Teenage years
Was I Just A Phrase To You ?
One day you were my home; the next, you packed up and left. A few days ago, his mother called me faking her emotions that how she misses me. I realised that it was fake because she did not miss me for 2 months and all of a sudden she contacted me. There was this trap she prepared unknowingly for herself and her family, she told every single of her relatives about me being the future wife of her son. Recently, one of her relatives were staying at her house, they asked her about me and so, she called me to ask if I want to do a video call to show my face.
By Phoenixabout a year ago in Confessions
I Was Okay With My Body Until They Weren’t
I'm a person who, in private, is okay with my body. I don’t brag about loving it—because I don’t—but I also don’t hate it. I look at myself sometimes and think, “Okay, I’m not perfect, but I’m not awful either.” Even when I feel insecure, I usually find a way to move past it. Sometimes I even start liking the very thing I was unsure about.
By Pantovic Katarinaabout a year ago in Confessions
Not Every Home A Good Home
I left because she didn’t hear me. My mother and I — we always butted heads. Always. It wasn’t just small disagreements or little attitude moments; it was constant tension. No matter how much I tried, no matter how much I kept quiet or held in my feelings, it was like we could never meet in the middle. The frustration built up over time, until I felt like I was suffocating in the silence between us. No matter how hard I tried to make her understand, I always seemed to be the one at fault. No matter how much I bent, it was never enough.
By Keriaabout a year ago in Confessions
We're All Struggling- So Why Are You Judging Me?
Why let me make memories with you just for you to stop them now? I used to think help meant care. That when someone saw me drowning, they’d reach out because they wanted to see me okay. But now, I’m not so sure. Somewhere along the way, “help” started to come with strings attached — a favor you’d throw in my face later, or worse, something I had to earn by breaking myself down first.
By Keriaabout a year ago in Confessions
India-Pakistan Conflict Escalates
May 2025 Military Tensions Erupt After Kashmir Massacre On May 6, 2025, the fragile peace between two nuclear-armed neighbors—India and Pakistan—was shattered as India launched a series of missile strikes into Pakistani territory. This unprecedented escalation comes just two weeks after a deadly attack in Indian-administered Kashmir, which killed 26 Indian tourists. India has blamed the massacre on Pakistan-based militants, and these strikes appear to be a direct retaliation.
By gul malookabout a year ago in Confessions
May this love ever find me.
They say a woman’s first love is their father. Luckily for me, it’s my grandfather. This generation has been more dependent on what is depicted in the media. They showcase the POV of lucky girlies who are treated well by their partners. And this actually prompts others to be “loved like this” or “may this love ever find me”. But little do they know what lies behind the screen. What is beyond the seemingly perfect relationship that one hopes to have.
By Jash Myer Calambaabout a year ago in Confessions
Why I Cut Off My Entire Family and Never Looked Back.
There are moments in life that define you, moments that, once crossed, make you look at the world and your past through an entirely different lens. For me, that moment came when I made the decision to cut off my entire family. It wasn’t a decision made lightly, nor was it one that came without its own struggles, doubts, and long nights of reflection. But in the end, it was the most freeing choice I ever made.
By Muhammad Jawadabout a year ago in Confessions
The Tragic Tale of Nutty Putty Cave: A Story of Exploration and Survival
Nutty Putty Cave, located in the rugged wilderness of Utah, is a name that brings both wonder and sorrow to those who hear it. This underground maze of tunnels and passages, known for its narrow, winding pathways and stunning rock formations, has captivated adventurers and spelunkers for years. However, one fateful story has forever etched Nutty Putty Cave into the annals of tragic exploration—the story of John Jones, whose life was forever changed within the dark, twisting confines of the cave.
