Humanity
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
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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.
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