Technology

India to Buy 114 Rafale Jets in $40 Billion Defense Boost Ahead of French President’s Visit
India on Thursday granted initial approval for the purchase of $40 billion (3.6 trillion Indian rupees) worth of defense equipment, including additional French Rafale fighter jets for the Indian Air Force.
By Real content14 days ago in Chapters
Aishwarya Gaikwad : Building Presence in a Constant Scroll. AI-Generated.
In an era defined by constant notifications and endless scrolling, the quiet work of digital maintenance often goes unnoticed. Behind the curated feeds, timed posts, and measured responses lies a profession that has grown alongside the platforms themselves. Aishwarya Gaikwad belongs to a generation that entered adulthood as social media matured from novelty to infrastructure. Her path into social media management reflects broader shifts in how communication, identity, and work intersect in the digital age.
By Aishwarya Gaikwad15 days ago in Chapters
Pakistan Launches PRSC-EO2 Satellite: SUPARCO Successfully Sends Second Indigenous Earth Observation Satellite into Orbit
Pakistan has announced another important milestone in its national space program by successfully sending its second indigenous Earth Observation Satellite into space.
By Real content15 days ago in Chapters
I Didn’t Know Love Could Hurt This Much
I Didn’t Know Love Could Hurt This Much ‎BY:Ubaid I used to believe love was soft. Not the dramatic, cinematic kind you see in movies, but something steady—like sunlight slipping through curtains in the morning. Warm. Predictable. Safe. I thought love meant comfort, reassurance, and someone choosing you every single day without hesitation. I didn’t know love could hurt this much. I met Areeb on a random Tuesday at a mutual friend’s birthday dinner. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I had built my life carefully—degree almost complete, a small circle of friends, dreams lined up like dominoes waiting to fall into place. Love felt like an optional chapter, not the main storyline. But he had a way of making everything feel intentional. The way he listened. The way he remembered small details—how I hated coriander, how I loved rainy evenings, how I got anxious before presentations. He noticed me in ways no one ever had. And that scared me a little. In the beginning, everything felt effortless. We would talk until 3 a.m., sharing childhood memories and future plans. He told me he had never felt this understood before. I told him I had never felt this seen. It felt like we were building something rare, something that people spend years searching for. I didn’t realize that sometimes the things that start beautifully can unravel quietly. The first change was subtle. A missed call here. A delayed reply there. “I’ve just been busy,” he’d say, and I would nod, even when a small voice inside me whispered that something was different. Love makes you justify what your intuition tries to warn you about. I told myself I was overthinking. He still met me on weekends. He still held my hand in public. He still said, “I love you.” But the warmth in his voice felt thinner, like a blanket that no longer covered you fully. One evening, while sitting across from him at our favorite café, I noticed the distance. Not physical distance—he was right there—but emotional distance. His eyes didn’t linger on mine the way they used to. His laughter felt forced. When I spoke about my day, he seemed distracted, glancing at his phone more than at me. “Is everything okay?” I asked carefully. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” he replied quickly. But love teaches you how to read between silences. Days turned into weeks, and I found myself trying harder. Dressing the way he liked. Suppressing my overthinking so I wouldn’t “create problems.” Smiling even when I felt insecure. I became smaller in ways I didn’t notice at first. That’s the dangerous thing about loving deeply—you start adjusting pieces of yourself without realizing you’re slowly disappearing. The night everything broke wasn’t dramatic. There was no shouting. No shattered glass. Just honesty that came too late. “I don’t think I feel the same anymore,” he said quietly, staring at the floor. Those words didn’t just land. They crushed. “What do you mean?” I asked, even though I understood perfectly. “I care about you. I just… I don’t know. Something changed.” Something changed. As if love were a switch that could be flipped off. I walked home that night feeling numb. The city lights blurred as tears refused to fall. It wasn’t just losing him that hurt. It was losing the future I had imagined. The late-night talks. The trips we planned. The version of myself who felt secure