vk~

have you ever called someone late at night and just… yapped about absolutely random shit for no real reason? because i did, and honestly, i loved every second of it. i said the most random things, probably overshared a little too, but as long as it wasn’t something that could harm me in any way, i didn’t really mind it. there’s something weirdly freeing about just saying things out loud without overthinking every word.

the thing about late night calls is that they’re slightly unhinged in the best possible way, especially when you’re talking to a stranger. you end up saying things about yourself that you always knew somewhere deep down, but never really acknowledged until you actually heard yourself say it. and that moment? it’s kind of magical. sure, you might regret a few things later, because let’s be real, late night thoughts are intrusive as hell, but in that moment, you don’t hold anything back. you just let it flow, and i think that’s the best part of it.

and it’s not like i only enjoy it with strangers. even with people i’m close to, i don’t really mind oversharing, because there’s less regret attached to it. but with strangers, there’s this strange thrill, like who even knows if you’re ever going to talk to them again? it’s temporary, it’s fleeting, and in a very weird way, i’d call it my version of a one night stand, but make it emotionally chaotic and slightly underrated.

but coming back to talking to friends, there’s something really nice about how those conversations bring out a version of you that you didn’t even realise was hiding somewhere. it’s almost like reconnecting with parts of yourself through someone else, and honestly, i think everyone should call a friend once in a while just to talk about the most unimportant things ever. it sounds pointless, but it’s weirdly comforting.

i’ve always been a talkative person, like i genuinely cannot shut up once i start. it’s funny because i’m actually quite introverted when it comes to socialising, and there’s always a bit of anxiety there, but the moment i get comfortable, there’s no going back. it’s just nonstop yapping, jumping from one topic to another like my brain is on fast forward.

and i think being a yapper somehow turned me into a writer too, because when i don’t have someone to talk to, i just start typing. and i don’t stop. i go from one topic to another so fast that even i lose track of what i was originally trying to say. like right now, i started with late night calls and somehow ended up here, completely off track, but that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?

like when i send life updates to my best friend through voice notes every other day, i talk so much and include so many unnecessary details that i end up mentioning twenty different things and forget what i even started with. but she’s my best friend, so she’s stuck with me for life, and if she doesn’t mind it, then honestly, why should i? she listens to my voice notes like it’s some true crime podcast, except it’s not crime, just my life, which somehow still manages to sound equally chaotic and dramatic.

and yeah, while i started this whole thing talking about late night calls, i clearly went off the rails and started yapping again, which is very on brand for me. but if there’s one thing i know for sure, it’s that i love yapping, and anyone who lost me is definitely going to miss that. and honestly? good luck finding someone else who does it this well.

this might be a little controversial, but i think personal opinions should at least be allowed to exist, so i’m just going to say it plainly: i don’t believe in god. and before it gets misunderstood, it’s not like i think there’s nothing out there at all, because i do feel there is some kind of force beyond science that connects everything in ways we can’t fully explain yet, but i don’t agree with the way society labels that force as “god” and then presents it as some ultimate problem-solver who will fix your life if you just believe hard enough.

the reason i say this is because, quite honestly, i’ve never felt like i was ever on the receiving end of that kind of belief. if anything, it feels like i’ve been handed the “strongest soldier” narrative without actually signing up for it, like yeah sure, give her all the problems, she’ll deal with it somehow. and i don’t even fully believe that some god is consciously doing this to me, but when you grow up hearing that if you pray enough, believe enough, devote yourself enough, things will eventually fall into place, you do end up trying it with your whole heart at some point. i did that, properly, sincerely, and nothing really changed.

i tried improving myself too, thinking maybe it’s not about belief but about effort, but even then it just felt like nothing was aligning in my favour, like not even the universe was interested in letting things go right for me. every time i asked for something, even something as simple as peace or a few genuinely happy moments, it either didn’t happen at all or happened so briefly that it almost felt like a joke. and in return, what i mostly got was long phases of monotony, disappointment, and this constant sense of things not working out the way they should.

and it’s not like i’m saying this without reason, because if i actually start listing things out, it becomes very real, very personal. i always wanted to be that “star student,” the one everyone looks at and feels proud of, especially my mom, but that never really happened the way i imagined. i wanted a slightly easier life as the elder daughter, not completely stress-free, just manageable, but somehow it turned into the exact opposite, where responsibilities and pressures kept adding up. i wanted a good social circle, real friends, positive people around me, but instead i’ve ended up with very few people i can actually count on, and a lot of negativity that has, over time, shaped me into someone far more pessimistic than i ever thought i would become.

