Numan writes
Bio
I write across worlds and emotions, turning everyday moments into unforgettable stories. Explore with me through fiction, poetry, psyche, and life’s reflections
Stories (17)
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Grandpa’s Lost Journal
Grandpa’s Lost Journal The attic always smelled of cedar and dust, a place we rarely ventured, except when the old house creaked too loudly for sleep. That Sunday afternoon, my sister Lila and I were sent up to find some long-lost board games for our rainy-day plans. The sun slanted through the tiny attic window, illuminating cobwebs that hung like forgotten memories. Amid the stacks of faded suitcases and moth-eaten coats, something unusual caught my eye: a leather-bound journal, its edges frayed and cover etched with Grandpa’s initials.
By Numan writes4 months ago in Families
Her Father’s Shoes
Her Father’s Shoes Every morning, before the sun even stretched its fingers across the sleepy town, Laila slipped her small feet into a pair of worn leather shoes. They were too big for her, the toes curling awkwardly, the heels slapping against the floor as she walked. Yet, every time she wore them, she felt a little taller, a little braver, as though the weight of her father’s footsteps clung to her own.
By Numan writes4 months ago in Families
The Empty Seat
The Empty Seat The number 42 bus rattled through the city every morning, its tires humming over cracked asphalt, carrying with it the rituals of strangers. Office workers clutched their coffee cups, students hunched over glowing phones, and shopkeepers nodded off against the window glass.
By Numan writes4 months ago in Fiction
My Soulmate Has My Death Date Tattooed on Their Arm
My Soulmate Has My Death Date Tattooed on Their Arm The first time I saw her, the world felt suspended in a fragile breath. It was like every moment before had been leading to this—an intersection of fate and something darker, something I hadn’t dared imagine.
By Numan writes4 months ago in Fiction
Dreams for Sale
The neon lights of Novaterra City glowed brighter than the stars that no longer pierced its smog-choked skies. Here, dreams weren’t just fleeting shadows of the subconscious; they were commodities. They were bottled, traded, and sold like perfumes in gleaming glass vials.
By Numan writes4 months ago in Fiction
