I want a love that makes me feel things,

a love that does not rush past the senses

but pauses, catches its breath, and stays.

I want it to look like early morning dew

clinging quiet to the curve of a petal,

holding the dawn before the world stirs awake.

I want it to meet me like the tide,

that sudden, cool shock when the ocean

first curls around your bare feet in the sand,

pulling you gently into something deep.

Give me a love that carries the scent of petrichor,

the sharp, sweet ache of the first few drops of rain

hitting sun-baked earth after a long dry spell.

Let it feel like a sunshower,

strange and luminous,

where the sky is bright and gold

even as the storm falls soft against your skin.

I want to wander through it

the way you walk an autumn forest,

crimson and amber rustling beneath your boots,

the air crisp, grounded, and full of quiet transition.

Let it smell like the fresh, crisp spine

of a brand new book cracked open for the first time,

and yet hold that sharp, unapologetic sting

of petrol drifting from a late-night gas station.

Let it be that sweet, heavy moment at dawn

when the dream is slipping,

when you know the morning is waiting,

yet you close your eyes and pull the blanket higher,

desperate to keep the softness just a little longer.

I want a love built of the holy, ordinary seconds,

the small, unnoticed moments of life

that remind you what it means to be alive.

I have two daughters, a 5 year old and the other a mere 4 months. Their entire futures: their socialization, their literacy, the very trajectory of their little lives, feel entirely tethered to the choices I am making right now. I am the definitive adult in the room. I am the one who signs the permission slips, schedules the pediatric appointments, and curates the gentle, emotionally regulated atmosphere of our home.

But as I sat there, a parallel track was running in my mind: I genuinely cannot remember the last time i washed my hair, I really want an iced coffee I didn’t budget for, and I still feel like I need an adult’s permission to go out.

I am twenty-nine years old. By all societal metrics, I am a woman, a mother, a pillar of a household. But if we are being completely honest here? Most days, I am just a twenty-nine-year-old girl, utterly winging it.

There is a unique kind of vertigo that comes with young motherhood. You are old enough to have generated a whole universe of responsibility, but young enough to still feel like an imposter in your own life. You carry this invisible crown of authority, speaking in a firm, reassuring “mom voice” to calm a tantrum in the bedroom, all while a quiet voice inside your own head is whimpering, I want to lie down on the floor and cry too.

It reminds me of a post I saw online the other day that made me laugh out loud because it hit a little too close to home. It was a hypothetical text chain where a girl writes: “I want my mom to take me home from this sleepover. The kids are mean to me and the dad keeps touching me.”

To which the mom replies: “Those are your kids and that is your husband.” XD

That is exactly what it feels like. You look around at the messy living room, the tiny humans demanding to be entertained for the fourteenth time in an hour, the partner trying to give you a hug while you’re completely touched-out, and you think: Can someone please call my mom to pick me up? I’m ready to go home now.

But you can’t leave, because you are the home. You are tasked with being the architect of your children’s lives before you’ve even finished building your own foundations. We are trying to figure out our careers, our friendships, our personal identities, and our skincare routines, all while ensuring two small people grow up to be kind, functional members of society. It feels like trying to fly a plane while simultaneously reading the manual.

For a long time, I carried a subconscious assumption that the “grown-up” feeling would finally kick in at some specific milestone. I looked at my own mother as this impenetrable fortress of certainty. To me, she was the definitive authority on how to exist. She always knew what to do when a fever spiked, how to stretch a budget, and how to navigate a crisis without losing her cool.

But lately, watching her navigate her own life, a quiet realization has settled over me.

My mom is fifty years old. And as I watch her handle her own shifting world—her changing routines, her friendships, her quiet moments of doubt—I see the truth. She isn’t a mythical creature who bypassed the human condition. She is a fifty-year-old girl. She is still figuring out her boundaries, still questioning her choices, still trying to balance what the world needs from her with who she is on the inside.

