fact or fiction
Is it a fact or is it merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores relationship myths and truths to get your head out of the clouds and back into romantic reality.
The Mapmaker's Daughter and the Shifting Sands
Elara lived in the shadow of her mother's maps. Not literal shadows, but the metaphorical ones cast by a legacy of precision, exploration, and unwavering clarity. Her mother, Lysandra, was the most renowned cartographer in the City of Whispering Spires, able to chart the most treacherous mountain passes and the most convoluted river deltas with an almost mystical accuracy. Elara, however, felt her own inner landscape was a tangled, uncharted wilderness.
By noor ul aminabout a year ago in Humans
The Human Tapestry
The train was late again. Maya shifted her weight on the cold metal bench, her fingers tightening around a worn book. Around her, the crowd buzzed—earbuds in ears, scrolling thumbs, bags pressed to chests. Strangers sharing the same space, breathing the same damp city air, yet suspended in separate orbits. A man in a tan coat sat beside her. Mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard, leather briefcase. His eyes were red-rimmed, the kind that hinted at stories bottled up behind polite nods. Maya caught a glimpse of a hospital visitor’s badge pinned to his lapel. He noticed her stare and smiled faintly. “Long day?” he asked. Maya hesitated. She wasn’t used to strangers talking at train stations. But something about his voice—gentle, like a late-night radio host—made her nod. “Long year,” she replied, offering a half-smile. “Ah,” he said, shifting the briefcase to his lap. “I suppose years carry their own weights.” There was a pause. Not awkward. Just quiet. The kind that listens. Maya glanced down at the book in her hands, The Little Prince. “My dad used to read this to me when I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d revisit it.” The man’s eyes softened. “That’s the one with the fox and the rose, right?” “Yeah. And the lonely pilot. Funny how stories for children say more to adults.” He nodded thoughtfully, then looked toward the tracks. “I’m returning from the hospital. My daughter... she’s fighting leukemia. She's seven. Loves stories, especially ones where animals talk.” Maya’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry,” she said. He shook his head. “No need. Talking helps. I think we forget that sometimes—how much stories matter. They let us breathe in someone else’s life for a while. Be less alone.” She thought of her own father, now ashes in a ceramic jar at home. The stories he told. The way his voice would lower when something important was about to happen. How even in silence, he made the world feel full. “Do you ever write them?” she asked. The man smiled wistfully. “Used to. Before the world became... practical.” There it was again—that ache. That unspoken recognition between two people who’ve lost more than they expected to. The train screeched into view. People stood. The world in motion again. Maya rose, hesitated, then turned to him. “Tell her the fox says hello.” He blinked. Then nodded. “And that she’s already tamed someone,” Maya added, stepping onto the train. The next day, Maya returned with a blank journal tucked in her tote. She scanned the benches, but the man wasn’t there. Only the usual tide of faces, all wrapped in their own weather. She sat anyway. Opened the journal. And began to write: > Dear stranger with the sad eyes, You reminded me that stories can heal, even if only for a moment… Weeks passed. Maya made the station her sanctuary, scribbling daily in the journal, leaving pages blank in between for someone else to write. She placed it on the bench every evening before boarding the train. Sometimes, when she returned, the pages were fuller. > My son came out to me today. I didn’t know how to respond. I read your story, and I just hugged him. — P. > I’m 83. I miss my wife every morning. She made the best tea and hated the rain. Your words made her real again. — L. > I was going to end things today. Then I read this line: “Be less alone.” I stayed. Thank you. — K. It became The Human Tapestry. A collection of fragments, confessions, and quiet courage. Words weaving strangers into something bigger. One evening, Maya found a note tucked between the pages. > She’s in remission. She asked for a fox plushie and wants to write her own stories one day. Thank you for sitting beside me. — D. Maya smiled through tears. She never saw the man again. But that wasn’t the point anymore. What mattered was that they had crossed, even briefly, and shared a truth between them—stories save us, not by fixing the world, but by showing us we're not facing it alone.
