waseem khan
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Stories (201)
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The Silent Cost of Midnight Oil: What Happens When We Study Late at Night
The Silent Cost of Midnight Oil: What Happens When We Study Late at Night For many students, the quiet of the night becomes a refuge for cramming information, finishing assignments, and catching up on readings that were pushed aside during the day. The silence after sunset, the absence of distractions, and the pressure of looming deadlines create the perfect storm for late-night study sessions. But beneath this habit lies a deeper impact that slowly shapes not only academic performance but mental, emotional, and physical well-being.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Education
The Day I Realized My Childhood Was Over. AI-Generated.
The Day I Realized My Childhood Was Over It was the summer I turned fifteen when it happened. The day wasn’t extraordinary. No dramatic lighting. No fireworks. Just a quiet Tuesday in late July, the kind that hums with heat and smells like dry grass and melting pavement.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Education
The Book That Survived the Storm. AI-Generated.
The Book That Survived the Storm The warnings came days before the hurricane hit, but most of us—especially those who’d lived through a dozen false alarms—didn’t take them seriously. I packed a small bag: some clothes, my laptop, old photo albums, and the locket my mother had given me before she passed. I left behind the house I grew up in, never imagining that I wouldn’t return for years.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Writers
The Day I Realized My Childhood Was Over. AI-Generated.
The Day I Realized My Childhood Was Over It was the summer I turned fifteen when it happened. The day wasn’t extraordinary. No dramatic lighting. No fireworks. Just a quiet Tuesday in late July, the kind that hums with heat and smells like dry grass and melting pavement.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Education
Love Letters I Never Sent (But Wrote Anyway). AI-Generated.
Love Letters I Never Sent (But Wrote Anyway) They say closure is a conversation. I say it’s a letter you never send. I used to think the only love stories worth telling were the ones that ended in forever. But now, I believe the ones that end quietly—half-healed, half-open—teach us just as much. Maybe more.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Fiction
How I Became a Ghost in My Own Life. AI-Generated.
How I Became a Ghost in My Own Life I wasn’t always invisible. There was a time I filled the room with laughter and the sound of my shoes tapping on kitchen tiles. My voice used to carry like warm air in spring. I used to sing in the shower and cry during movies. My chest would rise and fall with purpose. I lived.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Poets
The Things I Never Said to My Mother. AI-Generated.
The Things I Never Said to My Mother I’ve been thinking lately about all the words that never made it past my lips. The ones that hovered in my throat like a lump I couldn’t swallow, the ones I rehearsed in the shower but couldn’t perform in real life. This is for you, Mom — for the things I never said when you were looking, when I was silent, when I should’ve known better.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Humans
The Silence Between My Mother’s Words. AI-Generated.
The Silence Between My Mother’s Words My mother speaks in English like she’s walking on unfamiliar ground. Her words are careful, placed deliberately, like stones in a stream. In between them, there are silences—pregnant, loaded, shaped like the things she wants to say but doesn’t have the vocabulary for.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Potent
Five Minutes Late
Five Minutes Late It was five minutes. Just five. Mira stood on the sidewalk, heart pounding, breath fogging in the morning chill as she watched Bus 7 pull away without her. She had spilled coffee on her shirt, doubled back to change, and missed it by a blink.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Fiction
“When the Moon Called My Name”
When the Moon Called My Name Night wasn’t supposed to feel this hollow. The world dozed under a velvet sky while Mara wiped the same stretch of café counter for the fifth time. She worked the graveyard shift at the 24-hour diner just outside the city. It was always half-empty—two truckers in the corner booth, a student slouched over notes, and the vending machine humming like it knew secrets.
By waseem khan6 months ago in Poets