When she was my age, raising me, she was just a twenty-something girl in a kitchen, looking at her kids and feeling that exact same phantom weight. She didn’t have a secret manual. She just had love, intuition, and the bravery to fake it until she made it.

Realizing your mother is also just a girl trying her best is one of the most liberating moments of growing up. It strips away the pressure to be perfect. We aren’t failing because we don’t have all the answers, we are just participating in a grand, generational tradition of figuring it out as we go.

So to every mom reading this who feels the dizzying weight of holding a family’s future in her hands while still feeling like a teenager trapped in an adult’s schedule: you are doing beautifully.

There is a profound comfort in this continuity. I look at my two children, and I accept that I will make mistakes. I will choose schools that might have a few flaws. I will have days where my patience wears thin. But I will keep guessing, keep stumbling, and keep growing.

We are mothers, yes. We are keepers of the future. But we are also just girls of different ages, passing down the quiet strength it takes to build a beautiful life out of beautiful uncertainty. <3

But here is the catch: once you finally get home and the door is locked, the walls can start to feel a little too close.

Suddenly, the silence you fought for feels heavy. You pace the floor. You want to leave. You want to see the sky. It is a confusing cycle. Why is it that when we’re out, we want our beds, but when we’re home, we look towards the door? Why can’t we just settle into the single version of us we actually began with?

I think a large part of this restlessness comes from the world we’ve built. We live in a world of constant accessibility, but our souls aren’t built for 24/7 pings. Why do we feel like “criminals” for wanting silence? I’ve noticed my own physical reaction when my phone lights up on the table. There’s a specific kind of dread that comes with a ringing phone; it’s a feeling that someone is reaching through the ether to demand a “piece” of my energy that I just don’t have to give. Yet, curiously, responding to a text feels effortless. It’s the direct, immediate demand of a call that feels like an intrusion.

I feel as though I’ve been conditioned to believe that being “available” is a requirement of being a good friend, a good employee, or a good person. Because of that, when I choose to step into the shade and ignore the world for an hour, I carry a backpack full of guilt. I feel like I’m getting away with something, rather than just taking care of my basic need for peace.

After years of being the “reliable extrovert,” the performance has become second nature to some of us. We’ve become an expert at showing up, even when we feel hollowed out.

The problem is that when we are "on," we often feel a quiet resentment toward the version of ourselves that agreed to be there. We resent the plans we made when we were feeling high-energy. But when we finally retreat into the solitude we craved, we feel the bite of restlessness. We’re caught in a loop where the "real" us is always somewhere else—either back at the party we just left or ahead in the quiet room we haven't reached yet.

Finding the balance

I don’t have the answer to this restlessness yet. I’m still the person who wants to leave the moment I arrive and wants to go out the moment I’m finally tucked in.

But I’m starting to think that acknowledging this middle ground is the first step. Maybe it’s okay for me to be a contradiction. Maybe the goal isn’t to pick a side—to be “fully social” or “fully solitary”—but to stop feeling like a liar for needing to move between the two.

I’m curious if I’m alone in this. Do you ever watch your phone ring and feel that heavy weight of expectation? And when you finally get the solitude you asked for, do you find yourself looking back at the door?

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the parts of ourselves we’re still trying to figure out.

I know this article might not sit well with some, and it might even lose me a few subscribers, but I want this to be treated more as a discussion than a lecture. After many poetry posts, I wanted to take a break from the verses, and so, this is my very first article.

Many people imagine love to be a lightning bolt that strikes without warning, believing that any attempt to “screen” it is cold or unromantic.

I’m here to offer an alternative view.

There is a common idea that falling in love only means blindly falling for anyone who makes your heart race, or finding that love at first sight moment. But it doesn’t have to be that way, and it certainly wasn’t like that for me. I want to tell you that it is perfectly fine to have a checklist of qualities and character traits you want in a person. It is okay to refuse to settle until you get what you want. This isn’t manipulative; it’s intentional. And yes, it is still true love.

