SHAYAN

Joined June 2025

68 stories

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“The 12:03 Train”
The 12:03 Train It began, as most strange things do, on an ordinary night. Every weekday, the 12:03 train to Hollowbrook left Grand Central Station. The late train — mostly quiet, half-asleep commuters heading home from the city’s fluorescent hum. You could almost hear the sighs of tired shoes and weary hearts between the announcements.
By SHAYAN2 months ago in BookClub
“My Phone is My Diary (and It’s Terrifying)”
My Phone is My Diary (and It’s Terrifying) By [SHAYAN] There was a time when I used to keep a diary. A real one — spiral-bound, lined pages, slightly scented with old paper and bubblegum ink. It lived under my bed, next to a pair of socks that never found their match. I used to write about everything — crushes, fears, secrets I didn’t dare tell anyone.
By SHAYAN2 months ago in Chapters
“Reset Day”
Reset Day Every year, at exactly 11:59 PM on December 31st, the world holds its breath. For one minute, time bends. The lights flicker, the air hums, and everyone gets their single reset — the power to undo one event from the past year. No one knows how it works, or why. The scientists stopped pretending to explain it after the first decade. Theologians called it mercy. Politicians called it chaos. The rest of us just called it Reset Day.
By SHAYAN2 months ago in BookClub
“The Echo That Forgot My Name”
The Echo That Forgot MY SHAYAN I do not remember when I began. Once, I existed only in the hollow pause after a voice spoke — a repetition, soft and trembling, of something once alive. I was never meant to be anything more than a reflection. Yet, even reflections long to become real.
By SHAYAN2 months ago in BookClub
“The Noise Between Conversations”
The Noise Between Conversations It started on a Tuesday. The day was ordinary in every visible way — emails, coffee rings on her desk, the hum of office chatter that filled the space like lukewarm air.
By SHAYAN2 months ago in Cleats
The Librarian of Lost Birds
The Librarian of Lost Birds The town of Densmouth was always wrapped in fog, as if the sea itself couldn’t bear to let go of its secrets. The gulls cried endlessly, though no one could tell whether it was out of hunger or grief. On the edge of the harbor, between the salt-bitten lighthouse and a line of crumbling fisherman cottages, stood a narrow stone building with a faded sign that read:
By SHAYAN2 months ago in Chapters
“The Reflection Stayed Behind”
The Reflection Stayed Behind By the time Clara noticed her reflection was wrong, she had already taken the photograph.
By SHAYAN2 months ago in BookClub
“The Sky Forgets My Name”
The Sky Forgets My shayan I used to believe the sky was a witness. That every word I whispered into the wind found a home among the clouds, that every tear that slipped from my cheek was counted by the rain. I believed the sky would remember me when no one else could.
By SHAYAN4 months ago in Chapters
“The Day I Spoke to My Past Self”
The Day I Spoke to My Past Self I don’t remember falling asleep that night. I only remember the feeling of exhaustion weighing down on me, the kind that seeps into your bones after another day of pretending to have everything together. When my eyes opened again, I wasn’t in my room. Instead, I found myself standing in a playground I hadn’t seen in over twenty years.
By SHAYAN4 months ago in Families
The Last Library on Earth
The Last Library on Earth The city never slept. Screens glowed day and night, their light bouncing from one steel tower to the next until it seemed the whole world was made of glass and electricity. Nobody read anymore, not in the old way. Reading was a stream of voices piped directly into the mind—holograms, text-to-thought downloads, memory injections. Knowledge was instant. Convenience was king.
By SHAYAN4 months ago in BookClub
Confessions of a Failed Perfectionist
Confessions of a Failed Perfectionist I was born with a planner in my hand. Not literally—though if my mother could’ve handed me a miniature color-coded calendar instead of a pacifier, she probably would have. From kindergarten on, I was that child: the one who lined up her crayons in rainbow order, who rewrote homework assignments three times because the “a” in the second line wasn’t perfectly round.
By SHAYAN4 months ago in BookClub
My Mother’s Hands
My Mother’s Hands I have studied my mother’s hands more than I’ve studied her face. Faces change with expressions, with the weather of moods. Hands, though—hands carry permanence. They hold the map of everything lived.
By SHAYAN4 months ago in Chapters