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Discovering NextIsOnMe — “One Treat at a Time”

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 Discovering NextIsOnMe — “One Treat at a Time” Introduction In a world often dominated by digital connections, there’s something refreshingly real about meeting someone face-to-face — sharing a coffee, sparking a conversation, perhaps making a friend. Enter NextIsOnMe , a new platform built around just that idea: host or join a real-life meetup where generosity creates the spark . nextisonme.com In this post, we’ll explore what NextIsOnMe is, how it works, why it’s worth checking out, and some thoughts on how you can make the most of it. What is NextIsOnMe? NextIsOnMe is a social event platform centered on in-person connections. The tagline says it best: “Make Real Connections — One Treat at a Time.” nextisonme.com Key offerings: You can create an event inviting others to meet up — maybe for coffee, dinner, drinks, or just a casual chat. nextisonme.com You can browse events near you and join those which interest you. nextisonme.com The host treats — the idea is t...
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Beyond the Screen

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 📱 Beyond the Screen A Story About Social Media, Self-Worth, and the Courage to Disconnect 💁‍♀️ 1. The Perfect Life – or So It Seemed From the outside, Ayesha Khan had it all. At 25, she was a popular lifestyle influencer with over 350k followers on Instagram. Her page was a dream—beach vacations 🌴, aesthetic cafes ☕, morning yoga poses 🧘‍♀️, and captions like: “Gratitude in every breath 💫 #blessedlife” Brands reached out. Collaborations poured in. She was invited to exclusive product launches and even once met a Bollywood star. Her DMs were flooded with messages like: “You’re such a vibe 😍” “Wish I had your life 🥺” “Goals! 🔥🔥🔥” But what her followers didn’t see… Was the truth . 😔 2. Filters and Fatigue Ayesha spent 4–6 hours daily creating content. She didn't eat before taking perfect food shots. Her smiles were timed. Her “relaxing vacations” were really brand-sponsored shoots with 10 outfit changes a day. 👗📸 Most nights, she lay in bed—phone glo...
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The Mirror in the Attic

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 The Mirror in the Attic 🏚️ Prologue: The Whispering Mansion Nestled on the outskirts of the bustling city of Kolkata stood an old British-era mansion, "Rosewood Estate." The structure, though abandoned for over four decades, was famous among locals for something more than its history — it was haunted … or so they believed. 👻 But for Aarav , a 27-year-old history researcher and blogger, the word “haunted” was just marketing jargon for ignored heritage. So, when he inherited the property from his late great-uncle, a reputed barrister, he saw it as an opportunity to restore history — and boost his YouTube content . 🧳 Chapter 1: The Arrival As his car stopped before the towering iron gates, Aarav clicked a selfie. 📸 "From urban jungle to haunted haven — let’s see what truth lies behind the legends." With a torch, backpack, drone, and camera, he entered the mansion. Thick cobwebs, broken chandeliers, creaky floorboards — everything screamed “abandoned,” bu...
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The Boy Who Planted Dreams

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 🌟   The Boy Who Planted Dreams 🌟 In a remote village nestled between dusty hills and dry rivers, there lived a boy named Aarav. He was only 12, but his eyes sparkled with dreams much bigger than the fields his family owned. His father, a poor farmer, toiled every day in the cracked soil, hoping for rain that rarely came. 💧 But Aarav believed in something more — not just rain from the sky, but change from within. 🌾 The Dream That Seemed Too Big One evening, while helping his father in the field, Aarav found an old book thrown near the village well. It was a tattered science book filled with images of machines that harvested water, solar panels, and ideas about farming smarter. His heart raced. He took it home, cleaned it, and read every page by lantern light. 🔍📚 From that day, Aarav began to dream — not of escaping the village, but of transforming it. He wanted to bring water back, make farming better, and ensure no child ever left school to help in fields like...
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The Last Letter

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 The Last Letter 📬💔 The Last Letter 📬💔 In a sleepy village nestled between green hills and quiet rivers, lived an old man named Rehman . His cottage stood at the edge of the forest 🌲, where birds sang at dawn and fireflies danced at night ✨. Rehman was a retired postmaster. For 45 years, he had delivered letters across the valley — letters filled with joy, sorrow, love, and loss. He had never missed a day, even in storms ⛈️ or snow ❄️. But now, retired and alone, time moved slowly for him. His only son, Zayan , had moved to the city 🌆 years ago. They spoke rarely. Rehman would sit by the window every evening, hoping for a letter that never came. 📭 A Faded Photograph 📷 On a wooden shelf beside his bed stood an old photograph of young Zayan, laughing as he flew a kite 🪁. Rehman would wipe dust off it each morning and whisper, “You’ll write one day, my son.” But days turned to months. And months into years. The village children would often come to hear stories from "...
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The Man Who Carried Mountains

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 💪 The Man Who Carried Mountains In a narrow alley of Kolkata, where the walls were stained with paan and stories, lived a man named Hari — a ragpicker by profession, but a warrior by soul. Every morning at 5 a.m., before the sun painted the sky orange, Hari was already out with his large sack, bending, lifting, carrying the waste others threw away. He wasn't always this way. Years ago, Hari had a shop — a small one that sold stationery and old books. He had a wife, a newborn daughter, and hope in his heart. But one accident on the highway took it all away — his family, his shop, and his reason to smile. 🌫️ That night, Hari sat beside a burning pile of garbage, watching the smoke rise like unanswered prayers. He could have given up. But instead, he stood up, tied a rope around an old jute sack, and said to himself, "If life has taken everything from me, I’ll start with what it throws away." He began picking plastic bottles, newspapers, wires — anything with value...
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The Bench by the Lake

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 🌠 The Bench by the Lake There was a quiet bench beside an old lake in the town of Elmsworth. The lake shimmered under the soft morning light, surrounded by tall pine trees, swaying gently in the breeze. It wasn't a tourist spot, not something on the map — but it was magical for those who knew its story. Every morning at 7 a.m., an old man with silver hair and a woolen hat walked slowly toward the bench. His cane tapped gently against the cobblestone path as he reached the spot. He would sit down carefully, pull out a small red thermos, and pour tea into two cups — even though he was always alone. 🍵🍵 People who passed by whispered about him. "That’s Mr. Raymond. Lost his wife years ago." "Still comes every day… like she might show up one morning." But no one ever disturbed him. The bench, the lake, and the silence were sacred. Raymond had met Eliza by that same lake, 62 years ago. He was 20, she was 18 — bright, bold, and full of laughter. He had been s...
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