in someone’s arms. I didn’t know love could hurt in layers. It hurt my pride. It hurt my confidence. It hurt the part of me that believed I was enough. For weeks, I replayed everything in my mind. Where did I go wrong? Was I too emotional? Too demanding? Not supportive enough? The questions were endless, and none of the answers brought comfort. The hardest part wasn’t missing him. It was missing how I felt when he loved me. But pain has a strange way of teaching you what comfort never could. Slowly, I began to understand that love isn’t supposed to make you shrink. It isn’t supposed to make you question your worth. Real love doesn’t fade because it got “boring” or “complicated.” Real love grows through discomfort instead of escaping it. I started rebuilding myself in small ways. I went back to journaling. I reconnected with friends I had neglected. I took long walks alone and allowed myself to cry without feeling weak. Healing wasn’t linear. Some mornings, I felt strong and independent. Other nights, I stared at my phone, tempted to text him just to feel something familiar. But each time I resisted, I reclaimed a little piece of myself. One day, I realized I had gone an entire afternoon without thinking about him. It felt like breathing after being underwater for too long. That’s when I understood something important. Love did hurt. But it wasn’t because love itself is cruel. It hurt because I gave it to someone who wasn’t ready to carry it. I didn’t know love could hurt this much—but I also didn’t know I could survive it. Now, when I think about that chapter of my life, I don’t just remember the pain. I remember the lesson: I am capable of loving deeply, fearlessly, and wholeheartedly. And that is not a weakness. It’s a strength. The next time I love, I won’t make myself smaller to fit into someone else’s uncertainty. I won’t ignore my intuition to protect someone else’s comfort. Because love should feel like sunlight again. Warm. Steady. Safe. And until it does, I’m learning to be that light for myself.
By Ubaid 15 days ago in Chapters
The Apology I Needed but Never Received
The Apology I Needed but Never Received BY: Khan I used to believe that closure came in the form of an apology. A simple sentence. A quiet admission. A moment where someone looked you in the eyes and said, “I was wrong.”
By Khan 15 days ago in Chapters
AI, Surveillance, and the Fragile Line Between Deterrence and Disaster
AI, Surveillance, and the Fragile Line Between Deterrence and Disaster The next great danger in global conflict is not only missiles or soldiers, but machines that think faster than humans. As artificial intelligence (AI) becomes deeply embedded in military planning, surveillance, and nuclear command systems, the risk of accidental war is growing quietly but dangerously. What once depended on human judgment is now increasingly shaped by algorithms, sensors, and automated decision-making. In this new environment, a single error, misreading, or cyber manipulation could push the world toward catastrophe.
By Wings of Time 15 days ago in Chapters
Dragon Horse. Content Warning.
Aroon strides beside the blue ropes lining the white square base, touching each of the four corners, and stopping to shut her eyes for a few seconds every time.
By Wen Xiaosheng16 days ago in Chapters
What Happens When You Finally Stop Pretending
What Happens When You Finally Stop Pretending ‎Khan For years, I mastered the art of pretending. Pretending I was happy. Pretending I was confident. Pretending I didn’t care. From the outside, my life looked perfectly stitched together. I smiled in photos. I posted motivational captions. I laughed at jokes even when my chest felt heavy. People called me “strong” and “positive,” and I wore those labels like armor. But armor gets heavy. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until one random Tuesday evening when I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My smile disappeared the second I was alone. My shoulders dropped. My eyes looked older than they should have. And for the first time, I asked myself a dangerous question: Who am I when no one is watching? The truth was uncomfortable. I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been okay for a long time. I had built a version of myself that people liked. The agreeable one. The calm one. The one who never complained. I said “yes” when I wanted to say “no.” I stayed silent when something hurt me. I laughed off disrespect. I avoided conflict so I wouldn’t seem “difficult.” I told myself it was maturity. It wasn’t. It was fear. Fear of being rejected. