Salman Writes
Bio
Writer of thoughts that make you think, feel, and smile. I share honest stories, social truths, and simple words with deep meaning. Welcome to the world of Salman Writes — where ideas come to life.
Stories (113)
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When the City Forgot the Stars
The city never truly slept. It only pretended to rest between waves of noise and light. Neon signs pulsed like artificial heartbeats, flooding every street with color. Giant billboards promised happiness in bold fonts and perfect smiles. Cars rushed past like they were late for something important. And above it all, the sky stood silent, empty, stripped of its stars.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Message I Deleted Too Many Times
I typed her name into my phone more times than I care to admit. Not to call. Not to text. Just to stare at it. Her contact sat there like a quiet reminder of everything I never said. Every night, I opened our chat, watched the blinking cursor, and closed it again. Words formed in my head but died on the screen.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Critique
The Spanish Donkey: A Dark Instrument of Punishment in European History
History is often told through kings, wars, and revolutions. But hidden between those grand narratives are quieter, darker stories. Stories of ordinary people, unnamed in records, who experienced history not as progress, but as pain. One such story is tied to an object known as the Spanish Donkey, also called the Wooden Horse, an instrument of punishment used in parts of Europe during the late medieval and early modern periods.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in History
The Chair by the Window That No One Sits On Anymore
The chair is still there, facing the window, exactly where it has always been. Dust gathers on it now, quietly, patiently, like it knows no one is coming back to claim it. Some absences do not leave empty rooms. They leave furniture behind.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
Do We Ever Really Heal, or Just Learn to Hide It?
No one tells you this, but healing is rarely loud or dramatic. It does not arrive with a clear ending, a final conversation, or a moment where everything suddenly makes sense. Most days, it looks like waking up tired, pretending you are fine, and carrying memories you no longer talk about. Maybe that is not healing at all. Maybe it is just survival wearing a calmer face.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Psyche
The Version of Me That Almost Was
I found the old notebook while cleaning, tucked behind things I no longer used but hadn’t thrown away. The cover was bent, the pages yellowed, the spine fragile from years of neglect. Inside was a version of me that felt both familiar and distant, like meeting an old friend whose face you recognize but whose life you no longer understand.
By Salman Writes2 months ago in Confessions
The Day I Stopped Refreshing the Page
The Day I Stopped Refreshing the Page For a long time, my mornings started the same way. Not with breakfast. Not with stretching or deep breaths or gratitude, like people on the internet suggest. My mornings started with refreshing a page.
By Salman Writes2 months ago in Confessions
The Kind of Tired Sleep Can’t Fix
I’m not tired in the way sleep can fix. I’ve tried that. Early nights. Late mornings. Power naps that turn into guilt. None of it touches this kind of exhaustion. It lives deeper, somewhere behind the eyes and under the ribs, where rest doesn’t reach. It’s not the kind of tired that fades with eight hours under a blanket—it’s the kind that lingers even after the alarm clock says I’ve had enough.
By Salman Writes2 months ago in Confessions
I Became Strong the Day No One Checked on Me
There’s a strange kind of silence that doesn’t come from being alone. It comes from realizing that people know you’re struggling and still choose not to ask. It’s not the absence of voices—it’s the absence of care. That silence is heavier than solitude, because it reminds you that you are visible, yet unseen.
By Salman Writes2 months ago in Confessions
I Learned Too Late That Love Needs Translation
Not the kind you can fix with dictionaries or subtitles. Ours was deeper than that. It lived in tone, timing, and the spaces between words. I didn’t realize it at first. Love, in the beginning, feels universal. You assume feeling is enough.
By Salman Writes2 months ago in Fiction
