Fantasy

🏢💥 Unraveling 9/11 Conspiracy Theories: Understanding Claims, Evidence, and Public Debate. Content Warning.
The September 11, 2001 attacks on the United States remain among the most significant and tragic events in modern history. Nearly 3,000 lives were lost, the global economy was shaken, and the world witnessed the rise of a new era of geopolitical tension and security concerns. Alongside these events, a complex web of conspiracy theories has emerged, challenging the official narrative and sparking debate that spans governments, media, academia, and the public.
By Haroon Pashaabout 8 hours ago in Chapters
Thousands of gallons of arsenic-contaminated water are treated by an electricity-free water system.
Laboratory tests have shown that a modified carbon filter material can lower the amount of arsenic in contaminated water to below the suggested safety limit. For households and small groups that depend on faulty wells, that outcome brings a low-cost, electricity-free alternative closer.
By Francis Damia day ago in Chapters
The Words I Never Got to Say
The Words I Never Got to Say ‎BY: Ubaid I always believed there would be more time. More time to sit across from him at the small wooden table in our kitchen. More time to argue about politics and laugh about old family stories. More time to say the things that sat quietly in my chest, waiting for the “right moment.” But life rarely waits for the right moment. The last time I saw my father, it was an ordinary Thursday. The kind that slips through your fingers unnoticed. I was in a hurry, as usual—late for work, phone buzzing, mind racing through deadlines. He was standing near the doorway, holding his cup of tea, watching me tie my shoes. “You’re always rushing,” he said with a soft smile. “And you’re always observing,” I replied, half-laughing. There were things I wanted to say right then. I wanted to thank him for the way he never gave up on me during my rebellious years. I wanted to apologize for the sharp words I had thrown at him when I was younger, words fueled by pride and immaturity. I wanted to tell him that I understood now—the sacrifices, the silent worries, the late nights he spent working just to give us a comfortable life. Instead, I checked the time. “I’ll be late,” I muttered. “We’ll talk tonight.” He nodded. “Of course. Tonight.” But tonight never came. The call arrived in the afternoon. An accident. Sudden. Unexpected. The kind of news that makes the world go silent for a few seconds before everything crashes in at once. I remember staring at my phone, reading the message again and again as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less painful. They didn’t. At the hospital, the white walls felt too bright, too clean, too cruel. I stood beside his bed, looking at a face that seemed peaceful, almost asleep. I kept waiting for his chest to rise, for his fingers to twitch, for some sign that this was a misunderstanding. But there was only stillness. And suddenly, the words I had saved for “later” began to scream inside me. “I’m proud to be your son.” “I’m sorry for not listening more.” “Thank you for believing in me.” “I love you.” Four simple sentences. Words that could have been spoken in less than a minute. Words that now weighed heavier than mountains. At the funeral, people spoke about his kindness, his honesty, his patience. They described a man I recognized but had never fully acknowledged. I realized how often we assume our loved ones know how we feel, as if affection can be silently understood without ever being expressed. But silence is a fragile messenger. In the weeks that followed, guilt became my constant companion. It whispered to me at night. It followed me into quiet rooms. It reminded me of every conversation I had postponed, every hug I had shortened, every “I’ll tell him tomorrow” I had carelessly spoken. I began replaying that last morning over and over. “You’re always rushing.” Maybe he wasn’t just talking about my schedule. Maybe he was reminding me of something deeper—that life itself is not meant to be rushed past. One evening, I sat alone in his old chair. The house felt emptier without his steady presence. I picked up his cup from the shelf, running my fingers along the rim. For the first time, I spoke out loud. “I’m proud to be your son.” My voice trembled, but I kept going. “I’m sorry for the times I hurt you. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. And I love you. I love you more than I ever said.” The room, of course, did not respond. There was no miracle, no echo of his voice. But something inside me shifted. The words were late—but they were no longer trapped. That was the moment I realized something important: the tragedy was not just losing him. The tragedy was waiting. We wait to apologize because we think there will be a better mood. We wait to express love because we assume it’s already obvious. We wait to show gratitude because we believe tomorrow is guaranteed. It isn’t. Since that day, I have tried to live differently. I call my mother more often. I tell my friends I appreciate them. I say “I’m proud of you” when I mean it. I don’t leave important feelings for later. Because later is a fragile promise. I still miss him. Some days, the grief arrives unexpectedly—triggered by a familiar song or the smell of tea in the morning. But alongside the sadness, there is also a lesson. A quiet but powerful one. Speak now. Say the difficult words. Say the soft words. Say the vulnerable words. Don’t assume people can read your heart. If I could go back to that Thursday morning, I would have paused at the door. I would have looked at him properly—not just as a father who would always be there, but as a man whose time, like mine, was limited. I would have said, “I love you. Thank you for everything.” And maybe he would have smiled and said, “I know.” But even if he already knew, he deserved to hear it. We all do. So if there is someone in your life you’ve been meaning to call, someone you owe gratitude to, someone you love but haven’t told—don’t wait for the perfect moment. Say the words. Before they become the words you never got to say.
