m learning that I deserve someone who chooses me every day — not just on the days it’s easy. I’m learning that my heart is still capable of love — even after being broken. And most importantly, I’m learning to love myself enough not to settle for someone who only meant it temporarily.
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Confessions
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By Saboor Brohi about a year ago in Confessions
Unspoken
I’ve always believed that the most powerful stories are the ones no one ever hears. They live quietly, tucked inside us — in half-written journals, in unfinished letters, in the moments when we stare at the ceiling and wonder what if. They never make it to stages or bookshelves. They don’t go viral. But they shape us more than any story we tell out loud. This is one of mine. I met her in the quietest winter of my life. I was 21. Lost, like most people are in their early twenties — pretending I knew who I was, what I wanted, what healing looked like. I had dropped out of university the semester before. Depression doesn’t ask for permission — it just shows up and stays until you forget who you were before it arrived. I’d spend most of my days sitting on the park bench at the corner of Fifth and Willow, clutching a notebook I rarely opened. Writing had always been my release, but at that time, even words felt too heavy to carry. And then she sat down next to me. No introduction. No small talk. Just a soft, tired sigh and the unwrapping of a chocolate bar. I glanced at her. She looked… ordinary. Messy bun, oversized coat, sneakers with worn-out laces. But her eyes — her eyes held storms. Not the kind that scared you. The kind that said, I’ve been there too. She offered me a piece of chocolate. I shook my head. "You look like you need it more than me," she said, half-smiling. That was the beginning. Her name was Safiya. We never exchanged numbers. We never asked for last names. But for the next 27 days, she showed up. Same bench. Same time. Two strangers sitting in silence, sometimes sharing chocolate, sometimes stories. She once told me, “People always want to fix you. They throw advice like bandaids. But sometimes, you just need someone to sit in your sadness without trying to solve it.” I didn’t say anything then. But I wrote it down when I got home. On the 10th day, she brought her journal. Not to read from it — just to show me it existed. “I call it The Book of Things I’ll Never Say Out Loud,” she said. I nodded, then slowly handed her mine. She didn’t open it. Just held it like something sacred. We sat that way — two people with matching scars, holding each other’s silence. On the 20th day, she cried. No warning. Just tears falling quietly as the wind pushed against the trees. I didn’t ask why. I just handed her a tissue and sat closer. “I thought I was getting better,” she whispered. “But grief has no expiration date.” Still, I said nothing. That was our language — understanding without questioning. On the 27th day, she didn’t come. I waited. For hours. The next day, I waited again. And the next. She never came back. I don’t know where she went. I don’t know if she moved, relapsed, healed, disappeared. I never saw her again. But sometimes, I imagine she’s sitting on another bench, in another city, handing someone else a chocolate bar and listening to stories they’ll never tell anyone else. Sometimes I think I was just a pause in her journey. A safe corner in the chaos. And maybe that’s enough. A year later, I opened the journal she gave me. I hadn’t dared to until then. There were only two pages filled. Page 1: To the stranger on the bench: Thank you for not asking me why I’m broken. Thank you for just sitting with the pieces. Page 2: If you’re ever brave enough to write again, write the story of us. Not for the world. For yourself. To remember that even on your worst days, someone saw you and stayed. I wept. Not loudly. Not dramatically. The kind of weeping that feels like cleansing — like finally letting go of everything you’ve held too tightly. I’m writing this now, years later, because she was right. Some stories deserve to be written even if no one reads them. Some connections, even nameless, are more real than lifelong friendships. Some moments live longer in memory than entire years. This is not a love story. It’s not a tragedy either. It’s just… human. Two people. One bench. A borrowed journal. Twenty-seven days of unspoken healing. So here it is, Safiya. I finally wrote the story. And if you ever find it… Thank you. For sitting beside me when I couldn’t carry my story alone.
By Muhammad Abuzar Badshah about a year ago in Confessions
The Firefly That Refused to Fade
Story: On the edge of a quiet village, nestled in tall blades of grass, lived a firefly unlike any other. His name was Lumo, and unlike most fireflies who blinked their lights for brief moments of courtship or instinct, Lumo carried a different fire—one not just in his abdomen, but deep within his soul. Every night, as the stars blanketed the sky and clouds drifted lazily over the moon, Lumo emerged. Where others flickered for moments and faded into the shadows, he chose to shine longer, brighter, and with purpose. The other insects often whispered, “Why does he burn so bright?” But Lumo never answered. His light was not for them. He had a dream. --- A Fire Born in Silence Lumo was born on a humid summer night. His first memory wasn’t of flight or freedom—it was of stillness. He remembered the suffocating darkness, a world where not even the stars dared peek. But then, for the first time, he felt it—a flicker inside him, warm and glowing. It wasn’t just biology or instinct. It was a calling. That night, he watched as the other fireflies rose for a brief mating flight. They danced, flickered, and faded. But Lumo stayed grounded. He asked himself, “Is my light meant only for survival—or something more?” --- The Path Less Glowed Unlike others, Lumo wandered further than the fields. He soared over rivers, glided through valleys, and even hovered above the rooftops of sleeping villages. Children in their beds would sometimes catch a glimpse of his glow and smile in their dreams. To them, he was a tiny wish flying in the dark. But every journey had its price. There were nights when storms raged, and his fragile wings felt like tearing. Clouds would swallow the stars, leaving him alone in a sky without guidance. At times, his light would dim—not from exhaustion, but from doubt. Why was he the only one still flying? Why did no other firefly share his path? --- The Firefly and the Boy One evening, after a heavy rain, Lumo rested on a blade of wet grass near a small hut. Inside, a little boy sat by the window, silent and sad. His mother had been sick for days, and the boy hadn’t smiled in what felt like forever. Lumo saw him. He knew that sadness. That lonely silence. So, for the first time in many nights, Lumo flew close—not high in the sky, but low, where the boy could see him. He circled the window gently, leaving a soft glowing trail in the misty air. The boy looked up, and for a moment, hope lit his eyes. Lumo didn’t need words. His light said it all: “You’re not alone.” That night, the boy placed a glass jar outside the window—not to catch Lumo, but to invite him. A tiny gesture of trust. Lumo never entered the jar, but he danced around it every night, giving the boy something to wait for. Over time, the mother recovered. The boy smiled more. And Lumo? He kept flying. --- Why Fireflies Don’t Shine in the Day Some ask, “Why don’t fireflies shine during daylight?” Lumo would say, “Because their light isn’t meant to compete with the sun—it’s meant to guide in darkness.” And maybe that’s the most beautiful thing about them. They glow when no one else does. They remind us that even in the deepest night, something soft and small can still be beautiful, powerful, and real. --- Legacy in the Night Lumo became a quiet legend in that village. No one could prove he existed, but stories passed from child to child. "The flying light that healed sadness." "The night flame who never left." "The firefly that refused to fade." Old now, Lumo still glows. His wings slower, his trails shorter—but his light, oh his light—it burns like the first night he felt it awaken inside. He knows now: It was never about being seen. It was about being true. --- Final Thoughts Lumo’s story is not just about a firefly. It’s about all of us—those who feel different, who shine in quiet ways, who carry light when the world turns dark. In a time where people often chase attention, noise, and brightness, maybe we should all learn something from a tiny firefly who chose to glow not for applause—but for purpose. We don’t always need to shine the brightest. We just need to shine when it matters most.
By Ihsan Ullah LLCabout a year ago in Confessions
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By Tracy Larsonabout a year ago in Confessions
