Young Adult

Sparrow on a Plank Chapter 19: Of Sparrows, Pirates, and...Vikings?
Back on Cyrill, Prince Ta was smiling to himself. He had long ago realized that Lord Ashigaru would be his opponent on this, and so had started a dossier on him. It was easy for him to keep a step ahead of the reptilian lord; Prince Ta didn't limit his thinking to what he thought his role was, and therefore was open to ideas that he would otherwise reject. He also treated his operatives with respect, and allowed that failure was an option. After all, if you send someone on a difficult assignment then it was likely that at sometime that someone would need to fail; it was just a matter of odds, and the odds didn't play favorites. He smiled, just a little thing on his lips, as he wondered how Lord Ashigaru would feel if Bubastos' high lord ever realized that his waffles were his weakness; without his daily waffles, his entire day was shot. They were part of his daily ritual, and something that needed to be changed.
By Jamais Jochim6 days ago in Chapters
The Risk That Changed My Future
The Risk That Changed My Future ‎BY: Ubaid The day I stopped choosing safety and started choosing myself. I used to believe that safety was the same thing as happiness. A stable job. A predictable routine. A monthly paycheck that arrived on time. By most standards, my life looked secure. I worked in a quiet office, sitting behind a desk that faced a gray wall. Every morning, I took the same bus, ordered the same coffee, and replied to the same types of emails. My life moved in straight lines. But inside, nothing felt straight. Every evening, when I returned home, I felt a strange heaviness in my chest. It wasn’t exhaustion. It wasn’t stress. It was something deeper — the quiet pain of knowing I was capable of more but too afraid to reach for it. For years, I had dreamed of starting my own digital marketing business. I loved creativity, strategy, storytelling — the thrill of building something from nothing. I spent nights watching tutorials, reading books, and helping small brands for free just to learn. But I never dared to quit my job. “What if I fail?” “What if I lose everything?” “What will people say?” Fear disguised itself as responsibility. I convinced myself that staying safe was the mature choice. But the truth was simple: I was scared. Then one ordinary Tuesday, something happened that shook me awake. My manager called me into his office. I thought it was another routine meeting. Instead, he handed me a document. Due to restructuring, my role would be reduced. My salary would decrease. My growth opportunities would be “limited for the foreseeable future.” I nodded politely, but inside something snapped. I had sacrificed my dreams for security — and even that security wasn’t guaranteed. That evening, I didn’t feel fear. I felt clarity. If I was going to struggle, I wanted to struggle for something that mattered to me. For the first time in my life, I did something impulsive. I went home, opened my laptop, and registered my business name. My hands were shaking as I clicked “confirm.” It felt reckless. It felt dangerous. It felt alive. The next few weeks were terrifying. I saved every rupee I could. I reduced unnecessary expenses. I built a small website. I reached out to local businesses. Most ignored me. Some rejected me. A few replied with polite “maybe later.” There were nights I lay awake wondering if I had made the biggest mistake of my life. One afternoon, I almost gave up. I had just received my fifth rejection email of the week. My confidence was cracking. My savings were shrinking faster than expected. Doubt whispered loudly: “You were safer before.” But then my phone rang. It was a small clothing brand owner I had contacted a month earlier. She had seen my proposal and wanted to give me a trial project. It wasn’t a huge contract. The payment was modest. But to me, it felt like someone had opened a window in a suffocating room. I worked harder than I ever had before. I studied her brand, redesigned her campaign strategy, optimized her ads, and created storytelling content that connected emotionally with her audience. Three weeks later, her sales doubled. She referred me to two other business owners. Then three more. Slowly, the momentum shifted. I was still anxious. I was still learning. But I was no longer trapped. The real transformation wasn’t financial. It was internal. I stopped waking up with dread. I started waking up with purpose. Every challenge felt meaningful because it was mine. Every failure became a lesson instead of proof of weakness. Six months later, my income matched my old salary. A year later, it surpassed it. But the numbers were never the real reward. The reward was freedom. Freedom to choose projects. Freedom to work creatively. Freedom to build something aligned with my passion. Looking back, I realize the risk didn’t change my future overnight. It changed my identity. I stopped being someone who waited for permission. I became someone who trusted myself. People often think risk is about jumping without thinking. It isn’t. Real risk is calculated. It is uncomfortable growth. It is stepping forward even when fear walks beside you. If I had stayed in that office, I would have remained safe — but small. Taking that risk forced me to confront my doubts, my insecurities, and my excuses. It forced me to grow faster than comfort ever could. Today, when people ask how I found success, I don’t talk about strategy first. I talk about courage. Because the hardest part wasn’t building a business. It was believing I was allowed to try. The risk that changed my future wasn’t quitting my job. It was choosing belief over fear. And that choice changed everything.