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being alone. So I pretended. Pretended that the job I hated was “a blessing.” Pretended that the friendship draining me was “loyalty.” Pretended that the relationship that made me anxious was “love.” And the more I pretended, the further I drifted from myself. The breaking point wasn’t dramatic. There was no shouting, no slammed doors, no viral meltdown. It was quiet. Subtle. Ordinary. A friend asked me a simple question: “Are you actually happy?” I opened my mouth to give my usual automatic answer — “Of course.” But the word got stuck in my throat. For the first time in years, I didn’t lie. “I don’t think I am.” Saying it out loud felt like cracking a window in a suffocating room. The air wasn’t perfect, but it was real. That night, I went home and sat in silence. No music. No scrolling. No distractions. Just me and my thoughts. It was uncomfortable. My mind tried to run. It tried to blame others. It tried to justify everything. But beneath the noise was a softer voice. You’re tired because you’re not living your truth. That sentence changed everything. Stopping the pretending didn’t happen overnight. It wasn’t a dramatic transformation. It was small, terrifying decisions. The first “no” I said without apologizing felt illegal. The first time I admitted I was hurt instead of joking about it felt vulnerable. The first time I chose rest over proving myself felt selfish. But something strange happened. The world didn’t collapse. Some people were surprised. A few were uncomfortable. One or two drifted away. And that hurt more than I expected. When you stop pretending, not everyone likes the real version of you. But the ones who stayed? They stayed differently. Conversations became deeper. My laughter became real. My silence became peaceful instead of heavy. I began to understand something powerful: pretending keeps you accepted, but authenticity sets you free. Freedom, however, is not glamorous. It looks like losing people who only liked your mask. It looks like disappointing expectations. It looks like sitting alone sometimes, choosing honesty over approval. But it also looks like waking up without the tightness in your chest. It looks like looking in the mirror and recognizing the person staring back. It looks like sleeping at night without replaying conversations, wondering if you were “too much” or “not enough.” When I stopped pretending, I discovered how much energy I had wasted trying to be digestible. I softened where I needed softness. I drew boundaries where I needed strength. I admitted when I didn’t know something. I admitted when I was scared. And instead of becoming weaker, I became grounded. There’s a strange myth that being authentic means being loud or rebellious. For me, it was quieter than that. It was choosing honesty in small moments. “I don’t agree.” “That hurt me.” “I need space.” “I’m not okay.” Simple sentences. Powerful shifts. The biggest surprise wasn’t how others reacted. It was how I reacted to myself. I stopped judging my emotions. I stopped forcing positivity. I stopped comparing my behind-the-scenes to someone else’s highlight reel. I started accepting that strength isn’t about holding everything together. Sometimes, it’s about letting it fall apart so you can rebuild it honestly. What happens when you finally stop pretending? You lose some things. You lose the pressure to perform. You lose fake connections. You lose the version of yourself that survived by shrinking. But you gain something priceless. Clarity. Peace. Self-respect. And slowly, you begin to attract people who don’t need your performance — only your presence. I still catch myself slipping into old habits sometimes. Smiling when I’m uncomfortable. Downplaying my feelings. But now I notice it. And noticing is power. If you had met me years ago, you would have said I was doing great. If you meet me now, you might say I’m more serious. More selective. More honest. And you’d be right. Because when you finally stop pretending, you don’t become perfect. You become real. And real — messy, honest, vulnerable real — is where life actually begins.
By Khan 16 days ago in Chapters
Russia-Ukraine War Enters Fourth Year: Can Flamingo, Oreshnik Missiles, F-16 Jets and AI Drones Change the Balance?
On the 24th of this month, four years will be completed since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. This war has continued without pause for four years, and there are still no visible signs that it will end. Negotiations between Russia and Ukraine are being held in Abu Dhabi under U.S. mediation. On Thursday, another round of these talks ended without any progress. If diplomacy is failing to deliver results, do the two countries possess such advanced weapons that could potentially tilt the balance of war in favor of either side?