By Shah Nawazabout a year ago in Humans
The Story of a Pomegranate and the Sweetness of Compassion
The Story of a Pomegranate and the Sweetness of Compassion There was a man who used to buy pomegranates from an old woman every day. Each time, after the weighing was done and the price was paid, he would cut open the pomegranate, take a single seed, put it in his mouth, and frown as if it tasted sour. He would then complain aloud, saying, "These are sour!" After voicing his complaint, he would hand the pomegranate back to the elderly woman without taking it home. The old woman, curious but patient, would taste a single seed from that very pomegranate. And every time, she found it sweet and delightful. But by then, the man had already left with his shopping bag, disappearing down the street. Interestingly, the man’s wife always accompanied him during these visits and observed this entire interaction. One day, unable to contain her curiosity, his wife asked him, "When the pomegranates always turn out to be sweet, why do you daily put on this act of complaining and returning them? What’s the point of this daily drama?" The man smiled warmly and said, "This elderly woman only sells sweet pomegranates. But poverty has deprived her of tasting them herself. With this little act, I succeed in giving her a pomegranate to eat without hurting her dignity. If I simply gave her one, she might feel like a beggar accepting charity. But this way, she gets to enjoy it with a sense of pride in her trade. That’s all there is to it." Nearby, a vegetable-seller woman used to watch this daily scene unfold. One day, driven by her curiosity, she approached the old pomegranate seller and asked, “Every day that man complains about the taste of your pomegranates, yet you still give him an extra fruit in the weighing. Why do you tolerate this? Why do you give him more than what he pays for?" The old woman smiled softly, a sparkle of understanding in her eyes, and gently replied, “I know why he does it. He wants me to enjoy a pomegranate, without making me feel indebted to anyone. He thinks that I am unaware of his kindness. But the truth is, I am fully aware of his love and generosity. It’s not that I weigh extra pomegranates because of his complaints. Rather, it is his compassion that tilts the scale. His kindness lightens my burdens and sweetens my days, so I too add one extra pomegranate, for his kindness deserves to be answered with kindness.” The true joys of love and respect often lie hidden in the smallest, simplest, and sweetest actions—like tiny seeds of a pomegranate, unnoticed by the world but precious in their sweetness. Indeed, it is true that the reward of love is love itself. --- The Deeper Meaning Behind the Story On the surface, this story seems like a simple tale of daily trade, a man buying fruit from an old seller. But beneath this seemingly ordinary exchange lies a profound lesson about empathy, dignity, and quiet acts of kindness. In today's world, charity is often given with a loud voice, sometimes stripping the recipient of their pride. People want recognition for their good deeds; they want their generosity to be seen and praised. But this man did something different. He disguised his charity as a complaint, so the old woman could enjoy the fruit of her labor without feeling like an object of pity. This is the highest form of giving, where the giver hides his generosity, and the receiver feels no shame. He protected her dignity, allowing her to believe that she was still a seller, not a beggar. His charity was not merely about giving fruit—it was about preserving her self-respect. Similarly, the old woman responded not with suspicion or bitterness, but with awareness and affection. She saw through his act but never exposed him. Instead, she played along, allowing the little play to continue every day. And more than that, she returned kindness with kindness, giving him an extra pomegranate without charging him, acknowledging his beautiful heart. This mutual understanding without words, this silent conversation of kindness, reflects the purity of human hearts when touched by compassion. --- Life Lessons from the Pomegranate Story This story teaches us timeless lessons: 1. True Giving is Without Ego: Charity should not hurt the pride of the receiver. True giving is quiet, gentle, and filled with respect for the other's dignity. 2. See Beyond the Surface: At first glance, the man looks like a critical customer and the woman seems like a helpless old seller. But if you look deeper, you’ll see love, respect, and kindness. 3. Kindness Breeds Kindness: Just like the old woman gave an extra fruit in return for his generosity, the world responds to goodness with more goodness. Love multiplies when shared. 4. The Sweetness of Life is in Small Things: Happiness does not always come from grand gestures. Sometimes, it lives in a single seed of a pomegranate, shared in silence. 5. Poverty of Wealth is Lesser Than Poverty of Heart: The old woman was poor in money but rich in understanding. The man may not have been rich either, but his wealth was his kind heart. Together, they created a world of love amid the harshness of life's struggles. --- A Reflection for Today’s World In our time, when social media is filled with people showing off their charitable acts for likes and applause, this story reminds us of quiet kindness, the kind that needs no audience. The man didn’t post his actions on social media; the old woman didn’t tell others to gain sympathy. Their goodness was for themselves and each other. Also, the story gently shows us how small, thoughtful actions can brighten someone’s day. A pomegranate might seem insignificant, but for that old woman, it was a moment of joy, a taste of the fruit she could never afford herself. And the man, by making up a small complaint, allowed her to enjoy it without feeling lesser than him. How many of us take the time to think about the dignity of those we help? How many of us would go to such lengths to ensure that our giving does not feel like a burden on the other person’s soul? This story calls us to reflect on that. --- The Final Thought The beautiful thing about love and compassion is that they never demand recognition. Their sweetness is hidden in the hearts of those who feel them. Just like the tiny seeds of a pomegranate are wrapped inside a tough peel, acts of kindness are often hidden behind words and actions that may seem ordinary or even harsh to the unseeing eye. But for those who truly understand life, such kindness is the most beautiful sweetness of all. So the next time you help someone, ask yourself: Am I giving in a way that protects their pride? Am I helping them as a fellow human, or making them feel small? Because true kindness does not tilt the scale of wealth, but it does tilt the scale of the heart. And indeed, as the story beautifully says: “The reward of love is love itself.”
By Ikram Ullahabout a year ago in Humans
I Stopped Following Internet Trends - Here What Really Happened To Me
Let’s be real — the internet moves fast. One minute, everyone’s obsessed with a new productivity hack. The next, it’s AI-generated artwork, “day-in-my-life” vlogs, or some random sound trending on TikTok. It feels like if you blink, you’ve already missed the train. But I chose not to chase the trend. I decided to not follow the internet crowd. I thought I was protecting my creativity… until the consequences hit me hard.