By Ubaid 6 days ago in Chapters
When I Realized I Deserved Better
When I Realized I Deserved Better BY: Khan I used to believe that love meant endurance. Enduring harsh words. Enduring silence. Enduring the feeling of being invisible in a room where I was supposed to feel at home. For a long time, I convinced myself that this was normal. That every relationship had its storms. That maybe I was just too sensitive. Maybe I expected too much. Maybe I was the problem. The truth is, when you’re constantly told that you’re difficult to love, you start shrinking yourself to make it easier for others. I shrank in conversations. I stopped expressing opinions that might cause conflict. I laughed at jokes that hurt me. I apologized even when I wasn’t wrong. I lowered my expectations until they were almost nonexistent. I thought that if I became smaller, the relationship would grow stronger. It didn’t. Instead, I disappeared. There were nights I lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying arguments in my head. I analyzed every word I had said, searching for the mistake that made things fall apart. I always found one—because I was looking for it. I carried guilt like it was proof of my love. One evening, after yet another argument that ended with me being blamed for everything, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked tired. Not physically tired—emotionally exhausted. I barely recognized the person staring back at me. That was the first crack in the illusion. I asked myself a question I had avoided for years: If someone I loved were treated this way, would I tell them to stay? The answer was immediate. No. I wouldn’t tell them to endure constant criticism. I wouldn’t tell them to accept disrespect. I wouldn’t tell them that feeling lonely in a relationship was normal. So why was I telling myself that? The realization didn’t come like a loud explosion. It came quietly, like a whisper that grew stronger each day. I started noticing patterns. The way my achievements were minimized. The way my feelings were dismissed. The way apologies were rare unless they were coming from me. I began to understand something powerful: love should not feel like a competition you’re constantly losing. Healthy love doesn’t make you question your value every day. It doesn’t require you to prove your worth over and over again. It doesn’t leave you feeling small. The more I reflected, the clearer it became. I wasn’t asking for too much. I was asking the wrong person. That realization was both freeing and terrifying. Because once you understand you deserve better, you can’t unlearn it. Staying would mean betraying myself. Leaving would mean facing the unknown. For weeks, I wrestled with fear. What if I regretted it? What if I never found someone else? What if I was overreacting? But another question pushed through the doubt: What if I stay and lose myself completely? That question scared me more than loneliness ever could. The day I decided to walk away wasn’t dramatic. There were no screaming matches or slammed doors. Just a calm clarity. I knew in my heart that I had reached my limit. I chose myself. And for someone who had spent years putting themselves last, that choice felt revolutionary. The first few weeks were painful. I missed the familiarity. I missed the routine. I even missed the version of them I had hoped they would become. But slowly, something unexpected began to happen. I started to breathe easier. I laughed without worrying if it would annoy someone. I shared my thoughts without rehearsing them first. I stopped apologizing for existing. I began rebuilding the parts of me that I had abandoned. I reconnected with friends I had drifted away from. I spent time alone and discovered I wasn’t afraid of my own company. I set boundaries—small ones at first. Saying “no” without explaining myself. Expressing discomfort without guilt. Each small act felt like reclaiming a piece of my identity. The biggest shift wasn’t external. It was internal. I stopped measuring my worth by someone else’s ability to see it. That’s when I truly realized I deserved better—not just from a partner, but from myself. I deserved respect. I deserved consistency. I deserved love that felt safe, not conditional. But more importantly, I deserved to treat myself with kindness. Looking back, I don’t regret the time I spent trying. I learned valuable lessons about boundaries, self-respect, and emotional strength. I learned that love without mutual respect is not love at all—it’s dependency dressed up as devotion. Realizing you deserve better isn’t about arrogance. It’s about awareness. It’s about understanding that your needs matter. Your feelings matter. Your voice matters. It’s about knowing that you are not too much—you were simply asking too little for yourself. Today, my standards are higher, but so is my peace. I no longer beg for attention or chase validation. I no longer twist myself into someone more “acceptable.” I am learning that the right people won’t require me to shrink. They will meet me where I stand. And if they don’t? I will walk away. Because the most important relationship I will ever have is the one with myself. The day I realized I deserved better wasn’t the day I found someone new. It was the day I found myself.
