KAMRAN AHMAD
Bio
Creative digital designer, lifelong learning & storyteller. Sharing inspiring stories on mindset, business, & personal growth. Let's build a future that matters_ one idea at a time.
Stories (195)
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The Boy Who Watched the Giant
I didn’t go for the stars. I went for my nephew. He’s eleven, wears his hair in messy curls, and talks about football like it’s a secret code only he and the ball understand. “You have to see how they move together, Tío,” he’d said, eyes wide. “It’s like they’re speaking without words.”
By KAMRAN AHMAD12 days ago in Gamers
The Night the Stadium Felt Like Home
I didn’t go for the spectacle. I went because I was lost. It was my first winter in a new country. The language felt like glass in my mouth, the streets unfamiliar, the silence in my apartment louder than any noise back home. I missed the rhythm of my old life—the market vendors who knew my name, the neighbors who waved from their windows, the comfort of being understood without speaking.
By KAMRAN AHMAD12 days ago in Gamers
When Ice Becomes a Battlefield
For most of the world, Greenland exists as a blur on the edge of the map—vast, frozen, distant. A place of ice sheets and silence. A place you don’t think about unless you’re scrolling past climate headlines or watching a documentary late at night.
By KAMRAN AHMAD12 days ago in Geeks
The Woman Behind the Name
I used to think being known was a gift. Then I watched a woman walk into a room and become invisible the moment her husband’s name was called. One minute, she was herself—sharp-eyed, quick-witted, full of stories. The next, she was “the wife of,” a footnote in someone else’s narrative. Her degrees, her work, her dreams—all folded neatly into parentheses.
By KAMRAN AHMAD12 days ago in Journal
américa - atl. san luis
I found it in my father’s wallet after he passed. Tucked behind his ID, worn soft at the edges, was a ticket stub from a match twenty years ago. The ink had faded, the date blurred, but I remembered the day: rain falling sideways, the stadium half-empty, our team losing badly. We’d left before the final whistle, soaked and silent.
By KAMRAN AHMAD18 days ago in Journal
albacete - real madrid
I didn’t go for the game. I went for my nephew. He’s twelve, wears a faded jersey two sizes too big, and talks about football like it’s scripture. “It’s not about winning, Tío,” he’d said, eyes bright. “It’s about who shows up when no one’s watching.”
By KAMRAN AHMAD18 days ago in Journal
The Hour the World Went Quiet
It began with a flicker. Not of light, but of absence. The hum of my devices—the soft chime of messages, the buzz of updates, the endless scroll of curated lives—simply stopped. At first, I thought it was a glitch. I tapped screens. Checked cords. Restarted everything twice. But the silence held.
By KAMRAN AHMAD18 days ago in Journal
The Gate We All Walk Through
I didn’t realize I’d disappeared until I saw my reflection and didn’t recognize myself. It wasn’t sudden. It was slow—a word silenced here, an opinion softened there, a laugh forced to match the room. I traded pieces of myself for acceptance, like coins dropped into a vending machine that never gave back what I paid for.
By KAMRAN AHMAD26 days ago in Journal
The Keeper of Secrets
I didn’t go in for a book. I went in to escape the rain. It was a gray Tuesday in March, the kind of day that presses down on your chest like a wet blanket. I’d just received news I wasn’t ready for—a job lost, a relationship frayed, the quiet unraveling of plans I’d spent years building. I walked without direction, shoulders hunched, until I saw it: a narrow storefront with a flickering “Open” sign and a window full of leaning paperbacks.
By KAMRAN AHMAD26 days ago in Journal
The Crossroads of Becoming
I found it by accident. Tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore, half-hidden by ivy and time, stood a rusted phone booth. Not the sleek glass kind from movies, but an old metal one—peeling paint, cracked receiver, a dial so stiff it groaned when turned. No one had used it in years. Probably decades.
By KAMRAN AHMAD26 days ago in Art
The Last Game of the Season
I didn’t go for the win. I went because it was the last game. The gym was packed—folding chairs lined the walls, parents stood in the back, and the buzz of nervous energy hung thick in the air. Two rival high schools, decades of history, one championship on the line. But I wasn’t there for the trophy. I was there for my nephew, who’d spent all season riding the bench.
By KAMRAN AHMAD26 days ago in Journal
The Night the Gym Felt Like Church
I didn’t go for the basketball. I went because my nephew asked me to. He’s thirteen, wears his hair in messy curls, and talks about the game like it’s a secret language only he and the ball understand. “You have to see how they move together, Uncle,” he’d said, eyes wide. “It’s like they’re speaking without words.”
By KAMRAN AHMAD26 days ago in Gamers