My “selfish” search

I’ll be honest: when I was looking for the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I was very specific. I had a list of non-negotiables. He shouldn’t smoke or drink. I had to be physically attracted to him. He should be taller than me. He should have a strong educational background. Ideally, we should come from similar financial backgrounds etc etc. It might seem extremely judgy to some, and outright wrong to others.

Looking back, I’ll admit I was “selfish” in my requirements. But is it really selfish to know exactly what kind of life you want to build and who you want to build it with?

Why the details matter: A story of two languages

Let me give you an example of a close friend of mine. She found the “love of her life,” or so she thought. They were carefree, had a magical honeymoon phase, and got along famously.

There was just one “small” thing: she was incredibly well-versed in English, while he struggled with the language.

How did this matter? Every time they got into a fight, she only knew how to vent her feelings and communicate in a stream of animated, desperate, and eloquent English. After she would passionately finish her piece, waiting expectantly for his reply, all she got was: “I didn’t understand a single word you said.”

And that was that. After many more frustrating non-conversations like this, they were done. Now, having “needs to know English” as a shortlisting point might seem backward or superficial to some. But after seeing that heartbreak, it’s clear that a small factor can make a massive difference in long-term compatibility.

The power of the “small things”

It could be anything: the way he smiles, how he eats, or literally any habit YOU think you want or don’t want in a partner. I’m not saying there is no room for adjustment or that every single trait is set in stone. It is up to you to decide what you can adjust to and what are absolute no-gos. You need to find the balance. My husband snores his way through the night, and I have a pair of earplugs on my nightstand at all times! You can’t always get 100% (though maybe you can if you look long enough!) but getting as close to 100 as you can is what makes or breaks a relationship in the long run.

I’ve watched friends go on date after date, suffering through heartbreak after heartbreak. Some of them eventually made it, I won’t lie. But the thoughts always in my head were: why settle? Does the person they are dating actually have what they are looking for? If not, why bother?

The adrenaline of "Now" vs. The reality of "Forever"

I understand the concept of love at first sight, but would you really want to pursue a love that you know won’t last?

There is a version of love that is for the fun of it: the adrenaline rush or the temporary high. But if you want a lifelong love, shouldn’t you sift and search with everything you’ve got to ensure it is solid and secure? Is it wrong of me to ask my friends to do the same when they are looking for something meant to last forever?

Luck, strategy, or both?

Whether it was luck or a strategy, I met my husband when we were 18. We got married at 22, and we’re turning 30 this year. Of course, like any relationship, ours has had its ups and downs. But I honestly feel that because I chose someone based on my checklist, I haven’t regretted it for a single second.

Is this still considered “true love,” even though I was calculative about who I chose to fall for?

I think so. I may be wrong, but these years together have been more than just great; they’ve been secure. If you’ve read my post called "Plunged in Love," you can get a look at how my husband and I initially fell in love; it was the traditional "friends to lovers" story. But even though I "fell" in love, it was structured.

I would love to hear your takes on this. Do you think a checklist kills the magic, or is it the very thing that protects it?

I hope you stick around for the conversation!

The memory is a polaroid that never quite fades,

Of a hospital room and the softest of shades.

I remember the day they brought you home,

A tiny, new heart in a world of your own.

The baby of the house, the one we’d always shield,

To the passing of time, I thought you’d never yield.

Now I look at the calendar, stunned by the date,

As you stand at the threshold of a brand new state.

They say you’re a man, they say you’re a groom,

But I still see the toddler who stunk up the room.

The suit is too sharp and the shoulders too wide,

For the boy who once stayed so close to mom’s side.

I stood where you’re standing not so long ago,

The same age, the same rush, the same steady glow.

But when I was the bride, it felt right, it felt real,

Yet seeing you here? I don’t know what to feel.

Because how can the “baby” be taking a hand,

To build his own life and to take his own stand?

I haven’t accepted the truth of it yet,

That the sun on your childhood has finally set.

To the rest of the world, you’re a man in his prime,

But to me, you are frozen in a different time.

The groom in the mirror is a stranger to see,

Because the baby of the house is all you’ll ever be.

