Salman Writes
Bio
Writer of thoughts that make you think, feel, and smile. I share honest stories, social truths, and simple words with deep meaning. Welcome to the world of Salman Writes — where ideas come to life.
Stories (107)
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A Seat at the Table
Mina never thought much about family dinners. She had her own apartment, her own life, and her own rules. She told herself she didn’t need anyone to share meals with, that she preferred solitude, and that cooking for one was simpler, cleaner. But tonight, the smell of roasted chicken drifting from her mother’s old kitchen down the hall made her pause. It wasn’t just the aroma—it was memory wrapped in warmth, and it clung to her like a familiar voice calling her home.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Sound of Rain
The first thing I noticed was the sound. Not the gentle, polite drizzle that whispers against windows, but a persistent, almost stubborn rainfall that seemed determined to be heard. It filled the room with its insistent rhythm, a sound both familiar and strange, as if it were trying to tell me something I had long forgotten. I sat on the edge of my bed, laptop abandoned on my knees, and let it wash over me.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Humans
The Room I Still Walk Into
I still walk into that room sometimes. Not with my body. With my mind. The real room no longer exists in the way it once did. The house changed owners. The walls were repainted. The furniture replaced. Someone else now opens that window without knowing how much weight it once held.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Writers
The Man Who Smiled at Strangers
Every weekday morning at exactly 7:40, the same man stood outside the coffee shop and smiled at strangers. Not a wide, attention-seeking smile. Not the kind that demanded a response. Just a small, gentle smile, like he was acknowledging something simple and human that most people had forgotten how to see.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Man Who Always Fixed the Chair
There was a chair by the window in my childhood home that never stayed broken. It wasn’t a special chair. Wooden, plain, slightly uneven. One leg shorter than the others, so it rocked if you weren’t careful. Over the years, it cracked, loosened, and complained every time someone sat down too hard.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Last Receipt in My Wallet
I didn’t mean to keep the receipt. It was supposed to be trash, like all the others. A thin strip of paper from a corner grocery store, printed so lightly the ink was already fading. Milk. Bread. Two apples. Total: $4.83. The date sat quietly at the top, like it wasn’t important. But somehow, it ended up folded into my wallet, tucked behind my ID, where it stayed long after the milk went sour and the apples disappeared.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Confessions
The Last Message I Never Sen
I typed the message three times before deleting it for good. Each version sounded wrong in a different way. Too dramatic. Too casual. Too late. I stared at the blinking cursor like it was waiting for me to say something brave, but all I could offer was silence.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Chair by the Window
I didn’t realize how important the chair by the window was until no one sat in it anymore. It wasn’t a special chair. Just an old wooden one with a thin cushion that slid around when you stood up too fast. The paint had chipped near the legs, and one screw was always threatening to come loose. But every afternoon around four, my father would sit there, facing the street, cup of tea balanced carefully in his hand like it mattered.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Last Letter on the Shelf
I never meant to leave it there. The old wooden shelf in the corner of the living room, stacked with books that smelled faintly of dust and sunlight, had always been my mother’s domain. She used it like a shrine—little trinkets, half-finished novels, pressed flowers, and, most importantly, letters. So many letters. Some she’d kept from decades ago, tied with ribbon, their paper edges soft and worn. Others were more recent, hastily scribbled notes of gratitude, apology, or love.
By Salman Writes2 months ago in Fiction