By Ubaid 3 days ago in Chapters
I Lost Everything, Then Found Myself
I Lost Everything, Then Found Myself BY: Khan I used to believe that success was something you could hold in your hands. For me, it was the office keycard that opened glass doors every morning. It was the apartment on the twelfth floor overlooking the restless city. It was the expensive watch I bought after my first promotion, the one I wore like proof that I had made it. I measured my worth in achievements, in applause, in the quiet envy of people who thought I had it all figured out. And then, in the span of a few months, it all disappeared. The company I had devoted five years to collapsed almost overnight. What started as rumors of “financial restructuring” turned into termination emails and security escorts. I remember staring at my phone, rereading the message as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less final. They didn’t. Losing the job was only the beginning. Without a steady income, the apartment became a luxury I could no longer afford. I packed my life into cardboard boxes, each one heavier than the last. The watch went first—sold online to cover two months of rent I was already late on. I told myself it was temporary, that I would bounce back quickly. I had always bounced back. But this time was different. Friends who once filled my weekends with laughter were suddenly “busy.” Calls went unanswered. Invitations stopped coming. I realized how much of my social life had revolved around status and convenience. Without the shiny job title, I became less interesting. It’s a strange thing—how quickly people disappear when your shine fades. Eventually, I moved back into my childhood home. The same room with faded paint and old trophies from school competitions I barely remembered. At night, I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me, feeling like a failure. I was in my late twenties, unemployed, single, and back where I had started. I had lost everything that once defined me. For weeks, I avoided mirrors. Not because I disliked my reflection, but because I didn’t recognize the person staring back. Who was I without the job? Without the apartment? Without the validation? The silence was unbearable at first. There were no morning meetings, no urgent emails, no deadlines. Just long, empty hours stretching endlessly. I tried distracting myself with social media, but watching everyone else’s highlight reels only deepened the ache inside me. One evening, after another rejection email from a company I had pinned my hopes on, something inside me broke. I stopped pretending I was okay. I let myself feel the disappointment fully—the anger, the embarrassment, the fear. I cried harder than I had in years. And strangely, that was the moment everything began to change. For the first time, I wasn’t performing strength. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I was simply being honest—with myself. The next morning, I went for a walk before sunrise. The streets were quiet, the sky painted in soft shades of pink and gold. I hadn’t noticed a sunrise in years. I had been too busy chasing the next goal, the next milestone. As I walked, I realized something uncomfortable but freeing: I had built a life that looked impressive from the outside but felt hollow on the inside. I had ignored my health, postponed hobbies, and silenced dreams that didn’t seem “practical.” I had mistaken busyness for purpose. Losing everything stripped away the noise. With nothing left to protect, I started asking myself difficult questions. What did I actually enjoy? What kind of work felt meaningful? Who was I when no one was watching? I began small. I started journaling each morning, pouring out thoughts I had suppressed for years. I picked up an old guitar that had been collecting dust in the corner of my room. My fingers were clumsy at first, but the music felt honest. I began freelancing online, not in the field I had studied, but in writing—something I had secretly loved since school. The money was inconsistent. The progress was slow. But for the first time in a long while, I felt alive. I also began repairing my relationship with my family. During the years I had been “too busy,” I had missed dinners, conversations, and simple