Blue-lit screens and the world so wide,

Eighteen and breathless, with time on our side.

Just Facebook pings and a face in a frame,

A boy and a girl, and a sudden, bright flame.

It was wild, it was new, it was love.

Then twenty-two came with a wedded grace,

Finding my home in the lines of your face.

A title exchanged, a life-long decree,

The man who was everything, standing by me.

It was steady, it was deep, it was love.

At twenty-four, there were cries in the night,

The soft, heavy weight in the dim morning light.

I watched you go soft as you held our first-born,

A father was fashioned, a new heart was sworn.

It was selfless, it was strong, it was love.

Now thirty is knocking, the years have been kind,

With two little shadows trailing behind.

There’s silver in strands where the black used to be,

The man of my youth, still the anchor for me.

It is quiet, it is whole, it is love.

I don’t know the chapters the future will pen,

Or how many times I will meet you again.

But whatever the version, whatever the view,

I’ll always be waiting to fall for the new.

For always, forever, in love.

They see the first-born iron, the steady hand,

The “mature” one, built to understand.

The princess in the hallway, spoiled and proud,

With a voice that echoes sharp and loud.

A lioness who roars when the tone goes wrong,

Proving, for their sake, that she is strong.

But one word from dad, in a slightly raised tone,

And the palace crumbles when she’s alone.

The door click is the signal, the turning of the key,

From the girl they know to the girl only she can see.

Her chest begins to cave, a sudden, hollowing weight,

As the “tough girl” buckles under the pressure of the state.

The breathing hitches, thick and jagged and fast,

While she counts the seconds until the storm has passed.

She reaches for the fabric, a towel, a sleeve, a shroud,

To swallow up the gasps she isn’t allowed to cry out loud.

Muffled into cotton, the heartbreak stays within,

Biting back the salt of the tears against her skin.

Ten minutes of replay, a cinematic ache,

Reconstructing the peace for everyone else’s sake.

She swallows the silence, she straightens the spine,

Wipes the red from her eyes until she looks “fine.”

Then she turns the handle, steps back into the light,

The steely daughter returned, ready to finish the night.

Have you ever felt it?

That sudden, unscripted pause

in the middle of a perfectly Tuesday afternoon.

Not a dark cloud, not a heavy heart,

just a question that arrives without a knock.

Maybe you’re standing on the terrace,

leaning just a little too far into the evening air,

watching the streetlights flicker on like distant stars.

Or perhaps you’re at the very edge of a cliff,

where the wind is the only thing pushing back.

The brain, usually so busy with lists and logic,

suddenly misfires. A short circuit in the safety.

A quiet, jarring whisper: “What if you just... jumped?”

It isn’t a desire to fall.

It’s the vertigo of your own agency,

a terrifying “what if” that tests the gravity

you’ve spent your whole life trusting.

A momentary lapse where the glass feels thin.

And then, as fast as the spark arrived,

the circuit closes.

The smell of dinner wafts through the screen door.

The cold metal of the railing anchors your palms.

The “what if” vanishes into the background noise,

leaving you to step back, adjust your shirt,

and walk back into the light of the living room,

as if you hadn’t just stood on the lip of the world.

The blue light flickers, a cold, steady hum,

While the ghosts of a thousand tragedies come.

The screen is a window, but also a cage,

A theater of sorrow on a five-inch stage.

I watch the cities crumble into gray,

Where children lose the breath to run and play.

I see the lines of hungry, hollow eyes,

And hear the weight of heavy, muffled cries.

From maps being redrawn by fire and greed,

To hearts that break with every desperate need.

And then the headlines turn to darker stains,

Of bodies broken, locked in silent chains.

The rising count of sisters, daughters, lives—

The predatory shadow that survives.

A world where safety is a phantom’s breath,

And justice feels like a slow, certain death.

The coins are losing value, shelves go bare,

A suffocating stillness in the air.

And here I sit, in the safety of my skin,

Watching the world cave slowly from within.