more than anything, i wanted a happy family, if not for me then at least for my sister, but even that didn’t turn out the way i hoped. things happened, things i can’t even talk about publicly, but they’ve had a massive impact on both of us, on our mental space, on our future, on everything. and after a point, it just makes you question everything you were told to believe in.

sometimes i wonder if i’m just trying to put the blame somewhere because things didn’t go the way i wanted, like maybe i’m projecting my failures onto the idea of god because there’s no one else to hold accountable. and maybe there’s some truth to that, i won’t deny it. but at the same time, when you’ve genuinely tried believing, tried trusting, and still ended up feeling unheard, it becomes very hard to hold onto that faith.

the only reason i still even associate myself with the idea of god is because of my mom. she has this unshakable belief, and i respect that deeply, even though, ironically, her life hasn’t exactly been easy either. and maybe that’s where my conflict comes from, because i want to believe the way she does, but i just don’t feel it anymore.

there have been a few moments where things did go my way, where it felt like maybe the universe was listening, but even those came with consequences i didn’t expect. like the one time i manifested getting into a particular college, and it actually happened, but i didn’t follow through the way i was supposed to, and eventually it all came crashing down in a way that felt like the universe itself was proving a point, like “you did this to yourself,” and honestly, it wasn’t wrong.

so where does that leave me? not fully an atheist, not fully a believer either, just somewhere in between, where i don’t really have the faith to devote myself to something i no longer understand. i’m not trying to mock or disrespect anything, i just don’t feel that connection anymore.

at this point, i don’t even know if i’m angry, disappointed, or just numb, but i do know that i don’t recognize myself the way i used to. it feels like i’ve lost parts of who i was along the way, and what’s left is just… there. existing, dealing, trying to find small, temporary moments of happiness in the middle of problems that feel way more permanent than they should.

maybe this is just a phase, maybe it’s not, but for now, this is where i stand, and i guess that’s enough of an answer, even if it’s not a perfect one.

not taking teenage mistakes to my 20s.

and of course it had to be 1st April, which is honestly a little too perfect, because what better day for this fool to retire from her teenage era than on fool’s day itself. i think i’ve finally reached that point where being a teenager doesn’t feel chaotic in a fun, coming-of-age way anymore, it just feels unnecessarily exhausting, and i’m actually ready to move on to real adult shit now, even if that comes with its own brand of chaos (dont ask, ive had more than that).

being a teenager is weirdly draining because you’re constantly thrown into situations you were never prepared for, and yet somehow you’re still expected to handle everything like you’ve got your life sorted, which is honestly insane if you think about it. it’s like life keeps throwing plot twists every five business minutes, and at some point you just sit there like… okay what the fuck now. and for me, somewhere in between all of that, i feel like i slowly lost that spark i used to have. when i look back, there aren’t that many memories that feel purely happy without something heavy attached to them, and a big part of that is because right when i turned fourteen, the world literally said “pause.”

covid basically stole what people love to call the “fun teenage years,” and 14 to 16 just disappeared into being stuck at home, overthinking, and not really living the life i thought i would. and then when things finally started going back to normal, life didn’t ease me into it, it just dumped all the canon events everything at once like “here, deal with this.” i was sixteen, dealing with all of that along with science in 11th grade, and i was genuinely like yeah… i’m done. that age already comes with its own intense storyline, and adding everything else on top of it just makes it feel ten times heavier.

today i was telling my sister how she’s actually getting a proper, slightly aesthetic teenage experience where the world isn’t actively ruining it for her, and it made me realise how different things can be. because when you’re 13 to 15, you do dumb, sometimes embarrassing shit, but that’s also when you figure yourself out, what you like, who you are, even while dealing with peer pressure and all that emotional mess. then 16 to 18 hits, and suddenly you’re a “mature teen,” meeting new people, outgrowing old versions of yourself, pretending you have your shit together, and getting that small taste of freedom which, not gonna lie, feels really good at the time.