moments. Now, I sat with them in the evenings, listening to stories I had never taken the time to hear. I realized success had made me distant; loss made me present. Months passed. I didn’t wake up one day magically transformed. There were setbacks. Doubts crept in often. Some nights, fear whispered that I had ruined my life beyond repair. But each time, I reminded myself of the truth I had discovered in the quiet: my worth was not tied to a job title or a paycheck. It was tied to who I was becoming. Gradually, opportunities began to appear—different from the ones I had once chased. I collaborated with small brands, wrote articles that resonated with strangers across the world, and built a modest but steady income doing work that mattered to me. But the biggest change wasn’t financial. It was internal. I no longer needed applause to feel valuable. I no longer compared my timeline to others. I understood that losing everything had forced me to confront parts of myself I had ignored for years—my insecurities, my fears, my need for external validation. When I look back now, I don’t see the period of loss as a tragedy. I see it as an awakening. Sometimes life takes away the things you think you can’t live without—not to punish you, but to teach you that you are more than the roles you play. I had to lose the job to discover my passion. I had to lose the apartment to rediscover my family. I had to lose the applause to finally hear my own voice. I thought I lost everything. But in the emptiness, I found clarity. In the silence, I found truth. And in losing the life I had carefully constructed, I finally found myself.
By Khan 3 days ago in Chapters
Sparrow on a Plank Chapter 17: When Villains Do Their Research
The crew was more interested in what was behind them than in front of them. Although Sal and Hajime were doing their level best to hide the fact that they had stolen a book from Set’s temple and that temple may have been protected by someone representing the Bubastan government, Captain Taylor knew what was gointsg on; it had been part of the contract (after all, they needed him ready to go if something had gone wrong, and his ignorance would have slowed the ship’s reaction time, causing a number of unintended deaths and destruction of the ship). Rick had also been told out of necessity for the same reason. They had also been given a certain time; if Sal and Hajime took longer than two hours, the ship was to sail. Period. Staying any longer would have endangered the crew and the boat. Rick was happy that that condition had not been used.
By Jamais Jochim3 days ago in Chapters
The Cave Part 7
"I would like to ask some questions," I finally responded after a long moment of hesitation. I could feel the being that occupied the black cave. Now that I was no longer starved and delirious as I was the last time I was here, I could reach out with my senses into the darkness and picture something in my mind's eye. A great shape in the cave, vast in its size just as the voice had said of itself before. Yet, there was a terrible stillness about the creature. I say creature, because it was impossible to feel that presence was truly a person as I or any other humanoid.
By Jamye Sharp3 days ago in Chapters
Sparrow on a Plank Chapter 18: Of Wild Parties and Annoyed Predators
The trip home was blessedly uneventful. There were sharks, whales, and the occasional seagull, but nothing attacked them or even appeared to follow them. Hajime and the other mages did a thorough search of the ship, looking for anything that didn't belong. They couldn't find anything, but that didn't mean that there wasn't anything there; it just meant that it was hidden rather well. Although they were sure that there was something hidden, they lacked the immediate means to deal with it.
By Jamais Jochim3 days ago in Chapters
The Unseen Symphony
Dr. Evelyn Reed was a seasoned glaciologist, her life spent amidst the stark, breathtaking desolation of Antarctica. Her current mission, a solitary vigil at a remote research outpost, involved deploying advanced hydrophones deep beneath the ancient ice sheet. She was searching for subtle shifts, the groans and creaks of a continent slowly reshaping itself. But what she found was something far more profound.