By Khan 6 days ago in Chapters
Dragon Horse. Content Warning.
Date: Mono-3, Triakosia To: Helike From: Southern hemisphere, SE How’s it going, loser? My sarge told me it's hotter in the south. I guess they do have ice in their veins. It's like all the fire in the world got trapped below the equator. The sun looks red and the ground has dried up. There are no animals or plants, just dust and rubble. Sometimes there's clouds but even the rain boils. We wear respirators here too because if we don't our lungs will burn. This isn't global warming, it's a global incinerator. When the sun goes down it's the north but even worse even though there's no snow.
By Wen Xiaosheng8 days ago in Chapters
The Fear That Controlled My Life
The Fear That Controlled My Life BY: Khan Breaking Free from the Prison Inside My Mind Fear has a strange way of whispering lies so convincingly that you start believing them as truth. For most of my life, fear was not just an emotion—it was the voice that made my decisions. I didn’t always know that. As a child, I was quiet. Teachers called me “well-behaved.” Relatives described me as “shy.” What they didn’t see was the storm inside me. Every time I raised my hand in class, my heart pounded like it was trying to escape my chest. Every time I had to speak in front of others, my throat tightened, and my palms turned cold. I wasn’t just nervous. I was terrified of being wrong. Terrified of being judged. Terrified of being seen. In school, I avoided competitions even when I knew I was capable. I skipped opportunities that required leadership. When friends talked about big dreams—starting businesses, moving abroad, chasing passion—I smiled and nodded. Inside, I told myself, That’s not for you. Fear became my protector. At least that’s what I thought. It convinced me that staying invisible meant staying safe. It told me that rejection would destroy me. It promised that if I never tried, I would never fail. But it never told me what it would cost. Years passed. I chose a career path not because I loved it, but because it felt secure. I avoided relationships that required vulnerability. I said “maybe” when I meant “yes,” and “it’s fine” when it wasn’t. From the outside, my life looked stable. From the inside, I felt trapped. The turning point came on an ordinary evening. I was sitting alone in my room, scrolling through social media. I saw people my age building businesses, traveling, speaking on stages, sharing their stories. A thought hit me hard: They’re not braver than you. They’re just less afraid of fear. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I realized something painful: fear had not protected me. It had imprisoned me. It had made my world smaller. It had stolen experiences I would never get back. And worst of all—it had convinced me I wasn’t capable. The next morning, I made a small decision. Not a dramatic one. Just small. I volunteered to present a project at work. The moment I sent the message, panic rushed through me. My mind screamed, Why did you do that? You’ll embarrass yourself! But this time, I didn’t listen. The day of the presentation, my hands trembled. My voice shook at first. I could hear my heartbeat louder than my own words. But something surprising happened. I didn’t die. No one laughed. No one humiliated me. In fact, a colleague said, “You explained that really well.” It was such a simple sentence. But to me, it felt like a crack in the wall fear had built around my life. That small victory changed everything. I began taking more risks—tiny ones at first. I shared my opinion in meetings. I applied for a role I thought I wasn’t “ready” for. I started writing my thoughts online, even though the idea terrified me. Every time fear appeared, it used the same script: You’re not good enough. People will judge you. You’ll fail. And every time, I asked myself a new question: What if I don’t? Slowly, I learned something powerful: courage is not the absence of fear. It’s action despite fear. The more I acted, the weaker fear became. Not gone—never completely gone—but quieter. I started to see fear for what it really was. It wasn’t a monster. It was a story. A story I had repeated so many times that it felt like identity. There were setbacks, of course. Times when I stumbled. Times when criticism stung. But instead of seeing those moments as proof that fear was right, I began seeing them as proof that I was trying. And trying meant living. One of the biggest changes happened in my