and then you turn 19, and it’s like… what the fuck is this upgrade. suddenly everything feels more real, more serious, and not something you can just brush off as “teenage drama” anymore. it’s actual life shit, showing up unannounced, and by the end of it, you’re not even dramatic about it, you’re just quietly tired. like yeah, i’ve had enough of this phase.

somewhere in all of this, i feel like i lost my younger self, the version of me who didn’t overthink everything, who felt safe without questioning it, and who had a simple, almost delusional idea of how life would turn out. sometimes i look back at her and feel like i owe her an apology, because i didn’t really become the person she imagined. the world, its expectations, its stupid rules, they change you in ways you don’t even notice until it’s already happened, and one day you just sit there like… when did i become this person?

but at the same time, i know i didn’t exactly have a choice either. a lot of it was just surviving whatever came my way and figuring things out as i went, even if it wasn’t pretty.

so now that this phase is ending, the only thing i’m sure about is that i’m not carrying my teenage mistakes into my 20s. that chapter can stay right here. i’ll take the lessons, sure, but the baggage? absolutely not.

you probably won’t relate to all of this, and that’s fine, i don’t expect you to. i just like putting my thoughts out there, messy, unfiltered, slightly dramatic, because that’s literally how my life has been, and trust me, there’s a lot more where this came from.

anyway, cheers to my 20s. i think i’m actually ready this time. let’s see what fresh bullshit this next chapter has to offer.

toddles

It’s been a week since the breakup, and strangely enough, I feel an unexpected sense of freedom. There’s no one waiting to hear how my day went, no late-night calls about how I’m feeling. It might sound a little sad when put like that, but honestly, it feels good. I think I’m finally going to rediscover myself this time. I don’t know how I managed to distance myself from my own potential for so long, knowing somewhere deep down that I was capable of doing something meaningful. A couple of things did go wrong along the way. First, I completely lost my voice for a few days, and then out of nowhere I developed this intense shoulder muscle pain. Because of it, I won’t be able to lift my right arm properly for at least three weeks. But a lot of good things happened too. I cut my own bangs. I realized that I genuinely want to learn the guitar. I went shopping and bought a striking yet elegant birthday dress, along with six-inch pencil heels. In many ways, I’ve reworked myself quite impressively. Maybe the loss was necessary. Maybe it was meant to reignite a spark I had lost ages ago, to rebuild a version of myself that truly reflects who I am.

There are many places tied to old memories, yet when I revisit them, I feel nothing. I simply acknowledge that something must have happened there once, and that eventually even those memories will fade. It’s almost as if my emotions have switched off. I used to wonder how I would react to a breakup. Would I feel heartbroken? Apparently not. I’m not sad, not depressed, not even particularly reflective about it. Would I cry when reminded of the memories? I haven’t. In all honesty, I’m not feeling much at all. The only thing I recognize is that I lost someone I used to speak with every single day about the details of my life. Beyond that, nothing really lingers. For me, “I love you” had mostly been words I said because I believed the person I was saying them to genuinely loved me. And he did. But ever since everything unfolded, as I mentioned earlier, I haven’t felt much of anything. I can’t even seem to read his emotions anymore. So one ordinary day, quite casually, we mutually decided to end things. There was no dramatic fallout, no late-night binge of heartbreak songs in his memory. Oddly enough, a part of me almost wishes we had ended things on worse terms. At least then I might have experienced the kind of sorrow people describe in breakup songs. I would have liked to know what that actually feels like.

During the time we were together, I had grown deeply emotionally dependent on him. Whenever I felt anything: happiness, excitement, joy, sadness, stress, or discouragement, I would go to him and pour everything out. If I was sad, I would feel lighter afterwards. If I was happy, the happiness would multiply. That dependency is exactly why it took me so long to consider ending the relationship. I was mentally preparing myself to face my emotions alone. Yet somehow, in the most bizarre way possible, those emotions simply switched off. When it happened, how it happened, why it happened, I have no idea. But once I realized it, the idea of leaving the relationship became much easier. The first thought that crossed my mind was that I was finally no longer emotionally dependent on someone who wasn’t mature enough to handle the intensity of my emotions. Looking back now, I realize how blinded I had been by my own loyalty. I was devoted to that relationship even though I knew one undeniable truth: we were never going to be each other’s endgame. I was completely certain of that. I had never imagined marrying him or taking things far into the future. That thought simply wasn’t there when I said yes to him. At the time, I only wanted to gather a few amusing stories to someday tell my children.

