Muhammad Haroon
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Stories (8)
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How We Read Ourselves
đ How We Read Ourselves By Haroon In the quiet corner of the cafĂ©, Marla sat hunched over her notebook, sipping lukewarm espresso and tracing her pen along the creases of the page. The words were hersâat least she believed they were. Her handwriting, curled and deliberate, danced across the paper in a way that felt too poetic to belong to her in real life.
By Muhammad Haroon5 months ago in Art
Ghosts That Linger
The old library smelled of dust and secrets, its shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten books. Clara had always loved it here, the way the light filtered through cracked stained-glass windows, casting fractured rainbows across the oak floor. It was a place where time felt suspended, where the world outsideâwith its noise and hasteâcouldnât reach her.
By Muhammad Haroon5 months ago in Chapters
AI, Therapy, and the Human Touch
đ€ AI, Therapy, and the Human Touch Can Machines Really Understand What We Feel? By Haroon The first time Lena spoke to an AI therapist, she didnât expect much. It was a Tuesday, the kind of day that felt like background noise. She had just come home from work, her inbox still echoing in her head, and her heart carrying the weight of a breakup that had left her feeling more invisible than heartbroken.
By Muhammad Haroon5 months ago in Art
Not My Wake
đż Not My Wake When Nature Awakens, So Do We By Haroon The morning began with laughter. Not the human kind. The Kookaburraâs cackle pierced the veil of sleep like a flash of mischief rolling down the eucalyptus grove outside my window. I blinked. One bird, then twoâthen an entire chorus of feathered jesters, turning the dawn into a raucous performance.
By Muhammad Haroon5 months ago in Art
How W Read Ourselves
đ How We Read Ourselves By Haroon In the quiet corner of the cafĂ©, Marla sat hunched over her notebook, sipping lukewarm espresso and tracing her pen along the creases of the page. The words were hersâat least she believed they were. Her handwriting, curled and deliberate, danced across the paper in a way that felt too poetic to belong to her in real life.
By Muhammad Haroon5 months ago in Art
If i could choose the dream. AI-Generated.
đ If I Could Choose the Dream By Haroon The first thing I feel is warmthânot the kind that comes from sunshine but something softer, like being swaddled in a memory. Iâm standing in a field of silvergrass. The wind moves through the blades like whispers. The sky overhead is hazy lavender. Dreamlight. Thatâs what Iâve decided to call this place: dreamlight.
By Muhammad Haroon5 months ago in Confessions
Leave the Light On
**Title:** *Leave the Light On* **Subtitle:** *A Beacon Through the Storm, Binding Past and Present* By Haroon The old lighthouse, which was present on Ravenâs Cliff, had not been lit for decades. Its broken lens was unlit against the stormy Maine sky. But tonight, as lightning crackled and surf pounded the cliffs, Noora stood beneath it. She was holding a rusty key she had found in her grandfatherâs loft. The attached note had mysterious words: *"Keep the light on, Nora. He will come back."*
By Muhammad Haroon5 months ago in Chapters