By Being Inquisitive4 days ago in Chapters
The Night I Finally Faced the Truth
The Night I Finally Faced the Truth BY: Khan I used to believe that avoiding the truth made life easier. If something hurt, I ignored it. If something felt wrong, I convinced myself it was temporary. If someone changed, I blamed stress, timing, or my imagination. Denial felt safer than confrontation. It was quieter. Cleaner. Less painful. At least, that’s what I told myself. The night I finally faced the truth wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunderstorm, no screaming argument, no slammed doors. It was painfully ordinary. And maybe that’s why it changed everything. It was almost midnight. My room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of my phone screen. The house was silent, the kind of silence that makes your thoughts louder. I had just returned from meeting someone I once couldn’t imagine living without. But that night felt different. Across the café table earlier, I had watched them speak—laughing, scrolling through their phone, barely meeting my eyes. Their words were there, but their presence wasn’t. It was like sitting across from a memory instead of a person. And deep down, I knew. On the ride home, I kept replaying the evening in my head. The forced smiles. The distracted nods. The way conversations died faster than they began. The distance wasn’t new. It had been growing for months. I just refused to see it. Back in my room, I opened our old messages. Scrolling up felt like traveling back in time. There were paragraphs of affection, long late-night conversations, dreams about the future. We used to talk for hours about nothing and everything. Now, our conversations were reduced to short replies and delayed responses. When did it change? The truth was, it hadn’t changed suddenly. It faded slowly. Like a photograph left in sunlight too long. And I watched it fade. But instead of admitting it, I worked harder. I texted more. I tried to be more understanding, more patient, less “needy.” I convinced myself that love required endurance. That if I just held on long enough, things would return to the way they were. That night, sitting alone in the dark, I finally asked myself a question I had been avoiding for months: Am I fighting for something that’s already gone? The question hit harder than any argument ever could. Because the answer was yes. Tears didn’t fall immediately. Instead, there was a strange calm. A quiet realization spreading through me like cold air. I wasn’t angry at them. I wasn’t even heartbroken in that moment. I was exhausted. Exhausted from pretending not to notice the distance. Exhausted from explaining away silence. Exhausted from shrinking my feelings to avoid being “too much.” And then came the second truth—the one that hurt even more. I wasn’t just losing them. I was losing myself. Somewhere along the way, I had started measuring my worth by their attention. A delayed reply could ruin my mood. A canceled plan could spiral into self-doubt. I told myself I was just in love. But love isn’t supposed to feel like begging. I stood up and walked to the mirror across my room. My reflection looked tired—eyes heavy, expression uncertain. I stared at myself longer than I had in months. “When did you start accepting less than you deserve?” I whispered. The silence answered me. The truth wasn’t just that they had changed. The truth was that I was afraid to be alone. I had held onto something fading because it felt safer than starting over. I stayed because memories are comforting, even when the present isn’t. I chose familiarity over honesty. And that night, I realized something powerful: Facing the truth hurts once. Avoiding it hurts every day. For months, I had chosen daily pain over one honest moment. I picked up my phone again. My fingers hovered over the screen. I didn’t type a dramatic goodbye. I didn’t accuse or blame. I simply wrote what I had been too afraid to say: “I think we both know this isn’t the same anymore. And maybe it’s okay to admit that.” I stared at the message for a long time before sending it. My heart pounded, but not from fear—from clarity. When I finally pressed send, something unexpected happened. I felt lighter. Not because it didn’t hurt. It did. Letting go always does. But because I had finally stopped lying to myself. The reply came a few minutes later. It was short. Gentle. Honest. They agreed. And strangely, that confirmation didn’t break me. It freed me. I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling. The room was still dark. The night was still quiet. Nothing around me had changed. But inside, everything had. For the first time in months, I wasn’t trying to fix something that didn’t want to be fixed. I wasn’t forcing hope where there was none. I wasn’t ignoring the voice inside me that had been whispering the truth all along. I had finally listened. That night didn’t end with dramatic tears or loud music or sleepless regret. It ended with acceptance. And acceptance is powerful. Because sometimes the truth isn’t that someone stopped loving you. Sometimes the truth is that you deserve a love that doesn’t make you question your value. Sometimes the truth is that endings aren’t failures. They are redirections. The night I finally faced the truth, I didn’t lose someone. I found myself.
