waseem khan
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Stories (201)
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The Last Conversation We Never Had
Story The Last Conversation We Never Had I should have said it when we were sitting on that cracked bench in the park, your scarf fluttering in the spring breeze, and I kept staring at you like I’d never see you again. I didn’t know then that I wouldn’t. I thought there would always be tomorrow, another chance to speak, another quiet moment where the world softened enough to hold us both.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Poets
My Cat Brought Me the Key to a Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday
Story My Cat Brought Me the Key to a Door That Wasn’t There Yesterday It started with a key. A small, tarnished thing, old enough to smell of time itself, left neatly on my doorstep. I didn’t notice it at first — the mail had been late that morning, and I thought it was a discarded piece of junk. But then Milo, my black cat, padded up beside it and stared, green eyes bright and unblinking. He batted the key gently with his paw, then mewed sharply, as if demanding my attention.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Horror
My GPS Led Me Somewhere That Doesn’t Exist
Story My GPS Led Me Somewhere That Doesn’t Exist It started as a simple late-night drive. I’d been on the road for five hours, heading back from a work trip, when fatigue began to set in. The interstate was a black ribbon unspooling in front of me, and my eyes kept flicking to the glowing GPS screen for reassurance.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Horror
Letters My Future Self Forgot to Send
Story Letters My Future Self Forgot to Send The first letter arrived on a Tuesday. It was tucked neatly between a credit card bill and a grocery flyer, its envelope yellowed at the edges, the paper thick and almost too formal for the times. My name was written in looping handwriting I didn’t recognize, but the strangest part was the postmark: March 14, 2045.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
We Only Fell in Love in Photographs
Story We Only Fell in Love in Photographs In our photographs, we were perfect. You’re leaning against me in the café on 8th Street, your laughter caught mid-bloom, my hand curled loosely around yours as though I had always known where it belonged. The window light brushes your hair into gold, and I look at you the way people look at sunsets — certain it will fade, but unable to look away.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Humor
The Woman Who Spoke in Weather
Story The Woman Who Spoke in Weather Harold Linton had been the city’s morning weatherman for nineteen years. He was steady, reliable, and rarely surprised — the kind of man who could read a sky like a favorite book. His office sat on the eleventh floor of a squat, concrete building downtown, where he had a perfect view of Ashbury Street.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
A Stranger in Every Photograph
A Stranger in Every Photograph I found the photo album on a rainy Sunday afternoon, tucked behind boxes in the attic of my late grandmother’s house. Its leather cover was cracked and worn, the pages yellowed, and the smell of old paper and faint perfume clung to it like a ghost.
By waseem khan5 months ago in Fiction