My thumb hovers over a heart-shaped icon,

A digital ghost of a battle already won or gone.

To share a story, to repost a plea—

It feels like throwing pebbles at the sea.

A curated grief, a pixelated prayer,

Does it reach the ones who are gasping for air?

I am a speck in a gale, a grain in the sand,

With empty palms and a motionless hand.

The chaos is a tide that I cannot stem,

I am a witness, but I cannot save them.

The guilt is an anchor, the silence a weight,

Watching a world seal its own bitter fate.

At seven, it was a shared crayon,

A mutual love for the color blue,

And suddenly, the world was wide

And large enough for two.

But at twenty-nine, the gate is narrow,

We carry “friendship resumes” like maps—

Heavy, folded records of our past,

While falling through the present’s gaps.

We’re so busy holding things together,

With the sticky adhesive of our days,

That we’ve forgotten how to be the stranger

Who simply arrives, and sits, and stays.

We’ve lost the knack for heavy questions,

Trading the truth for “how are yous,”

Skimming the surface of the ink,

Past the roles and the polished views.

We’re waiting for a hand to reach,

To find the person standing there—

The one who wants to find a color

That we both might finally share.

I am the name on the second line,
The person they call when the stars align.
I’m a part of the trio, the third in the row,
The one who is steady, the one who will go.
I’m the listener, the laughter, the keeper of secrets,
The one who collects all the emotional remnants.
They love me, they tell me, and I know that it’s true,
I’m the shade of a very dependable blue.

But I know the truth when the room starts to thin,
And the "best friend" questions begin to crawl in.
If a choice had to happen, if a circle was drawn,
I’m the one who’d be standing just out on the lawn.
I’m everyone’s "favorite," but no one’s "only,"
A crowded existence that feels a bit lonely.
I’m the bridge between pairs, the glue for the group,
The extra momentum that loops through the loop.

I don’t hold a grudge, and I don’t feel a sting,
I’ve learned how to sit in the curve of the wing.
There is a peace in the "not being chosen,"
Where the pressure of being the 'one' is all frozen.
I don't have to carry the weight of their world,
Or watch as the deepest of dramas unfurl.
I am the safe harbor, the pleasant retreat,
The person they are always quite happy to meet.

Yet sometimes I wonder, in the dead of the night,
What it feels like to be the primary light.
To be the first thought when a heart starts to break,
Or the very first name that a person would wake.
But I tuck it away, this small, silver "why,"
And wave as the soulmates and "besties" go by.
I am the companion, the reliable friend,
The beautiful means, but never the end.

The boxes are checked with a heavy black ink,

The chores are all finished, the plates in the sink.

I followed the map that the world laid for me,

Through the woods of “become” to the hills of “to be.”

I climbed with my head down, I didn’t look back,

Every milestone a stone, every goal on the track.

And now I am standing where they said I should stay,

In the light of a permanent, high-noon day.

But the mountain is quiet, the air is quite thin,

And I’m wearing the life that I’ve worked to live in.

Is this it? The horizon? The end of the climb?

A beautiful landscape of well-managed time?

I have the house and the name and the keys,

But the wind here is missing the scent of the trees.

The “freedom” of 29 is a strange kind of cage,

When you realize you’ve reached the very last page.

I look at the map, but the ink just runs dry,

The path disappears in the blue of the sky.

There are no more “next steps,” no “when I grow up,”

Just the slow, steady sip from a full, heavy cup.

I’m a teenager again, but with bills and a mortgage,

Searching for fire in the cold, winter storage.

Wondering if this is the rest of the play—

Just reciting the lines of a perfect today.

I want to be messy, I want to be lost,

Without calculating the weight or the cost.

To find a new forest where the map doesn’t go,

And unlearn the things that I’m supposed to know.

The view is quite lovely, the mountain is tall,

But I’m terrified now of the lack of a wall.

For once I have everything I said I would seek,

What do I do with the rest of the week?

The mirror is a liar, or maybe I’m the one,

Who paints the sky in yellow when the day is barely done.