That blindness became so real that I even blocked the one person I genuinely loved, I’ll describe him later in this story, just to prevent the other from getting hurt. Because if he had been hurt, I know it would have hurt me even more, and I couldn’t bear the thought of that. Complicated emotions, I suppose. I finally understand them now. He was a good person. Perhaps I simply wasn’t the right person for him. That doesn’t make me the villain in the story. Maybe I was just too intense for him, and he needs someone simpler. I don’t hate him. But now that we’ve drifted apart, I can admit that there were habits of his I genuinely disliked. To be honest, he was never truly the kind of person I envisioned for myself. Even now, I’m not entirely sure why I said yes to him in the first place. Actually, I do know why. I wanted those “interesting stories” to tell my future children. I never wanted them to think their mother had lived a dull, uneventful school life. I never did, I’ve always been a bit of a rebel, and I already have more than enough stories to tell. But I didn’t want my story to include some chaotic love affair that ended up ruining my academic years. Saying yes to him may have been the biggest mistake I made, because I lost so much during what should have been my prime years. To be fair, he wasn’t a bad person at all. He was simply wrong for me, and the timing between us was even worse. If there’s anyone truly foolish in this entire situation, it’s me. For him, I seemed to be a stroke of good fortune. For me, it was quite the opposite. My life graph began declining the moment I met him.

The truth is, I wanted someone else all along. Someone I had been chasing, in one way or another, for most of my life. Yet because I was chasing the idea of a “story,” I ended up losing both, agreeing to a relationship with someone who never matched my ideals, and distancing myself from the one I had truly wanted. If I’m being completely honest, I’ve always loved him deeply, regardless of how many people disliked him. He was incredibly dear to me. In fact, he was the true muse behind the poems I later dedicated to the other person, the one I had said yes to. I never wrote those poems for him, though I made it appear that way. One thing I’m certain about is this: I was the ideal type for A, the one I ended up dating. When he eventually managed to win me over with his almost ridiculously effective playboy tactics, he never really tried to become mine in return. He achieved what he wanted and then simply claimed me as his. Ironically, from the outside it looked impressive. Everyone knew he was committed to me and emotionally unavailable to anyone else. But if I start listing the things I had actually hoped for from him in that relationship, the effort to at least attempt to be the kind of partner I wanted, there were many that remained unmet. I’m setting aside the things he did for me that I never even asked for, the gestures I’m grateful for. Looking back, most of those were things I could have done for myself anyway. I never truly needed him for them. As for B, the one I’ve loved for longer than I can measure, I was never quite his strange, perfect ideal type. Yet I always sensed that he liked me for who I was. I believe he genuinely did like me, though he would probably never admit it. He carries himself with a certain alpha-like pride. Ironically, our connection was many things at once. I still struggle to define what we were. Friends, but not quite. Certainly not friends with benefits. We flirted endlessly, yet it somehow remained entirely platonic. We were never lovers, he never looked at me that way, nor at any other girl I know. Our connection was so complicated that we had to establish boundaries and remain “just friends.”

Sometimes I wish I could have one chance with him. Just once. I want to know what it would feel like to be his girlfriend, or even his lover. I still hold on to a quiet hope that something might exist for us in the future. I don’t think I’ll let that possibility fade easily. The thought of him liking another girl definitely unsettles me. But I don’t express those feelings because I don’t want to appear vulnerable. At the same time, if he ever finds someone who truly loves him and treats him the way he deserves, I would let him go without hesitation and finally free myself from that hope.

But until that day arrives, I suppose I’ll continue holding on to a small fragment of hope: hope for him and me.

For now, happily and freely signing off.

living body dead soul

I spent my whole childhood sketching a future in my head, and by the time I was sixteen, I thought I knew exactly what my life would look like. It was bright, filled with color, filled with joy. Even if I never earned enough to buy myself a Porsche, I believed I’d still build a life where happiness didn’t feel borrowed. I truly believed I was capable of that. But somewhere along the way, my dreams weren’t just changed, they were manipulated into something unfamiliar.

Being the eldest daughter is a quiet kind of curse. People think it means strength and leadership, but really, it means walking through life without anyone holding your hand. There’s no one guiding you toward the right path. You stand up alone, chase things alone, and figure out pain on your own. No one tells you how harsh reality is until you crash into it face-first. And even then, you’re expected to smile through the confusion and pretend you’re okay.