By Khan 4 days ago in Chapters
I Thought I Was Strong—Until That Day
I Thought I Was Strong—Until That Day BY: Ubaid I used to believe I was strong. Not the kind of strength that shows up in gym mirrors or loud declarations, but the quiet kind. The kind that survives heartbreak without crying in public. The kind that carries responsibilities without asking for help. The kind that swallows pain and smiles anyway. For years, I wore that strength like armor. When my father lost his job, I told him everything would be okay—even though I had no idea how. When my closest friend betrayed my trust, I brushed it off like it didn’t matter. When my own dreams started slipping through my fingers, I convinced myself that maybe they weren’t meant for me anyway. “I’m fine,” became my most practiced lie. And I believed it. Until that day. It started like any other morning. The sun rose lazily, casting golden light through my bedroom window. I remember tying my shoes, looking at my reflection, and thinking, You’ve handled worse. You’ll handle today too. But life has a way of humbling you when you least expect it. The call came in the afternoon. I saw my mother’s name flashing on my phone. Her voice trembled in a way I had never heard before. There had been an accident. My younger brother. Hospital. In that moment, time didn’t slow down like it does in movies. It shattered. My thoughts collided. My hands began to shake. The world felt too loud and too silent at the same time. I rushed to the hospital, rehearsing strength in my head. You have to be strong. For Mom. For everyone. Hospitals have a particular smell—antiseptic and fear. I found my mother sitting outside the emergency room, her eyes red, her hands restless. She looked at me the way a child looks at a parent for reassurance. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t have any. The doctor came out. Words like “serious,” “critical,” and “uncertain” floated in the air. I tried to hold onto them, to understand them, but they felt like stones sinking inside me. That was the moment. The moment I realized I wasn’t as strong as I thought. My knees felt weak. My chest tightened. I wanted to scream, to punch a wall, to demand answers from the universe. Instead, I stood there, silent, pretending to process it all. But inside, something was breaking. For years, I had mistaken suppression for strength. I thought not crying made me powerful. I thought handling everything alone made me resilient. I thought vulnerability was a crack in the armor. That day, the armor shattered. I sat beside my mother and felt tears gather in my eyes. I tried to stop them. I really did. But they fell anyway. And once they started, they wouldn’t stop. I cried in a hospital hallway, under fluorescent lights, in front of strangers. And nothing about that felt strong. Hours passed like lifetimes. Every beep from the machines inside the emergency room felt like a countdown. Every nurse walking past made my heart race. I kept thinking about all the times I told myself I could handle anything. But I couldn’t handle this. I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t fix it. And that helplessness was unbearable. As night fell, exhaustion settled in. My mother leaned her head on my shoulder. She was still trembling. And that’s when I understood something I hadn’t before. Strength wasn’t about not breaking. It was about staying. Staying in the waiting room even when fear swallowed you whole. Staying beside your family when you had no comforting words. Staying present when your heart wanted to run away. I wasn’t strong because I didn’t cry. I was strong because I did—and still didn’t leave. Around midnight, the doctor finally returned with better news than we expected. My brother would need time to recover, but he was stable. The word “stable” had never sounded so beautiful. Relief hit me like a wave. I felt my body go light, like I had been carrying a mountain and someone had quietly lifted it. On the drive home, I stared out the window, thinking about the version of myself from that morning—the one who believed strength meant being unshakable. I smiled, but this time it was different. Because I had been shaken. And I had survived. That day changed my understanding of who I was. I am not invincible. I am not made of steel. I am not immune to fear or pain. But I am human. And maybe that’s where real strength lives. Not in pretending everything is okay. Not in carrying the world alone. Not in hiding tears behind a brave face. But in allowing yourself to feel fully—and choosing to keep going anyway. Now, when life tests me, I don’t rush to prove how strong I am. I don’t silence my emotions or wear armor that suffocates me. I breathe. I feel. I stay. Because I know what it’s like to think you’re strong—until the day life shows you what strength truly means. And that day, as painful as it was, didn’t break me. It rebuilt me.