By Real content17 days ago in Chapters
When Silence Spoke Louder Than Words
When Silence Spoke Louder Than Words Ubaid I used to believe that words were the most powerful tools we had. Apologies, promises, explanations—if spoken at the right time, I thought they could fix anything. Silence, on the other hand, felt like emptiness. Like nothing. I was wrong. The first time I noticed the silence, it didn’t arrive dramatically. There was no argument, no slammed doors, no final sentence hanging in the air. It crept in quietly, disguised as “being busy.” Messages took longer to answer. Conversations grew shorter. The warmth that once lived between us slowly cooled, one unread text at a time. I told myself I was overthinking. People grow, lives change, priorities shift. That’s normal, right? But deep down, I felt something was off. Not because of what was said—but because of what wasn’t. We used to talk about everything. Small things, like how the sky looked before sunset, and big things, like fears we never admitted out loud. There was comfort in knowing someone would listen without judgment. Then one day, that comfort disappeared. Not suddenly, but steadily, like a radio signal fading as you drive farther away. When I finally asked if something was wrong, the response was simple: “Nothing. Everything’s fine.” Those words should have reassured me. Instead, they made the silence louder. Because silence has weight. It carries meaning. And when someone chooses not to speak, that choice says more than any carefully crafted sentence ever could. I began replaying moments in my head, searching for mistakes I might have made. Maybe I said too much. Maybe I didn’t say enough. Maybe I failed to notice something important. But silence doesn’t offer answers—it only offers space. And in that space, doubts grow fast. What hurt the most wasn’t the distance itself, but the refusal to acknowledge it. I would have preferred an honest confession, even if it was painful. At least words give you something solid to hold onto. Silence leaves you guessing, questioning your worth, your memory, your place in someone’s life. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. The connection that once felt unbreakable now felt like a fragile thread, stretched too thin. And still, no words came. That’s when I realized something uncomfortable: silence isn’t always passive. Sometimes, it’s intentional. Silence can be a boundary. A decision. A quiet goodbye. I had spent so long waiting for an explanation that I forgot I was allowed to move forward without one. Not every ending comes with closure. Not every story is wrapped neatly with a final conversation. Some chapters end mid-sentence, and we have to accept that. Letting go wasn’t easy. I kept hoping the silence would break, that one message would arrive and everything would make sense again. But it never did. And slowly, I stopped checking. Stopped waiting. Stopped building my days around a response that wasn’t coming. In the quiet, I learned to listen to myself instead. I learned that I deserved honesty—even if it came in the form of absence. I learned that someone’s silence often reflects their own struggles, not my value. And I learned that peace sometimes begins when we stop demanding answers from people who have already chosen not to speak. Now, when I think back, I don’t feel anger. I feel clarity. Because the silence told me what words couldn’t: that the connection had run its course, that holding on was hurting more than letting go, and that it was time to choose myself. Some people leave with explanations. Others leave with silence. Both are messages. One is just harder to hear. But once you understand it, once you accept it, the silence stops being heavy. It becomes freeing. It gives you permission to close the door gently and walk forward without looking back. And that’s when I finally understood— silence doesn’t mean nothing. Sometimes, it means everything.
By Ubaid 18 days ago in Chapters
I Learned the Hard Way Who Really Cared
I Learned the Hard Way Who Really Cared Khan I used to believe that the people who laughed the loudest with me would be the ones who stayed when things got quiet. I thought care was measured by constant messages, shared photos, and promises that sounded sincere in the moment. Back then, I didn’t know how easy it was for noise to disguise emptiness. Life was comfortable when everything was going right. I had people around me—friends who showed up for celebrations, acquaintances who called themselves family, and conversations that felt meaningful simply because they were frequent. I mistook availability for loyalty and attention for care. It never crossed my mind to question who would remain if I stopped being useful, entertaining, or strong. That illusion shattered during one of the most difficult phases of my life. It didn’t happen all at once. It began subtly, with unanswered messages and delayed replies. At first, I made excuses for everyone. People are busy, I told myself. Life gets complicated. But as my struggles became heavier, the distance grew clearer. When I finally gathered the courage to talk about what I was going through, the room fell silent—not physically, but emotionally. Some people listened without hearing. Others offered quick advice, not because they understood, but because they wanted the conversation to end. A few disappeared entirely, uncomfortable with the weight of honesty. That was when I realized how lonely vulnerability can feel when it isn’t met with care. The hardest part wasn’t the pain I was experiencing—it was discovering that many of the people I trusted weren’t prepared to sit with me in it. I remember one particular evening when everything felt unbearable. I reached out to someone I had always been there for, someone I thought would understand. The response was short, dismissive, almost annoyed. In that moment, something inside me shifted. I wasn’t angry; I was awake. That night taught me a lesson no book ever could. Care isn’t loud. It doesn’t always announce itself with grand gestures or dramatic words. Real care is quiet and consistent. It shows up when there’s nothing to gain. It listens without rushing to fix. It stays, even when staying is inconvenient. As people drifted away, a surprising thing happened. A few unexpected souls stepped closer. They didn’t promise to solve my problems. They didn’t pretend to have all the answers. They simply checked in, remembered the little things, and made space for my silence as much as my words. One person would message me just to ask if I had eaten. Another would sit with me without pushing me to talk. These gestures seemed small, but they carried a weight that no empty promise ever could. For the first time, I understood the difference between people who enjoy your presence and people who genuinely care about your well-being. Letting go of false connections was painful. It felt like grieving relationships that were never real to begin with. I questioned myself often—Was I expecting too much? Was I too sensitive? But deep down, I knew the truth. Wanting understanding is not a weakness. Expecting basic compassion is not asking for too much. The experience reshaped the way I see people—and myself. I stopped chasing validation from those who only showed up when it was easy. I learned to set boundaries without guilt. Most importantly, I learned to value my own presence enough not to beg others to value it for me. Now, my circle is smaller, but it’s real. It’s built on honesty, patience, and mutual respect. The people in it don’t need constant reminders to care. They show it naturally, in ways that don’t fade when life gets complicated. Looking back, I’m grateful for the lesson, even though it came wrapped in pain. Losing the wrong people made room for the right ones. And learning who truly cared taught me something even more important—how to care for myself. Sometimes, the hardest lessons are the ones that save us in the long run. And sometimes, learning the hard way is the only way we truly learn at all.