By Talkzillaabout a year ago in Confessions
The Silence That Spoke Louder Than Words: A Woman’s Strength in the Shadows
They say silence is weakness. That if you’re not loud, if you don’t demand, if you don’t shout back — you’ll be forgotten. I used to believe that, too. Until life taught me that sometimes, silence is not surrender. It’s strength. For years, I lived behind the scenes. Not because I lacked a voice — but because I chose to protect others with it. I believed in peace. In holding the family together, even when I was falling apart inside. On the outside, I had everything: a husband, children, a home. But behind those closed doors, I was alone. My husband wasn’t cruel in obvious ways. He never shouted, never hit. But his silence, his detachment, his disregard — that hurt in ways words never could. He stopped seeing me long before I realized I had disappeared. And yet, I stayed. I cooked his meals, raised our children, hosted his guests. I smiled when I wanted to scream. I stood quietly while others whispered about his "friendships." I heard the late-night calls, saw the change in him — and still, I endured. Not out of weakness. But because I thought love meant sacrifice. That family meant swallowing pain. That dignity meant silence. But silence is a strange thing. It can either break you — or build you. I didn’t fight. I didn’t accuse. I simply observed. Every night he came home later, every lie he wrapped in a smile — I saw it all. And I kept going. I made tea the next morning, helped the kids with homework, folded laundry — and somewhere in the middle of all that, I found a part of me I’d forgotten. The woman before the wife. The soul before the silence. And one day, my daughter said something that stayed with me. “Ammi, I don’t know how you do it. You carry everyone and never ask for anything.” I smiled. But inside, something shifted. I realized I wasn’t invisible. I wasn’t small. I wasn’t broken. I was strong. Not the kind of strength that roars — but the kind that endures. Quietly. Steadily. Powerfully. So I stopped begging. I stopped hoping. I stopped breaking myself into pieces to keep someone else whole. I didn’t leave — not because I couldn’t, but because I chose to find myself right where I had been lost. I started reading again. Started praying with focus. Started talking to myself with kindness. I didn’t need revenge. I didn’t need drama. I needed peace. And I found it. Not through him. But through me. He noticed. My silence, once convenient for him, became uncomfortable. He asked if I was okay. I smiled and said, “I’m learning to be.” That was the truth. I was healing. And he didn’t know what to do with a woman who no longer needed him to feel whole. I no longer waited for an apology. I stopped waiting for the love I had long deserved. Instead, I gave it to myself. And it changed everything. With each passing day, I stopped walking on eggshells. I took long walks by myself. I visited my parents more often. I picked up a hobby I'd long buried under diapers and deadlines. For the first time in years, I slept without waiting for the sound of the front door late at night. I started journaling. Every thought, every buried emotion, every suppressed scream — I poured it all onto paper. And slowly, the weight on my chest began to lift. Writing became my therapy. My outlet. My mirror. My children noticed the change too. The woman who had once tiptoed around the house now played music while cooking, laughed with them, told stories from her childhood. I became more than their caretaker. I became their role model. One evening, while we sat on the floor folding laundry together, my son looked up at me and said, "Ammi, you seem happy now." I paused. That word — happy. It had been missing from my vocabulary for so long. I had learned to survive. But now, I was learning to live. And the most powerful part? I did it without revenge, without confrontation, without hatred. I simply reclaimed myself. To every woman reading this — if you’ve ever felt unseen, unheard, unvalued — know this: you are not alone. Your worth does not diminish just because someone fails to see it. Your silence does not mean weakness. It can be your sanctuary. Your weapon. Your revolution. You don’t need to burn bridges to find light. Sometimes, the quiet act of choosing yourself is the loudest declaration of strength. So walk in silence if you must. But walk with purpose. Walk with pride. Walk knowing that even in your quietest moments, you are making the loudest impact. Let the world underestimate you. Let them mistake your grace for submission. Let them learn too late that the woman they overlooked was the pillar holding everything together. And when they finally look back, they will realize: The quietest woman in the room was the strongest all along.
By Zia Udinabout a year ago in Confessions
The Stranger on Platform Nine
It was a rainy afternoon in Prague, and the train station buzzed with the usual chaos—loudspeakers echoing destinations, footsteps clattering on old tiles, and the scent of coffee blending with metal, rain, and the faint smell of diesel. I was on Platform Nine, backpack in hand, waiting for a train to Vienna.