By Ubaid 4 days ago in Chapters
The One Call I Wish I Had Never Answered
The One Call I Wish I Had Never Answered BY Ubaid It was a quiet Tuesday evening when my phone started ringing. I remember the exact moment because nothing about that day had been special. I had just returned from work, thrown my bag on the chair, and was sitting by the window watching the sky turn orange. My phone vibrated against the wooden table, breaking the silence. Unknown number. Normally, I ignore unknown calls. But that evening, something made me hesitate. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was boredom. Or maybe it was fate quietly rearranging my life. I answered. “Hello?” I said cautiously. There was a brief pause, then a familiar voice I hadn’t heard in years. “Is this… you?” My heart skipped. It was Sara. Sara and I had once been inseparable. We met during our first year of university and quickly became everything to each other—best friends, partners in late-night study sessions, and eventually something more. But life has a strange way of pulling people apart. After graduation, misunderstandings, ego, and distance slowly built walls between us. One argument turned into silence. Silence turned into years. And now, she was calling. “I got your number from an old friend,” she said softly. “I know it’s been a long time.” My mind was racing. I had spent years convincing myself I had moved on. I had buried the memories, trained myself not to think about her laugh, her stubbornness, the way she used to look at me like I was her entire world. And now, with one simple call, everything I had suppressed came rushing back. We talked for an hour that night. At first, it was awkward. Then familiar. We laughed about old professors, remembered silly incidents, and carefully avoided the topic of our breakup. It felt like reopening a book I once loved but had forced myself to close. When the call ended, I stared at my phone long after the screen went dark. That should have been it. A nostalgic conversation. A closed chapter revisited for a moment. But it wasn’t. The calls became frequent. Every evening around the same time, my phone would ring, and I would answer without hesitation. She told me about her new job, her struggles, her loneliness. I told her about mine. Slowly, the emotional connection we once had began rebuilding itself. There was just one problem. She was engaged. I found out a week later. She mentioned it casually, almost like an afterthought. “It’s not what I wanted,” she confessed. “It just… happened. My family insisted. He’s a good man, but I don’t feel anything.” Her words should have been my warning sign. Instead, they became my weakness. I told myself we were just talking. Just catching up. Just friends. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t innocent. The more we spoke, the more attached I became. Old feelings don’t die easily; they wait. They hide. And when given the smallest chance, they return stronger than before. One night, she called me crying. “I don’t think I can go through with this marriage,” she said between sobs. “I keep thinking about us. About what we had.” That was the moment I should have ended the call. I should have told her to make her decision independently. I should have protected both of us from the chaos that was about to unfold. Instead, I let my emotions speak. “I never stopped caring about you,” I admitted. Silence followed. A heavy, dangerous silence. Within days, her engagement became uncertain. She started arguing with her fiancé. Her family grew suspicious. She leaned on me for support, calling me at all hours. I became her escape from a reality she didn’t want to face. But reality has a way of demanding attention. Her fiancé found out about our conversations. Not the details, but enough to know something was wrong. Accusations were made. Families were involved. Voices were raised. In the middle of it all, Sara was overwhelmed. And then, one evening, my phone rang again. It was her number. I answered immediately, my chest tight with anxiety. Her voice was different this time. Tired. Broken. “This is all a mess,” she whispered. “I thought talking to you would give me clarity. But it’s only made everything harder. I hurt him. I hurt my family. And maybe I hurt you too.” I didn’t know what to say. She continued, “Maybe we were meant to stay in the past. Maybe some chapters should never be reopened.” That was the last real conversation we had. After that night, she stopped calling. Her number eventually became unreachable. Through mutual friends, I heard she went ahead with the marriage. I don’t know if she is happy. I don’t know if she ever thinks about me. But I know this: answering that first call changed everything. Before that evening, she was a memory. A bittersweet part of my past. After that call, she became a fresh wound. I learned something painful from it all. Not every opportunity to reconnect is a blessing. Sometimes, it’s a test. Sometimes, it’s life asking if you have truly grown or if you will repeat the same mistakes. If I hadn’t answered that call, she would have remained a closed chapter. I would have kept my peace. She would have faced her decisions without my influence. Instead, we blurred the lines between past and present, between nostalgia and reality. And in doing so, we created confusion where there could have been clarity. Now, whenever my phone rings from an unknown number, I pause a little longer. Because I know how powerful a single “Hello” can be. Some calls bring opportunity. Some bring closure. And some… are the ones you wish you had never answered.
