noor ul amin
Stories (145)
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The Cost of Loving You
I. Before I Knew What Love Meant I used to think love was fireworks. The kind that lit up the sky and made everything sparkle. I thought love was romance in candlelight, stolen kisses in rainstorms, and handwritten letters that smelled like perfume. But then I met you. And love became something quieter, heavier—like a river with no end. You didn’t just hold my hand. You held space for me, for my fear, for my flaws. You saw the parts of me I tried to bury and called them beautiful. That’s when I realized—real love doesn’t just *feel* good.Real love *chooses* you, again and again, even when it hurts.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Fiction
The Echo After You Left
I. The Day You Walked Out The morning you left was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made my ears ring with the absence of your footsteps, the scratch of your beard against mine, the laughter that used to pour from the kitchen like sunlight.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Humans
The Man Who Sat Still
Part I: The Chair In the center of a bustling city, in the shade of a leafless tree, sat a man in an old wooden chair. Every day, rain or shine, he was there. He did not speak. He did not eat in public. He only sat. Still. Silent. People passed by him with curiosity at first, then ridicule, then indifference. Street performers danced around him. Children threw pebbles to see if he would flinch. He never did. Some thought he was a performance artist. Others, a lunatic. But neither label seemed to fit.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Humans
The Memory Architects
In the year 2149, Earth had finally stopped spinning—figuratively speaking. No more rushing for progress, no more scrambling for innovation. Because innovation had outpaced humanity itself. Cities no longer grew upwards. They grew inwards. Architecture was internal, designed not with bricks and steel, but with memory and code. The world had transitioned to a state called **the Neural Epoch**, where the most valuable asset was no longer gold, oil, or even data—it was *experience*.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Futurism
The Echo in the Empty Room
For years, my voice felt like an echo in an empty room. Not my literal voice, though that often got lost in crowds too, but my *true* voice – the one that held my ideas, my passions, my unique perspective. It was drowned out by a cacophony of others, louder and seemingly more confident, who filled every space.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Fiction
The Hummingbird Weaver of Willow Creek
The first time I saw the hummingbird, it wasn't flitting amongst the honeysuckle or sipping from the feeder Mable kept meticulously clean on her porch. It was woven into the fabric of a memory, shimmering, tiny, and impossibly vibrant, right at the edge of my vision. I was eight years old, huddled in Mable’s dusty attic, the air thick with the scent of mothballs and forgotten dreams. Mable, my great-aunt, was a woman carved from old oak, her hands gnarled but surprisingly delicate when she picked a wilting rose. She wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. Yet, she was the one who taught me to see.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Humans
I Fell in Love with the Man Who Fixed My Window
They say love comes when you least expect it. I didn’t believe that—until the day I came home to a broken window, a note taped to the door, and a stranger with kind eyes standing on my porch. But to understand how I got there, you have to understand how everything fell apart before it got better.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Fiction
The House That Grief Built
I never thought a single phone call could change the entire landscape of my life. But it did. I was folding laundry on a rainy Wednesday afternoon when my phone buzzed with a number I didn’t recognize. The voice on the other end was trembling. It was my mother’s neighbor, and her words hit me harder than I ever thought words could.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Families
The Last Letter I Never Sent
The Last Letter I Never Sent It’s funny how we carry people with us — not just in memory, but in the way we smile, the way we hesitate before saying certain words, the way we look at the rain. I used to watch the rain with my mother. She said it made the world clean again. I didn’t understand it then. I was only ten the last time I saw her. One Friday afternoon, she left to pick up a birthday cake for my brother. She wore her favorite green scarf and that lipstick she only used on “happy days.” She never came home. A drunk driver ran a red light and took her from us in seconds. They told us she died instantly. I always wondered if she felt anything — if she knew we were waiting.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Confessions
7 Silent Killers of Mental Grooming
In the age of curated perfection, self-help slogans, and an endless supply of motivational content, we are constantly told how to improve ourselves: build habits, control your thoughts, practice gratitude, hustle, meditate, repeat. While these practices are powerful tools, they only address one side of the equation.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Humans
The Day I Almost Forgot My Mother's Voice
I used to think memory was permanent. I thought the important moments—the big smiles, the tragic goodbyes, the soft laughter in the kitchen—would live forever in my mind like old records waiting to be replayed. But I was wrong. Memory is a fading photograph, and one day, I realized I was losing my mother’s voice.
By noor ul amin7 months ago in Confessions