I am the cheerful one in the room, the smile, the easy grace,

A masterpiece of “happy” etched across a tired face.

To every eye, I’m the extrovert, the one who lights the fuse,

The definition of a sun that simply can’t refuse.

But when the phone begins to glow, a hum upon the wood,

I freeze and watch the name appear, as if they understood,

A language made of heavy dread, a ringing in my ears,

I stare until the screen goes black and silence reappears.

Then, with a practiced, shameless thumb, I craft the tiny lie:

“So sorry that I missed your call!”—while watching time go by.

Inside, the spite is quiet, a cold and steady hum,

A bitterness for every “yes” that I’ve already become.

I dread the ping of plans, the “Let’s go out tonight,”

Yet when I’m there, the battery drains, the colors lose their light.

I count the minutes, crave the door, the solitude of gray,

But once I’m home, the walls start closing in the usual way.

I pace the floor and want to leave, I want to see the sky,

A cycle of a thousand “no’s” and one persistent “why?”

I’m a contradiction folded tight, a riddle with no key,

A stranger to the person that the world expects of me.

Is the yellow just a costume? Is the spite the only truth?

Or am I just the middle ground of a misspent, lying youth?

I’ve worn the mask so long it’s fused, the skin and plastic one,

I don’t know where the fake ends or where the real’s begun.

I am the sun and I am the shade, the lie and the regret,

A person playing every part that I haven’t mastered yet.

The coffee is warm, the toast is gold,
The stories of the day are gently told.
There is a rhythm here, a steady beat,
Of messy rooms and evening’s soft retreat.
The job is kind, the friendships earned,
With every lesson settled, every favor turned.
The house is full of laughter, small and bright,
Two pairs of eyes that mirror back the light.

And he is there—the anchor, strong and true,
The hand that holds the world when skies are blue.
To any soul who looks in from the gate,
This is the dream, the perfect, peaceful state.
There are no cracks for bitter winds to blow,
No desperate debts, no heavy seeds of woe.
It is a “good life,” polished, safe, and sweet,
A map where every path is paved and neat.

But in the quiet of a Tuesday’s lull,
The heart feels heavy, paradoxically full.
It isn’t grief, and surely isn’t hate,
It’s the suffocating weight of a “settled” fate.
For when the path is certain, start to end,
Where is the corner? Where’s the sudden bend?
The soul begins to starve for something raw,
A wilder wind, a break in nature’s law.

How do you tell the world you need to break,
The velvet silence that the mornings make?
To ask for chaos feels like such a sin,
When you have everything the world tries to win.
They see a garden, lush and well-defined,
I see the fences that I’ve left behind.
I crave a spark, impulsive and unknown,
A seed of something I have never sown.

Not to destroy the walls or break the glass,
But just to watch a lightning shadow pass.
To be a stranger in my own routine,
And find a version that I haven’t been.
It is the guilt of wanting “more” than “good,”
Of seeking fire where the hearth once stood.

A silent prayer for something unplanned,

To hold a bit of lightning in my hand.

We’ve walked a long road, year upon year,

But the rhythm has shifted, let’s be clear.

My days are a harvest of duties and time,

With mountain-high lists I’m trying to climb.

I cannot offer the presence you seek,

Or the constant connection, week after week.

This is the space that I have left to give,

The quiet corner where I currently live.

Accept this version, or let the bond go,

I’ll respect the direction you choose to grow.

Chapter 1

My name is Mithra Shivam. I’m 5’7”, average-looking, and, if I’m being honest, rather on the plump side. At twenty-one, I was considered to be at the “prime age” for marriage—at least according to my parents. We come from a conservative, old-school background where traditions and morals aren’t just suggested; they are mandatory. Yet, despite the wall of restrictions and guidelines surrounding me, I managed to make the biggest mistake my family could imagine.

I fell in love.