By Khan 18 days ago in Chapters
The Promise I Broke Without Meaning To
The Promise I Broke Without Meaning To BY: Khan I still remember the exact moment I made the promise. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no music in the background, no sunset, no grand speech. It was just two people sitting on opposite sides of a small wooden table, cups of untouched tea slowly turning cold. I looked confident when I said it, but deep down, I didn’t realize how fragile promises can be when life begins to pull you in different directions. “I’ll always be there,” I said. And I meant it. At that time, my world was simple. My days followed predictable patterns, and my future felt like a straight road instead of a maze. Being “always there” didn’t seem like a heavy commitment. It felt natural, almost effortless—like breathing. I believed good intentions were enough to protect a promise from breaking. I was wrong. Life has a quiet way of changing things without asking for permission. Responsibilities grew before I noticed them. Expectations stacked up like unread messages. Days became busier, nights shorter, and silence slowly replaced conversations that once flowed easily. I told myself I was just tired. Just busy. Just going through a phase. I didn’t realize that every unanswered call, every postponed meeting, every “I’ll talk to you later” was a small crack forming in the promise I had made. The hardest part is that I never chose to break it. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide to disappear. I didn’t plan to hurt anyone. I simply assumed there would always be more time—time to explain, time to show up, time to fix what was slowly falling apart. I thought understanding would fill the gaps where my presence used to be. But understanding has limits. One evening, I finally noticed the distance. It was in the tone of a message—polite, careful, distant. The warmth I was used to had faded, replaced by something cautious. That’s when it hit me: the promise hadn’t snapped all at once. It had worn down, thread by thread, while I was too distracted to notice. Guilt is a strange feeling. It doesn’t shout. It whispers. It follows you into quiet moments and sits beside you when the noise stops. I replayed that day at the wooden table over and over again, wishing I could go back and speak more honestly—not with confidence, but with awareness. I realized something uncomfortable then: intentions don’t carry promises. Actions do. I had assumed that being emotionally present mattered more than physically showing up, but presence isn’t something you can store for later. It has an expiration date. When it’s not renewed, it fades. And once it’s gone, words alone can’t bring it back. I tried to explain. I apologized—not with excuses, but with honesty. I admitted that I hadn’t meant to break the promise, that I had underestimated life and overestimated myself. The response I received wasn’t angry. That somehow made it worse. Sometimes, disappointment is quieter than anger, but heavier. That’s when I learned the most important lesson of all: a broken promise doesn’t always come from betrayal. Sometimes it comes from neglect, distraction, and the false belief that good intentions are enough. I still carry that lesson with me. Now, I choose my promises carefully. I don’t say “always” unless I truly understand what it demands. I’ve learned that it’s better to offer honesty than reassurance you can’t sustain. Better to say “I’ll try” and mean it, than to say “I promise” and disappear behind life’s excuses. I don’t know if the promise I broke will ever be fully forgiven. Some things leave marks even after they heal. But I do know this: breaking that promise changed the way I see responsibility, connection, and trust. And maybe that’s the quiet purpose of mistakes like this—not to punish us, but to reshape us. Because the promise I broke without meaning to taught me how powerful a promise really is. And how carefully it should be made.
By Khan 19 days ago in Chapters