Humanity
Hurt someone with the truth, but never make them happy with a lie
The shard of mirror trembled slightly in Mara’s hand, reflecting a fractured image of her own tear-streaked face. It was an imperfect reflection—distorted, broken, but undeniably real. In her other hand, she clutched a fragile, crumpled piece of paper, its edges worn from countless folds and unfolded attempts to smooth it out.
By Mahayud Dinabout a year ago in Confessions
He Was Smiling, but Dying Inside
I was never special not by looks, not by talent, and definitely not by luck. Just a regular guy, the kind people forget in group photos. The one who’s always “fine” when asked, even when everything inside is falling apart. People around me said, You have everything food, clothes, a roof over your head. What could possibly be wrong? And I would nod, pretending to agree. But deep down, I knew something was missing. Something big. There was no peace. No sleep. No real joy. I was breathing, eating, existing… but I wasn’t really alive. I didn’t know exactly when it started. Maybe it was the day I stopped laughing from my heart. Or the night I stayed up staring at the ceiling, my chest heavy for no reason. Over time, everything just blurred. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And I kept slipping, slowly. I’d be in a room full of people friends, noise, even music and still feel completely alone. I’d laugh with others, nod in conversations, and say all the right things. But none of it felt real. It was just noise. Noise to cover the silence inside. The kind of silence that screams. I tried to talk about it, once or twice. But every time I opened up, people said the same thing: Don’t think too much. Just stay busy. You’ll be fine. So I stayed busy. I kept myself surrounded by tasks, distractions, noise. But nothing worked. It was like something inside me had cracked not loudly, but quietly, like a glass breaking in the next room. I couldn’t see the pieces, but I felt them everywhere. Sometimes I’d sit near the window and stare out. I’d ask myself quietly, If I don’t wake up tomorrow… would anyone even care? The question would echo in my head, over and over. And every time, the answer felt like a soft, painful No. Then one night, by pure chance, I opened an old message on my phone. It was from a childhood friend I hadn’t spoken to in years. He had written: Man, you were always the one keeping everyone together. Never break. It would hurt. Those words simple, honest hit me like a wave. That night, I cried. Not because I was weak, but because for the first time in a long time… I felt seen. The next morning, I did something I had never done before. I looked up a psychologist. My hands were shaking as I booked the appointment. I felt embarrassed. Weak. Maybe even stupid. But I went anyway. And when I sat there, I finally said it out loud: I feel like I have everything… but inside, I have nothing left. The therapist didn’t laugh. She didn’t question me. She just said: This happens more often than you think. You’re not weak. You’re human. Those words changed something inside me. No, I didn’t feel magically better. Healing didn’t happen overnight. But I started paying attention. I cried when I needed to. I stopped pretending all the time. I wrote my thoughts down. I gave myself permission to feel. And I stopped judging myself for feeling broken. Day by day, piece by piece, I began to gather the parts of myself I had lost. I didn’t become someone new. I just started becoming me again. Even now, not every day is perfect. There are still mornings when I feel the weight again. Still nights when the silence comes back. But now, I don’t run from it. I sit with it. I breathe through it. And I remind myself: this, too, will pass. Now, when someone asks, Are you okay? I don’t fake it anymore. I say, I’m trying to be. And for now, that’s enough. Check on the ones who always smile. They might be breaking inside. And never forget to check on yourself, too.
By Ashraf about a year ago in Confessions
Notes on Sleeping in My Car For More Than One Night. Top Story - March 2022.
In February of last year, due to some technical difficulties, I slept in my car one rainy, Saturday night in Los Angeles. It wasn't the last time, though. It was the beginning of letting go.