It all began on April 14th, 2014. Growing up in a traditional household meant living under the watchful eyes of strict parents. Even though we had lived in the vibrant, ever-colorful city of Chennai for most of our lives, we never quite shed the values of our hometown, Tiruchi. After a secondary stint in Australia for eight years, we returned to Chennai when I was in the third grade, eventually building a home of our own.

My education was a bit of a localized tour: I attended Sri Padma Bhavan (SPB) from fourth to tenth grade, then moved to a nearby Christian school for my final two years.

I remember when Facebook was the “new and shiny” thing. Everyone I knew seemed to teleport onto the platform instantly, but my parents were a different story. While my friends were joining in tenth grade, I wasn’t allowed to create an account until two years later, during my twelfth-grade year. By then, the initial “addiction phase” had faded for everyone else, but for me, the excitement was just beginning.

It was right after my board exams. There I was, staring at my fresh profile, trying to fight the desperate urge to accept every friend request that popped up, regardless of whether I actually knew the person. My first attempts at posting pictures were embarrassing and thoughtless, just as it should be. I had an excuse though, because my dad kept popping into the room to “check in” on what I was doing.

Then, amidst the sea of notifications, a message arrived. I opened it with the kind of over-the-top excitement only a social media novice possesses. It was a simple “Hi”. I glanced at the name: Niranjan R. I recognized him immediately—an old classmate from SPB.

Chapter 2

Nirajan had drifted away from our school around the seventh grade. He had always been the quiet kid, anchored to a small circle of friends, a boy who rarely spoke and never drew attention to himself. In fact, my only real memory of him was a fleeting, mundane moment: he had once approached me to ask for some of my potato fry, acting as a messenger for another boy.

The image I held of him remained a blurry childhood sketch until a chance encounter in the ninth grade. My friend and I ran into him at an inter-school competition, and the boy I remembered had been replaced by a stranger. The soft, unformed face of the schoolkid had vanished. In his place stood someone impossibly tall, quite decent looking, and carrying the ultimate badge of popularity—a cellphone. Mind you, this was around 2008, and not everyone had their own phone.

I was the one who spotted him, but my friend was the one who took the lead, her confidence filling the space between us. I simply stood there, watching their easy rapport as they exchanged numbers. My heart hammered with a different kind of anxiety; I kept my head down, praying he wouldn’t turn his gaze toward me, desperately trying to shield myself from the embarrassment of admitting I didn’t even own a phone. They finished their conversation and with a polite smile and a wave of goodbye, he left. And that was that. The last time I saw the boy.

Despite that hazy connection, I replied with a level of enthusiasm that makes me cringe now: “Hiiii! Been so long! How are you?”. I sounded like a hyperactive, weirdly intense teenager. He, by contrast, was smooth and composed in his reply.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I clicked on his profile to see how he’d turned up. In my head, he was still that unassuming, plain guy—the very definition of “simple”. To say he had changed would be the understatement of the century. The guy staring back at me from the screen was tall, lean, and undeniably handsome.

It wasn’t “love at first sight”—that would be an exaggeration—but I certainly felt a spark as I unabashedly scrolled through his photos. On Messenger, however, I kept it cool. I played the part of the casual acquaintance, never letting on that I was practically drooling over his new look.

We moved through the standard “small talk” phase—asking about colleges and life updates. I was torn between studying Visual Communication or Journalism, while he was heading toward Game Design. Honestly, I was paying more attention to his jawline in his pictures than the actual details of the conversation.

When I heard my dad’s footsteps approaching, I panicked. In a burst of uncharacteristic boldness, I sent him my number and told him to message me on WhatsApp. I didn’t even stop to think about how forward I was being. I spent the next few hours desperately praying I hadn’t scared him off.

To my immense relief, he texted. We ended up talking for the rest of the day.

Chapter 3

The “basics” quickly gave way to more meaningful conversations. He confessed he was in the middle of a painful heartbreak. I wasn’t sure what to say—we were technically still strangers—but I listened. He introduced me to the song he was obsessed with: Bewafa by Imran Khan. It was his “breakup anthem”. I wasn’t usually into Hindi pop, but I listened to it until I had it memorized, just so I could tell him how much I loved it. That should have been my first warning sign.