By Sultan durani about a year ago in Confessions
"When the Sky Turned Lavender"
It was the middle of March when the sky above their school first turned that soft shade of lavender, the kind of color that comes right before sunset, when day hesitates before giving into night. That’s when Ayan first noticed Rayyan—not just as the quiet boy in the last row, but really noticed him. They’d been classmates since eighth grade. Ayan, the more outgoing of the two, had a circle of friends who spoke loudly, laughed often, and moved through school corridors like they owned them. Rayyan, on the other hand, was quiet, observant, always with a book in hand and his headphones on. He wasn’t invisible—but he certainly wasn't the kind of boy who stood out. Until he did. Their teacher paired them up for a group literature project. Ayan groaned at first. He’d hoped to work with someone easier, someone familiar. But there was something calming about Rayyan's presence that Ayan hadn’t expected. They met after school at the library, sat in silence before they spoke, and slowly, the walls began to fall. “Do you actually like reading this stuff?” Ayan asked on their first afternoon, flipping through a worn-out copy of Romeo and Juliet. Rayyan looked up with a soft smile. “Some parts. I guess I like the idea of people caring about each other that much. Even when it's messy.” Ayan tilted his head, surprised. “You ever fall for someone like that?” Rayyan hesitated. Then, almost in a whisper, “Not yet.” They both chuckled, but Ayan’s heart did a small, strange somersault. It wasn’t the answer. It was the way Rayyan looked at him as he said it—like he was waiting to be understood. --- Over the next few weeks, their after-school meetings became less about the project and more about each other. They talked about music, families, insecurities. Ayan learned that Rayyan loved sketching, and Rayyan learned that Ayan played guitar but never sang in front of anyone. It was as if they had been waiting their whole lives to find someone who listened without judgment. One rainy Thursday, the power went out in the library. Candles were lit by the librarian, casting golden shadows on Rayyan’s face. They sat by the window, watching raindrops blur the glass. “Do you ever feel like... you’re different, but you don’t know how to say it?” Rayyan asked, barely audible over the storm. Ayan’s throat tightened. He knew that feeling well—those moments when you glance at someone a second too long, when you laugh a little harder at a boy’s joke and wonder if it means something. He looked at Rayyan, their knees almost touching. “I think I’ve always felt that way,” Ayan replied. “Like there’s a part of me I’m still figuring out.” Rayyan turned to him, eyes searching. “Me too.” They didn’t say anything else that evening. But something shifted between them—unspoken but real. --- A week later, the project was over, but Ayan found himself missing Rayyan. They still texted—little things like songs to listen to or memes that made them laugh—but it wasn’t enough. One evening, Ayan gathered all his courage and asked Rayyan if he wanted to come over after school. They sat in Ayan’s room, cross-legged on the carpet, his guitar between them. “You said you play,” Rayyan smiled, nudging him. Ayan rolled his eyes but began strumming. The melody was soft, a tune he'd written himself but never shared. Halfway through, he stopped. “I wrote this... after that day in the library,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what it meant. I still don’t. But it made me think of you.” Rayyan's expression softened. He reached out, fingers brushing Ayan’s hand. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” There was a pause. Not the awkward kind—but the kind that stretches out when something important is about to happen. Then, gently, carefully, Rayyan leaned in. Their lips met in a moment that was more comforting than electric. It wasn’t fireworks—it was the warmth of understanding, of being seen. When they pulled apart, Ayan smiled. “So... what now?” Rayyan grinned. “Now, we figure it out.” --- They didn’t rush into labels or promises. They still kept things quiet, just between them. Some days they held hands under the table in class; other days they just sat near each other, comforted by the silence. It wasn’t always easy—navigating feelings, fear, and the weight of what-ifs—but they had each other. And for two boys in a world still learning how to be kind, that was more than enough. Because love, even in its gentlest form, deserves a place in the story. Especially when the sky turns lavender.
By Shaida about a year ago in Confessions