By Awais Qarni about a year ago in Humans
The Echo in the Attic: A Secret from a Forgotten Life
The old house wasn’t haunted, at least not in the creaking-doors-and-ghostly-apparitions sense. Its haunting was subtler, a pervasive scent of aged paper and something faintly floral, like long-dried potpourri. I’d inherited it from my Great-Aunt Beatrice, a woman I’d only met twice, both times at family funerals where she’d worn sensible shoes and an air of quiet disapproval. Now, here I was, elbow-deep in her dust-shrouded legacy, trying to decide what to keep and what to toss.
By noor ul aminabout a year ago in Humans
How I earned 200$ in a weekend by writing articles
The humid Peshawar air clung to me like a second skin as I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. It was Friday afternoon, and my bank account balance was a bleak echo of my ambitions. Two hundred dollars. That was the magic number I needed to cover my share of the upcoming trip to Islamabad with my university friends. A weekend job seemed like the only viable option, and my writing skills, honed through countless essays and a few amateur blog posts, felt like my strongest suit.
By noor ul aminabout a year ago in Humans
Master Your Mind
Master Your Mind: The Art of Commanding Your Thoughts and Reining in Mental Chaos In today’s fast-paced world, most people find themselves prisoners of their own thoughts. From the moment we wake up, our minds jump from worry to worry, idea to idea, regret to regret. It’s like riding an untrained horse — powerful, unpredictable, and exhausting. Yet, what if we could hold the reins? What if we could truly master our minds, command our thoughts, and steer our mental energy toward clarity, peace, and success?
By SYED NUMANabout a year ago in Humans
Why African Americans Should Use Sunscreen: Separating Myth from Science. AI-Generated.
Why Even Darker Skin Tones Need Daily Sun Protection For years, a widespread myth has persisted: that African Americans — or anyone with melanin-rich skin — don’t need sunscreen. The assumption is that darker skin acts as a natural shield from harmful sun exposure. But how accurate is this belief?
By Yoshaa Reviewsabout a year ago in Humans
"The Day I Almost Disappeared — But Didn’t"
By: Muhammad Arif --- I don’t remember the exact moment I gave up. Maybe it wasn’t a moment. Maybe it was a slow drowning. Quiet. Silent. Invisible. I used to wake up and feel something — even if it was just tiredness, hunger, worry. But one day I woke up and felt… nothing. The world outside my window looked the same. The fan kept spinning. The azan still echoed from the nearby masjid. But inside me, it was blank. People think depression is sadness. Crying. Screaming. But no — real depression is emptiness. It’s brushing your teeth and wondering why you’re even bothering. It’s hearing your phone ring and letting it die because you can’t talk to anyone. It’s being in a room full of people and feeling like a ghost. I stopped answering my friends. Stopped dressing properly. I told my mother I was tired, just tired — she asked if I was sick. I lied. I told her it would pass. But it didn’t pass. Every day became harder to get through. I stopped writing. I stopped dreaming. The boy who once wanted to open his own tailoring shop — he disappeared. All that remained was a body. Breathing. Blinking. Waiting. There was one night — a cold, heavy night — when I sat on the edge of my bed and thought, maybe I’m not meant for this world. That thought scared me. But what scared me more was… it didn’t feel shocking. It felt like an option. And then something small happened. Something so tiny, most people would laugh. My nephew — just five years old — knocked on my door. He walked in holding a crayon drawing. It was messy, colorful, full of scribbles. He pointed at one of the stick figures and said, “This is you, Chachu. You’re smiling.” I looked at that drawing. And for the first time in weeks, my eyes stung with tears. Smiling? I hadn’t smiled in days. Weeks. But in his little world, I was still someone who smiled. That small drawing cracked something inside me. The next morning, I took a shower. I wore clean clothes. I cut a few threads and stitched a piece of cloth. My hands moved slow — but they moved. I messaged one friend: “I’m okay, just been low. Pray for me.” Step by step, I came back. Not overnight. Not completely. But I came back. I started writing again. I wrote my first story on Vocal — about a tailor with big dreams. That story reminded me of who I was. Who I still am. Depression didn’t vanish. It’s still there, sometimes whispering in the dark corners of my room. But I’ve learned something: I’m stronger than I thought. And even when it feels like nobody sees me — someone does. A child. A friend. A stranger on the internet. If you're reading this and feel like you’re falling — I promise you, someone is still drawing you with a smile. Someone still believes in you, even when you don’t. And one day — even if slowly — you’ll come back too.I started writing again. I wrote my first story on Vocal — about a tailor with big dreams. That story reminded me of who I was. Who I still am. Depression didn’t vanish. It’s still there, sometimes whispering in the dark corners of my room. But I’ve learned something: I’m stronger than I thought. And even when it feels like nobody sees me — someone does. A child. A friend. A stranger on the internet. If you're reading this and feel like you’re falling — I promise you, someone is still drawing you with a smile. Someone still believes in you, even when you don’t. And one day — even if slowly — you’ll come back too.
By Muhammad Arif about a year ago in Humans