Soon, my entire day revolved around him. I’d text him the moment I woke up and continue until I closed my eyes at night. What started on April 14th stretched through the month, and our bond tightened. Niranjan was becoming my “perfect guy”: kind, mature, gorgeous, and—the cherry on top—he knew how to cook.

On the days he was too busy to reply, I felt a gnawing frustration. I would obsessively scroll through our old chats, waiting for that single notification. He had become my daily dose of happiness. My life was fine, but it was robotic—a scheduled, uneventful routine. Texting him made it all bearable.

They say a lot can happen over a cup of coffee, but for us, it was a game of “Truth or Dare”. Secrets started pouring out. I found myself confiding in him more than I ever had with my best friends. After a lifetime of being the “perfect, obedient daughter,” talking to him felt like freedom.

Chapter 4

There were a thousand signs I chose to ignore before I realized I wasn’t just “liking” him—I was being plunged into what I thought was love.

The problem? He seemed to see me as nothing more than a friend. During yet another game of Truth or Dare, he told me the full story of his ex-girlfriend. Hearing how she left him for someone else filled me with a strange rage. In that moment, I felt a fierce conviction that I could love him the way he actually deserved.

But then, reality hit. I was the “chubby nobody”. Why would a guy who looked like him want someone like me when he could have someone who matched his own level of “perfect”? I tried to fish for reassurances, asking if he’d ever date someone who had a good character but wasn’t traditionally “good-looking”. He said yes, of course, but I remained skeptical. After all, he had recently mentioned being interested in a girl named Pragathi, whom he described as “super-hot”. (I’d even helped him try to woo her, until he found out she smoked and decided she wasn’t for him).

I decided I had nothing to lose and started dropping hints. Unfortunately, for all his perfection, he had a streak of density. He either ignored or completely missed every sign I threw his way.

The breaking point came during a family outing to the mall. I tried to make him jealous by mentioning another guy, hoping for even a flicker of emotion. Nothing. He remained the same polite, emotionless robot. By the time we sat down for dinner at Nandos, I couldn’t even enjoy the food. I snapped, sent him an angry message, and basically told him to get lost.

That finally got his attention. He became concerned, but I was too overwhelmed to talk. I told him I’d text the next day and went offline.

The next morning, I apologized for the outburst. Everything seemed to return to normal—until he said he had something important to tell me.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This is it, I thought.

“I kinda like this girl,” he typed. “She’s an old classmate. She’s sweet and nice, and I think I really like her”.

I tried to play it cool, though I was shaking. “Ohh really? Who is it?”.

“Her name starts with... A...”.

I stopped breathing. What is happening?! My name starts with M, but maybe he was using a nickname? That one letter led me to begin tearing up, and so I ran. I ran to the bathroom to avoid my mother’s “eagle gaze” that could detect the slightest change in emotions.

Then the rest of the letters appeared: “A...K...S...H...A...Y...A.”.

The pain was physical. I wanted to block him, delete him, and disappear. Instead, I forced my fingers to type: “That’s great!”.

I was his “best friend,” after all. And now, I had to help him win the heart of another girl.

To be continued…

This space is a sanctuary—a private corner under the starlight for the poems, random thoughts, and short stories that keep me awake. Between the beautiful chaos of life and the quiet of the night, I find my way back to the page.

I’m a Romantasy devotee and a lifelong “Bookaholic,” finding the most intriguing magic at the intersection of the heart and the impossible. For me, fantasy isn’t just a genre; it’s an escape—a place to leave real life behind and find stardust in the quiet hours.

When I’m not chasing my two little princesses, I’m a carefree soul trying to view real life through a lens of high-stakes romance. I don’t write as often as I’d like, but I’m showing up and finding my rhythm again. 🖋️📖

Bear with me while I find my footing, and as always, constructive criticism is appreciated. I’m so happy to have you here in my creative corner.✨🌙