Family
The Night He Finally Chose Me. Content Warning.
We always knew there was something about us that couldn’t be ignored. Even when we both had other people, it didn’t matter — we couldn’t stay away. We were obsessed with each other, completely hooked. I’d sneak over every night, even when I moved two hours away just to make people think we weren’t seeing each other anymore. But he’d still drive back and forth every night and morning, even while working all day, just to be with me.
By Adrianna Lira3 months ago in Confessions
When Trust Turns Venom
There’s something sacred about loyalty. It’s one of those quiet values that makes human connection feel safe. Whether it comes from family, friends, or partners, loyalty has a warmth that can’t be bought or faked. It’s the invisible thread that holds relationships together — the reason we trust, relax, and believe.
By Atiqbuddy3 months ago in Confessions
The Café That Waited for Her. AI-Generated.
Every morning at exactly 8:05, Adrian unlocked the doors of Café del Mare, a small seaside coffee shop in Lisbon that smelled like cinnamon and saltwater. He wasn’t the kind of man people remembered — quiet, polite, always writing in a notebook between customers.
By shakir hamid3 months ago in Confessions
Secret Letter . Content Warning.
Humans are monsters. I remember my first scary movie being a Stephen King-esc one where a little girl is shot and carried into a plane while the monsters below eat the planet up whole. It had been several years since my brain surgery and in a much personal way, several months since my last Seer-ing experience I had with Lucifer.
By Parsley Rose 3 months ago in Confessions
From Burnout to Balance:
Life at rock bottom isn't just bleak, it's heavy. For me, burnout started slow but grew into a constant ache I couldn't shake. I woke up already tired, my mind foggy, my body aching. Mornings felt like dragging myself through mud. Even small tasks—making lunch, sending a text, cleaning up—felt impossible. My home was a mess, my phone full of ignored messages, and my sleep a patchwork of tossing and turning. The spark that made life feel hopeful was gone.
By Wilson Igbasi3 months ago in Confessions
If a men sells his daughter for sex trafficking
Of Gold and Grit: When Wealth Met Justice in Two Unforgettable 2020 Stories The year 2020 was filled with chaos, change, and countless viral moments — but among them, two stories stood out for their emotional contrast. One told of unimaginable generosity from one of the world’s richest royal families, while the other revealed the desperate love of a father who took justice into his own hands. The first involved rapper Lil Wayne and a Saudi prince; the second, an ordinary American father named John Eisenman. Together, they showed how power and pain can both drive extraordinary human actions.
By Khan3 months ago in Confessions
When I see a pile of dirt, it reminds me of you. Top Story - October 2025.
So that title really doesn’t paint the best picture. Allow me to explain. I’m sure we all do it; we have something in life that might remind us of someone. You might smell a particular perfume, and it reminds you of a woman you once knew, or you hear a song that brings back memories of a road trip you did with two other mates. This is one of those scenarios, just probably less flattering for my friend.
By D-Donohoe3 months ago in Confessions
Handprints in the Sand
There’s an old poem called “Footprints in the Sand.” It ends with the quiet but powerful words — “I carried you.” No one truly knows who wrote it. Some say it was an anonymous poet; others believe it came from someone who simply understood faith and pain too deeply to take credit.That poem always meant something to me. I used to read it on the days when life felt heavier than I could carry. But recently, I began to wonder — why footprints? If the heart of the poem is about being carried, shouldn’t it have been handprints in the sand? Maybe it was never just about walking, but about holding. Maybe both hands and feet played their part in the journey.I’ve always been fascinated by hands — their shapes, their lines, their quiet stories. Each one feels like a small universe, unique and unrepeatable. Whether you’re a mystic tracing fate in someone’s palm or a detective comparing fingerprints, you know that no two sets of hands are ever the same.I learned palm reading when I was young. My own hands became my road maps, guiding me through years of change and growth. Both of them carry two distinct markings — a small triangle and the letter M. Some say those marks are signs of strong intuition and purpose. Maybe they’re right. But what I’ve noticed most is how different my two palms are. My right hand feels grounded in this world — the map of my daily life. My left hand, though, holds something spiritual, something beyond the physical.I could talk about each marking and ridge, but instead, I’d rather talk about what they’ve taught me about myself. Over the years, I’ve realized that my personality — my choices, my reactions, my kindness, my stubbornness — has shaped my path far more than any “line of fate.”People sometimes ask me, “Do you believe in God?” or “Do you believe in destiny?” And honestly, I do — but not in a fixed map sort of way. Destiny feels alive to me. It bends, shifts, and redraws itself as we walk through it. My palms have changed over the last fifty years, so why wouldn’t my fate?Still, some parts of me never change. I have worker’s hands — square and strong, the kind that hold on tight when things get rough. My fingertips are soft and rounded — the kind that feel before they act. A palm reader might say that means I’m both practical and deeply emotional. Maybe that’s true.My life lines don’t match. The one on my right hand runs smooth; the one on my left twists and breaks, shaped by years of family struggles, therapy, and learning to rebuild myself. Was that my destiny? Maybe. But it’s not the end of the story — not yet.Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going? I’ve asked myself these same questions for decades. For the most part, the answers stayed the same — until the last few years. Somewhere along the way, my perspective shifted. I started to see that change doesn’t destroy destiny; it refines it.In the end, I think of my life as handprints in the sand. Did I carry you, or did you carry me? Maybe it doesn’t matter. The waves will come and wash them all away — both the handprints and the footprints — but for a moment, they were there. Proof that we walked, worked, loved, and lived.Some people say life fades away like the lyrics from a song — “In the end, it doesn’t even matter.” But I can’t believe that. My left hand says otherwise. It tells me there’s another world — a mirror world — where everything we do here shapes what we’ll become there.Maybe that’s why people press their hands together when they pray — two sides meeting in faith. I don’t always pray that way, but I understand the meaning. I prefer to let each hand do what it was meant to — the left to dream, the right to do.And yes, I typed this story with both.
By MUHAMMAD IMRAN3 months ago in Confessions
After The Last Embrace
🌙 Golden Closure — After the Last Embrace This blog was born from silence. Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that aches. The kind that fills rooms with invisible weight. The kind that settles in your chest when grief has no name, when sorrow is not allowed to speak, when pain is asked to stay quiet. It was born from emptiness — from the hollow echo of loss, from the quiet desperation of needing to say something when there were no words. It was born from the need to make space for what hurt, to honor what was gone, to give voice to what had been silenced.
By luz entre lagrimas3 months ago in Confessions
