humor
"Humor is what binds humans together and makes difficult times just a little less painful; Sometimes you can't help but laugh. "
When the World Forgot Me
There was no announcement when it happened. No blaring alarm, no flicker of the lights. Just one day, everything went quiet. People stopped asking how I was. My messages were left on “read,” phone calls unanswered, birthdays unacknowledged. It didn’t come all at once, like a crash—it was more like a slow leak. One by one, the faces faded. Friends, family, colleagues. Eventually, the silence filled the entire room. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. Maybe nothing. Maybe that’s the worst part. At first, I tried harder. Sent the “How have you been?” texts. Liked every post, left comments with emojis to say, “Hey, I’m still here.” I showed up to gatherings I wasn’t really invited to, hoping my presence would spark some kind of memory, a flicker of “Oh, I forgot how much I like being around you.” But it didn’t. Conversations danced around me, eyes glanced past me, and I became the ghost in my own life. I began to fade not just from their minds—but from mine too. I questioned my worth in silence. Days bled into one another, marked only by meals I sometimes remembered to eat and nights I couldn't sleep. I wasn't depressed in the way movies portray it. I still brushed my teeth. Still folded laundry. But inside, I was unraveling, thread by invisible thread. The world hadn’t just forgotten me. I had forgotten myself. I wish I could say there was a turning point. Some powerful “aha” moment that sparked a fire in me. But there wasn’t. Instead, there was a grocery store. I was standing in the aisle, staring at a shelf of canned soup, trying to choose between chicken noodle and tomato, and I realized—no one was coming. No one was going to pull me out of this. No one was going to remind me who I was. If I wanted to feel seen again, I had to see myself first. So I bought the chicken noodle. Went home. Ate it. And the next morning, I did something small: I wrote one sentence in a notebook. It said, “You are still here.” The day after that, I wrote another: “That matters.” Each day, one more line. Then a paragraph. Then a page. Until I had a journal full of truths I had forgotten. I started walking again—first just around the block, then through neighborhoods I hadn’t visited in years. I stopped trying to be part of every conversation, and instead started having real ones with myself. There’s something painful, but also liberating, about being forgotten. You begin to realize how much of your identity was shaped by how others saw you. Stripped of that, you're left with the core of who you are. And sometimes, you find it’s stronger than you imagined. I won’t lie and say the people came rushing back. Some didn’t. Some never will. But the ones who did—those who noticed I had gone quiet, who asked where I’d been—those are the ones I cherish now. Not out of desperation, but with deep gratitude. I’m not angry at the world anymore. The truth is, people are busy surviving their own storms. Sometimes they forget to check if others are drowning. And that’s okay. It’s not my job to make everyone remember me. It’s my job to remember myself. Now, when I meet someone who seems a little too quiet, who lingers on the edge of the room, I smile at them. Not out of pity—but recognition. I see you. I remember what it felt like to be invisible. I remember what it took to come back from that. And if I could leave one message behind, it would be this: Even if the world forgets you, even if it falls silent and the lights dim—you are still here. And that matters. Thank you for reading this 🥰.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Humans
The Earth Remembers Everything
The Earth Remembers Everything It remembers the weight of the first footstep, pressed softly into loam long before cities had names. It remembers fire, and the first laughter. It remembers when we sang to trees instead of cutting them down.
By waseem khanabout a year ago in Humans
The Strong One Is Suffering
They call me the strong one. The reliable one. The one you go to when your life is falling apart, when you need advice at midnight, when you're on the edge and need someone to talk you down. I’ve worn that label like armor for years—believing it meant I was valuable, needed, even loved.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Humans
I Talk to Strangers Online and Make Them Feel Better - And That’s a Good Thing!
Hi there! 👋 My name is Diana, and I do something very special. I talk to people online and help them feel better when they’re sad, lonely, or even when they just need someone to listen. It’s called companion chatting, and it’s like having a cozy little voice in your pocket.
By Diana Crooksabout a year ago in Humans
Ink That Never Fades: The Tattoo I Got for My Brother
Some losses never heal. They just become part of who you are—etched into your soul like ink in skin. That’s what losing my brother felt like. One moment, we were laughing about something stupid only we would understand, and the next… he was gone. Sudden. Brutal. Final. Grief is strange. It doesn't follow rules. It sneaks into the corners of your life, ambushes you in the middle of a song, a scent, a dream. I kept searching for something—anything—that would make me feel close to him again. But no photo, no voicemail, no memory could fill the space he left behind. That’s when the idea of the tattoo came to me. I’d never gotten one before. Not because I was scared of needles, but because I never felt a reason powerful enough to make something permanent. I always said, "If I ever get one, it has to mean something real." And losing my brother was as real as it got. We weren’t just siblings. We were best friends, rivals, secret-keepers, and partners in crime. He was my protector when I was scared, my challenger when I got too comfortable, and my mirror when I lost sight of who I was. He always said we were "same soul, different bodies." He wasn’t wrong. I remember the day I walked into the tattoo shop. My hands were shaking. I clutched a folded piece of paper with a design I’d sketched weeks earlier: a feather morphing into birds, with his initials hidden in the lines. It was symbolic. The feather was for freedom—he used to say he wanted to be free of this “messed-up world” one day. The birds were for his spirit, taking flight. And the initials… those were for me. A quiet reminder of who he was, and who I still am because of him. The artist didn’t ask many questions, just nodded and said, “This one means something.” I nodded back, unable to speak. The buzzing needle began, and with every prick, I felt like I was reclaiming something. The pain wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, cathartic. It felt like grief was finally getting a voice. I won’t pretend the tattoo healed me. It didn’t. Nothing can bring him back. But it did something important—it gave my grief a shape. A place. A story. Now, when people ask about it, I get to say his name. I get to tell them about the brother who made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe, who taught me how to throw a punch, who once stayed up all night talking me out of doing something stupid. I wear his memory on my skin, and in a way, that keeps him alive. Some days, I catch myself tracing the lines absentmindedly. On bad days, it’s a grounding anchor. On good days, it’s a silent fist bump to the sky. I imagine him looking down, smirking, saying, “Nice ink, nerd.” He always had a way of teasing that still felt like love. It’s been over a year now. Birthdays and holidays hit differently. Music sounds different. Even silence feels heavier. But the tattoo reminds me that love doesn’t end—it transforms. And sometimes, it transforms into ink. Into art. Into the stories we carry. I never got to say goodbye. Not properly. But maybe this tattoo is my version of that. Not a goodbye, really—more like a “see you when I see you.” People say time heals all wounds. I disagree. Time teaches you how to carry them. My tattoo is how I carry him. And it’ll never fade. Thank you for reading this 🥰.
By Azmat Roman ✨about a year ago in Humans