relationships. For years, I avoided difficult conversations. I feared conflict so much that I stayed silent, even when silence hurt me. One day, I finally spoke honestly to someone close to me. My voice trembled, but I didn’t hide my truth. The result? Not rejection. Respect. That was the moment I realized something profound: fear had exaggerated every consequence. It had painted worst-case scenarios as guaranteed outcomes. But reality was often kinder than my imagination. Today, fear still visits me. Before big decisions. Before new opportunities. Before stepping into unfamiliar spaces. But now, I don’t let it drive. I let it sit in the passenger seat. Because I’ve learned that fear will always try to control your life if you let it. It will disguise itself as logic, safety, and practicality. It will convince you that small is smart and invisible is wise. But growth lives on the other side of discomfort. Freedom lives on the other side of fear. Looking back, I don’t regret being afraid. Fear taught me awareness. It showed me where I cared deeply. But I do regret the years I gave it authority. If there’s one truth I’ve discovered, it’s this: The only thing more painful than facing your fear is living a life ruled by it. And the day you decide to act anyway—no matter how small the step—that’s the day your real life begins.
By Khan 8 days ago in Chapters
I Stayed Too Long Where I Didn’t Belong
I Stayed Too Long Where I Didn’t Belong BY: Ubaid Sometimes the hardest goodbye is the one you should have said years ago. I knew I didn’t belong there the day I first felt my voice shrink. It wasn’t obvious at first. There were no dramatic arguments, no slammed doors, no cruel words thrown like knives. It was quieter than that. Softer. The kind of discomfort that whispers instead of screams. The kind that makes you question yourself instead of the situation. I told myself I was lucky. Lucky to have the job. Lucky to have the relationship. Lucky to be part of that circle of friends. Lucky that someone had chosen me. That word—lucky—became the chain that kept me in a place that slowly erased me. At work, I laughed at jokes that made me uncomfortable. I agreed with ideas I didn’t believe in. I stayed silent in meetings even when I knew I had better solutions. Every time I swallowed my opinion, I told myself it wasn’t worth the trouble. I told myself peace was more important than authenticity. In my relationship, I adjusted. Then adjusted again. Then again. I became smaller so we wouldn’t fight. I changed my preferences so we’d “match.” I stopped mentioning the things that mattered to me because they were always brushed aside. “You’re overthinking.” “You’re too sensitive.” “Why do you always make things complicated?” So I learned not to complicate things. I learned to nod. I learned to smile. I learned to stay. The strange part? From the outside, everything looked fine. Good job. Stable relationship. Decent social life. No chaos. No scandals. But inside, I felt like a guest in my own life. I remember one evening clearly. I was sitting at a dinner table surrounded by people who had known me for years. They were laughing, telling stories, teasing each other. I laughed too—but it felt mechanical. Like I was playing a version of myself they were comfortable with. In that moment, I realized something terrifying. If I disappeared tomorrow, they wouldn’t miss me. They would miss the version of me I had created for them. And that version wasn’t real. Still, I stayed. Because leaving meant admitting I had wasted time. Leaving meant facing the fear that maybe I wouldn’t find better. Leaving meant being alone. And I was more afraid of being alone than I was of being unhappy. Years passed like that. Not terrible. Not amazing. Just… dull. There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from pretending. It’s not physical. It’s soul-deep. You wake up tired even after sleeping. You feel restless even in comfort. You scroll through other people’s lives and wonder why yours feels muted. I started noticing how often I said, “It’s fine.” When it wasn’t. The turning point didn’t come with drama. No betrayal. No explosive argument. Just a simple moment. Someone asked me, “What do you actually want?” And I froze. I didn’t know. Not because I had no dreams—but because I had buried them so deeply under compromise that I couldn’t hear them anymore. That question followed me home. It echoed in the quiet of my room. It sat beside me at work. It whispered