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Seven Steps to Death: A Love That Defied Honor in Balochistan
Part One: The Desert Pact They were supposed to begin a new life together. A life they had envisioned far from the burning gaze of disapproving eyes and tribal customs that choke love before it can bloom. But for the young couple from Balochistan—names still withheld for security and legal reasons—their first steps as husband and wife would also be their last.
By Muhammad Abbas khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Last Cup of Coffee
Start writing...The coffee machine blinked. That small red light again. She stared at it, unmoving, holding the mug she didn’t even remember picking up. The kitchen smelled like early mornings and quiet endings. Mira hadn’t had a proper night of sleep in days. She wasn’t sure if it was the stress or the silence. Maybe both. Ever since Tom left, the apartment felt bigger somehow. Not cleaner, not emptier—just larger, like space had stretched to make room for her loneliness. The coffee finally dripped into the pot with a soft hiss. Mira watched it, arms folded tight, mug pressed against her chest. Tom used to do this every morning. He'd hum while the machine sputtered, his fingers tapping the counter like he was drumming along with some tune only he could hear. Sometimes she'd tell him to stop; it was too early for noise. But now she’d give anything to hear it again. She poured a cup, careful not to spill, and carried it to the table. There were two chairs, but she only ever used one now. She didn’t have the heart to move the other. It sat across from her, untouched, its cushion still slightly indented from his weight. The coffee was too hot. She blew on it gently and stared out the window. It was raining again. A soft, steady drizzle, not enough to cause chaos, just enough to keep people inside. The kind of rain that made her feel small. She reached for her phone. No messages. Of course not. It had been two weeks since Tom packed his things into two big duffel bags and said he needed time. He didn’t cry. She did. He kissed her forehead and whispered something she couldn’t remember anymore. All she remembered was the sound of the door closing. She sipped her coffee. Bitter. She hadn’t added sugar. Tom used to tease her for pouring in too much. “Want some coffee with that sugar?” he’d say, grinning. She used to roll her eyes, but secretly liked that he noticed. The apartment ticked quietly—pipes expanding, rain pattering against the windows, the fridge humming. No voices. No music. Just the noise of life continuing whether she wanted it to or not. Mira got up, walked slowly to the bookshelf, and pulled out an old photo album. The pages were worn, corners bent from years of being opened and closed. She turned the pages slowly, fingers tracing over photos of smiles and places and things that used to mean everything. There they were at the beach—Tom laughing, sand in his hair. There they were in their first apartment, walls still bare, pizza boxes stacked high. There she was, sitting on his shoulders at a music festival, her arms stretched to the sky. She closed the book. Her chest ached in that quiet, sharp way. Not loud enough to cry, just enough to feel something. Back in the kitchen, the coffee had cooled. She poured the rest down the sink. Watched it swirl away. She washed the mug slowly, rinsed every part of it, even the handle, even the bottom. She set it upside down on the drying rack, next to one more cup she hadn’t touched in days. She opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and notepad. The paper was lined and slightly yellow. She wrote: > Tom, I hope you’re sleeping okay. I hope you still hum in the morning. I’m drinking coffee again. I’m drinking it bitter. I miss you. Not just the noise, but the quiet we used to share. You don’t have to come back. I just wanted you to know. Mira. She folded the note in half. Then again. She wasn’t sure where to put it. So she left it under his mug. Just in case. Then she grabbed her coat, keys, and walked outside into the rain. It soaked her hair almost immediately, but she didn’t care. She let it. The cold made her feel more awake than the coffee ever did. She walked down the street with no real direction—just somewhere that wasn’t inside. Maybe one day he’d come back. Maybe he wouldn’t. But for now, she still had mornings. And coffee. And the quiet. And maybe, someday, she’d find comfort in that again.
By Qaseem Ahmadzaiabout a year ago in Fiction
Behind the Smile: The Untold Story of the Labubu Doll
Behind the Smile: The Untold Story of the Labubu Doll By Dr Zaland hameed To most people, the Labubu doll looks like just another cute collectible — a small, round figure with big, sparkling eyes and a quirky, inviting smile. But if you look beyond that cheerful face, you’ll find there’s much more to Labubu than meets the eye. There’s a secret story behind the smile, one that touches hearts and inspires hope in ways you wouldn’t expect.
By Dr Zaland hameedabout a year ago in Fiction
I Was Reborn in Flames but Never Left the Fire
Let Me Tell You a Story You’ll Never Forget I was born for the third time on a night of red skies and black screams. In my village, we do not fear death. We expect it. Welcome it, even. Because here, death is never the end. We are reborn through fire every hundred years. It's our curse. Or blessing. It depends on who you ask.
By Isabella Woodabout a year ago in Fiction
Echoes of a Forgotten Code: When AI Redeems Human Memory
Chapter 1: The Leak Cameron Malik thought this would be just another gig: investigate the rumored leak from AetherTech’s closed AI initiative, Project Mnemosyne. The internal memo hinted an internal beta had “begun recalling user-specific data it was never trained on.” The source was anonymous, but the claim was earth‑shaking: an AI with emergent memory. On a rainy Islamabad afternoon, the forwarded PDF sat waiting. Cameron’s pulse raced. This would be career territory—or a career‑ending rumor. They arranged a clandestine meeting for proof.
By Muhammad Abbas khanabout a year ago in Fiction
Whispers of the Tide: A Story Told in Shells
At first glance, the image is simple—serene, even. A ceramic bowl, resting gently on the damp sand, cradles an exquisite collection of seashells. They sit nestled together like quiet thoughts, each one shaped by time and tide. Beyond this peaceful arrangement, the shoreline stretches toward a glowing horizon, golden with the touch of evening light. A lighthouse stands distant and steady, a silent witness to the sea’s ever-shifting moods.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
The Letters We Never Sent
In a quiet town nestled between rolling hills and slow rivers, lived a woman named Aisha. She was a schoolteacher in her early thirties, with a love for poetry, quiet cafés, and the kind of stories that left you wondering long after they ended. Her days were peaceful, her nights filled with books and handwritten journal entries she never shared with anyone. She believed in love—the kind that waited, the kind that didn’t need to be rushed.
By Muhammad Abbas khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Wandering Mind of Willow
In a quiet meadow surrounded by silver birch trees and soft rolling hills, there lived a rabbit named Willow. He was not like the other rabbits who spent their days hopping around collecting food or playing in the sun. Willow was different. He had a habit—some called it strange, others charming—of getting lost in his thoughts.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
Wings of Joy
In a meadow kissed by golden sunlight, nestled between whispering trees and a winding stream, lived a butterfly named Zara. She wasn't just any butterfly — her wings shimmered with the colors of sunrise and sunset, with flecks of silver and blue that sparkled when she flew. But it wasn’t just her beauty that made her special. Zara was known across the valley for something even more wonderful — she loved playing with flowers, all the time, every day.
By Fazal Malikabout a year ago in Fiction
