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 (105)
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The Room I Still Walk Into
I still walk into that room sometimes. Not with my body. With my mind. The real room no longer exists in the way it once did. The house changed owners. The walls were repainted. The furniture replaced. Someone else now opens that window without knowing how much weight it once held.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Writers
The Man Who Smiled at Strangers
Every weekday morning at exactly 7:40, the same man stood outside the coffee shop and smiled at strangers. Not a wide, attention-seeking smile. Not the kind that demanded a response. Just a small, gentle smile, like he was acknowledging something simple and human that most people had forgotten how to see.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Man Who Always Fixed the Chair
There was a chair by the window in my childhood home that never stayed broken. It wasn’t a special chair. Wooden, plain, slightly uneven. One leg shorter than the others, so it rocked if you weren’t careful. Over the years, it cracked, loosened, and complained every time someone sat down too hard.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Last Receipt in My Wallet
I didn’t mean to keep the receipt. It was supposed to be trash, like all the others. A thin strip of paper from a corner grocery store, printed so lightly the ink was already fading. Milk. Bread. Two apples. Total: $4.83. The date sat quietly at the top, like it wasn’t important. But somehow, it ended up folded into my wallet, tucked behind my ID, where it stayed long after the milk went sour and the apples disappeared.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Confessions
The Last Message I Never Sen
I typed the message three times before deleting it for good. Each version sounded wrong in a different way. Too dramatic. Too casual. Too late. I stared at the blinking cursor like it was waiting for me to say something brave, but all I could offer was silence.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Chair by the Window
I didn’t realize how important the chair by the window was until no one sat in it anymore. It wasn’t a special chair. Just an old wooden one with a thin cushion that slid around when you stood up too fast. The paint had chipped near the legs, and one screw was always threatening to come loose. But every afternoon around four, my father would sit there, facing the street, cup of tea balanced carefully in his hand like it mattered.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
The Last Letter on the Shelf
I never meant to leave it there. The old wooden shelf in the corner of the living room, stacked with books that smelled faintly of dust and sunlight, had always been my mother’s domain. She used it like a shrine—little trinkets, half-finished novels, pressed flowers, and, most importantly, letters. So many letters. Some she’d kept from decades ago, tied with ribbon, their paper edges soft and worn. Others were more recent, hastily scribbled notes of gratitude, apology, or love.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
Instructions I Never Received
Not the polite kind people give you. The ones that say things like take your time or stay strong. I mean real instructions. Step by step. Like the ones that come with furniture, except no parts are missing and nothing ends up crooked.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Fiction