By Sawyer Phillipsabout a year ago in Confessions
Litters I Never Sent
I’ve always believed words have weight. That’s why I wrote them down, and that’s why I never sent them. The first letter I ever wrote to you was the night after you left. Not a goodbye—because you never gave me one—but a memory I couldn’t let go of. It was a Tuesday. You had that stupid green scarf wrapped three times around your neck even though it wasn’t cold. I hated that scarf. You said it smelled like your mother. I said that didn’t make it a good thing. In the letter, I wrote about the way you looked at the sky that morning. Not up, but through it. Like you could see something I couldn’t. That always scared me about you—you looked too far ahead. You never stayed in a moment longer than necessary. I folded that letter and tucked it into the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I didn't think I’d write another. But I did. Letter two came after the wedding. Not ours, obviously—someone else’s. You wouldn’t have come even if I’d invited you, but I imagined what you’d say if you had. The letter was full of things I wished I could’ve shouted across the hall during the first dance. Like how I still hear your laugh in crowded rooms and how I scan faces hoping yours will be there, even though I know it won’t be. I wrote it all down on a napkin I’d stuffed into my purse, then copied it neatly when I got home. I burned that napkin, but I kept the copy. Letter five—yes, five—was written the day I got the job. You always told me I was “meant for bigger things.” I remember the way your eyes lit up when I read you my short stories. You said they made you feel like you were falling through the page. No one ever said that to me again. I wanted you to know I made it. That your belief wasn’t wasted, even if the relationship was. I signed it, “Still chasing stars. –E.” And yet, I never mailed it. There were more. Dozens, maybe. A few were angry. Some were just blank pages I folded anyway, needing the ritual more than the words. I used to think writing them was a way to move on. But now I know it was the opposite. I was holding on—in ink and paper—because it was safer than calling. Somewhere along the way, I stopped dating. Not consciously. I’d say “I’m too busy” or “I haven’t met the right one,” but the truth was simpler: I kept measuring everyone against a ghost. Against someone who never truly belonged to me in the first place. You were always half in, half gone. And I let you stay that way because I was terrified of what it would mean if you ever fully left. And then, three weeks ago, I saw your name in an obituary. No photo. Just a line about a “quiet man who loved literature and solitude.” It didn’t even mention your music. You used to hum while you cooked—off-key but full of joy. Did no one know that part of you? Or had you buried it, too? I sat on my kitchen floor and cried until my chest burned. Then I did what I always do: I wrote. One more letter. This time, I addressed it to the sky. No drawer. No fire. Just me, your green scarf—yes, I kept it—and the sound of a city that didn’t care someone like you was gone. I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought the stars would blink in Morse code or a wind would carry your voice back. Nothing happened. Just silence. And yet, in that quiet, I found something close to peace. So this is the last letter. I won’t keep it. I won’t fold it. I won’t hide it. Because this one’s not for you. It’s for me. To finally let go. To say goodbye. To the man I loved in fragments. To the letters I never sent. —E.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Confessions
I Was Homeless at 19. This Is What No One Tells You.
I still remember the night I slept behind the grocery store like it’s tattooed into my skin, the smell of sour milk leaking from the dumpster, the concrete digging into my hip, and the way the cold seeped through my hoodie like I wasn’t even there.
By Ava Writes Truthabout a year ago in Confessions
State Of Shock
Introduction Today I decided to rearrange the workroom so that I could play my keyboard and guitar and have access to my CD collection. The move around was successful, and then I rearranged my CD boxes, and the one that ended up on top, which will provide a lot of my music over the next few weeks, contained artists from "I" to "L", which I had not dipped into for a very long time.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Confessions
The Day I Almost Gave Up and the Stranger Who Changed Everything
I was standing in the middle of a grocery store, staring at a loaf of bread I couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just any day—it was the kind of day that makes you question every decision you’ve made. My phone bill was overdue. My rent was looming. I had $4.27 in my account, and I hadn’t eaten a full meal in almost two days. I kept running the numbers in my head, hoping something would magically add up. But it never did.
By Maria-Goretti about a year ago in Confessions
What Losing Everything Taught Me About Starting Over
There are moments in life when everything falls apart at once. For me, it wasn’t just one thing it was everything. My relationships, my dreams, my sense of self. The things I thought were permanent became distant memories. People I trusted walked away. Plans I made crumbled. And suddenly, the life I’d worked so hard to build no longer felt like it belonged to me.
By Lyra Raeabout a year ago in Confessions
The Stranger Who Saved My Life—and Disappeared Forever. AI-Generated.
We all have moments that share our lives before and after. For me, it was a rain Wednesday night in November that was almost my last. I still don't know the name of the person who saved me that day. I will probably never. But a week is not that I do not think about them - and left the mystery of them.
By Rameez Khanabout a year ago in Confessions