during conversations. What do you actually want? And slowly, painfully, the truth surfaced. I wanted to speak without fear of being labeled difficult. I wanted to be loved without editing myself. I wanted friendships where I didn’t feel like I was auditioning. I wanted to feel like I belonged without performing. And the place I was in—the job, the relationship, the social circle—couldn’t give me that. Not because they were evil. Not because they hated me. But because I had built those spaces around a version of myself that wasn’t true. Leaving felt like betrayal. They said things like, “You’ve changed.” They said, “Why are you throwing this away?” They said, “It was fine before.” And maybe it was fine for them. But it was never fine for me. Walking away was messy. I doubted myself constantly. I missed the familiarity. I questioned whether I had made everything up in my head. There were nights I almost went back—not because I was happy there, but because it was predictable. But something inside me had woken up. And once you realize you don’t belong somewhere, staying becomes heavier than leaving. The first months after leaving were quiet. Uncomfortable. Lonely. But there was space. Space to think. Space to feel. Space to rediscover who I was without anyone’s expectations pressing down on me. I started speaking more honestly—even if my voice shook. I started choosing differently—even if people didn’t understand. I started asking myself what I preferred before adjusting to others. And slowly, something shifted. I began meeting people who responded to my real thoughts with curiosity instead of dismissal. I found work where my ideas were heard. I felt lighter in conversations because I wasn’t calculating every word. Belonging, I learned, doesn’t feel like proving yourself. It feels like breathing. Looking back, I don’t regret staying as long as I did. That time taught me what self-abandonment feels like. It taught me how easy it is to confuse comfort with alignment. But I also learned this: You can survive in places you don’t belong. You can function. You can even succeed. But you will slowly disappear. And no achievement is worth losing yourself. The hardest truth I had to accept was this: nobody forced me to stay. I stayed because I was afraid. Afraid of change. Afraid of judgment. Afraid that maybe I wasn’t enough for something better. But the moment I chose myself—even imperfectly—everything changed. Not instantly. Not magically. But honestly. And honesty feels better than comfort ever did. If you’re somewhere that makes you shrink, that makes you question your worth, that makes you perform instead of exist—ask yourself one question: Are you staying because you belong? Or because you’re afraid to leave? Sometimes growth isn’t about becoming someone new. Sometimes it’s about finally leaving the place that never let you be who you already were.
By Ubaid 8 days ago in Chapters
Tattoos and Rail Guns Chapter 18: When Demons Plan For the Future
Sharness rode up to her “temple”; the 1920s mansion had been refurbished with an apocalypse in mind, making it an excellent base for her operations. She had fallen in love with the curves and swoops of the mansion; it was a gorgeous edifice only highlighted by the gardens around it and the pools that someone had taken care to design slides, fire pits, and hidden nooks. It was made to satisfy the needs of those who had lived there and she could appreciate that as no human living on the planet could.
By Jamais Jochim9 days ago in Chapters
We Ended Before We Even Began — Part Two
The strange thing about ending something that never officially began is that nothing really changes. And yet, everything does.
By HazelnutLattea11 days ago in Chapters
Brass Ring Chapter 14: When Bad Things Happen to Good People
Captain Sandoval walked into the room. In this room were ten of the best of his precinct, men who had proven themselves again and again. They had access to the best training, the best equipment, and the best weapons. Each had been assigned a suit of armor capable of handling an anti-tank weapon, a rifle that could switch between a sonic blaster, a grenade launcher, and a slug-thrower capable of eliminating a marble statue. They were ready to deal with most super-powered crime.
By Jamais Jochim11 days 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 12 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 12 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 Jochim13 days ago in Chapters