By Ubaid 7 days ago in Chapters
I Smiled in Public but Cried in Private
I Smiled in Public but Cried in Private BY: Khan The Weight of Pretending to Be Okay People often say, “You’re always smiling. You must have a perfect life.” I used to smile wider when I heard that. Because if they only knew. From the outside, my life looked stable. I had a decent job, a small but comfortable apartment, and friends who tagged me in photos every weekend. My social media was filled with filtered sunsets, coffee cups, and captions about gratitude. If someone scrolled through my profile, they would see nothing but happiness. But happiness can be staged. Every morning, I stood in front of the mirror and practiced my smile. Not because I was vain, but because I needed it to look real. I needed to convince the world—and maybe myself—that I was okay. The truth was, I wasn’t. It started slowly. A quiet heaviness in my chest. A feeling that followed me home after work. I would laugh at jokes in the office, contribute to meetings, even plan team outings. But the moment I locked my apartment door behind me, silence would swallow me whole. I would drop my bag, sit on the floor, and stare at nothing. That’s when the tears would come. I never understood how someone could feel so surrounded yet so alone. I had people around me all the time. But no one really saw me. No one asked the questions that mattered. And I never offered the truth. Because I was afraid. Afraid of being seen as weak. Afraid of being “too much.” Afraid that if I admitted I was struggling, people would slowly step away. So I did what many of us do—I performed. At family gatherings, I was the cheerful one. The one cracking jokes. The one everyone described as “strong.” They didn’t see the nights I stayed awake until 3 a.m., replaying conversations in my head, wondering why I felt so empty. At work, I was dependable. Productive. Professional. I met deadlines, encouraged coworkers, and volunteered for extra tasks. No one knew that during lunch breaks, I sometimes locked myself in the restroom just to breathe through waves of quiet panic. It’s strange how skilled we become at hiding. The hardest part wasn’t the sadness. It was the pretending. Pretending takes energy. Smiling when your chest feels tight. Laughing when your mind is exhausted. Saying “I’m fine” so many times that it starts to feel automatic. But “I’m fine” was never true. One night, after a particularly long day, I came home and broke down harder than usual. There was no specific reason. No dramatic event. Just a build-up of emotions I had been swallowing for months. I looked at my reflection in the dark window and barely recognized myself. “Who are you?” I whispered. That question stayed with me. Who was I, really? The smiling version the world saw? Or the silent, tearful version that only existed behind closed doors? The next morning, I almost canceled plans with a friend. I didn’t have the energy to perform. But something inside me was tired—tired of being divided into two people. So I went. We sat at a quiet café. She talked about her week, her work stress, her small victories. I nodded and smiled, just like always. But when she finally paused and asked, “And how are you really?” something shifted. It was such a simple question. But no one had emphasized “really” before. For a moment, I considered giving my usual answer. “I’m good.” But my voice didn’t cooperate. Instead, my eyes filled with tears. I tried to apologize, embarrassed by the sudden emotion, but she reached across the table and held my hand. And for the first time in a long time, I told the truth. “I’m not okay.” The words felt heavy and relieving at the same time. Like exhaling after holding my breath for too long. I expected judgment. Discomfort. Maybe even distance. Instead, I received understanding. She didn’t try to fix me. She didn’t minimize my feelings. She just listened. And in that small café, with quiet music playing in the background, I realized something important: I didn’t have to smile all the time to be accepted. That day didn’t magically solve everything. I still had hard nights. I still struggled. But something changed inside me. I stopped forcing happiness in every situation. I allowed myself to say, “Today’s been tough.” I allowed myself to cancel plans when I truly needed rest. I allowed myself to feel without apologizing. And surprisingly, the world didn’t collapse. People didn’t leave. In fact, some came closer. I learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s honesty. And honesty builds deeper connections than perfect smiles ever could. Now, I still smile. But it’s different. It’s not a shield anymore. It’s not a mask. It’s real when it shows up—and absent when it doesn’t. Because I no longer believe I have to perform happiness to deserve love. I used to smile in public and cry in private. Now, I allow myself to be human in both places. And that has made all the difference.
By Khan 7 days ago in Chapters