Academically, I was always labeled average. Not a disaster, but never impressive. And that “average” became a wound the moment everyone started comparing me to my younger sister who is brilliant, effortless, everything I wasn’t allowed to be. My parents held her up like a mirror and made me stare at everything I lacked. My friends, the ones who excelled in studies, made it worse without even meaning to. Their jokes always ended with me being the punchline: the “dumb” one, the unserious one, the friend people took for granted. Every laugh felt like a reminder that I wasn’t enough.

But I knew where my heart lived. Creativity felt like home. I was the kind of person who found magic in colors, movement, art, imagination. Maybe if my parents had understood that part of me, maybe if they had looked at me through a softer lens, they wouldn’t carry the guilt they do now, and I wouldn’t carry the resentment I wish I didn’t feel. They believed pushing me harder would help me “gain my caliber,” but all it did was strip the spark that made me, me.

They convinced me that science was the path to respect, success, endless options. What they didn’t say was that the only “option” they wanted me to choose was engineering, something completely out of my league, out of my interest, out of my identity. I tried telling them I couldn’t do it. I tried begging them to listen. And by the end of class eleven, when I was inches away from failing, life felt so unbearable that I tried to end it. I survived and maybe because being the eldest daughter trains you to survive even when you want to disappear.

That same year, I walked away from my passion, dance. The one thing that brought color into my life. Once that left, I had nothing. Friends drifted away, and I was left with a silence that felt heavy. I kept asking myself: how do you live a life with no color? How do you breathe in a world you no longer recognize?

The truth is, I slipped into depression. Not the dramatic, movie-style kind. The quiet, slow-burning kind that convinces you you’re alone even in a crowd. I carried expectations on my shoulders and had no one to guide me through the most crucial year of my life. I was sixteen, confused, desperate for validation, emotional support, anything that could anchor me. And when a teen is that lost, she can do things that look stupid from the outside but feel like survival on the inside.

Then came the blow I never recovered from, losing someone who loved me unconditionally. She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. She saw charisma in me, fire, potential. She thought I was someone who could build a life worth living. When she passed, everything inside me collapsed. I became empty, heartless, detached. My soul felt dead, and my body just moved because it had to.

There was only one person who kept me alive through that. Maybe he was my escapism, maybe destiny, maybe just someone who walked in at the exact moment I was breaking. He saved me in a way he’ll never fully understand. Without him, I would’ve turned into a breathing body without a soul. When life after sixteen turned monotonous and dull, he gave me the few moments that felt alive, colorful, real. Those tiny bits of joy still carry his face.

And then there’s the life I had envisioned, the one I never got to live. After class ten, I wanted to be a graphic designer. That dream began in eighth grade and grew with me. I loved computers, not for coding, but for creating. I wanted to be a VFX artist, a director, a writer, someone who built stories, visuals, art. If even one person had told me “You don’t need science for this,” I would have dropped it in a heartbeat. I didn’t want to be an engineer. I wanted to be an artist in a respected, technical way.

And the exhaustion of working hard for something you truly want! That kind of exhaustion is beautiful. It’s the kind that feels worth it. But instead of that, I ended up exhausting myself for something that never came from the heart. Something that never felt like mine.

MBA was never supposed to be my final degree, yet here I am, pursuing a field that feels foreign. Living in a city that doesn’t welcome me. A place where my thoughts aren’t heard, my efforts aren’t appreciated, my art can’t breathe. How am I supposed to live like a robot when I imagined my life in vivid color? I wanted to go abroad, learn new things, start adulthood at nineteen, build a life I chose, even if it came with stress. I wanted the kind of exhaustion that comes from chasing your dream, not running from your life.

And now? I feel stuck between where my parents want me to go and where my heart wants to return. I want to start fresh, but I keep wondering if it’s too late. And then again, a small part of me whispers: it’s never too late. I still want to be a designer, maybe fashion, graphic, content, something. Anything that makes sense to who I am. Engineering was never my story. I always hated math. And engineering is math stitched into every corner. My life math is not mathing and it drains my heart, my soul, my mind.

Being the eldest daughter feels like a curse sometimes. There are moments I wish I could go back to sixteen and rewrite every choice. And sometimes I still ask myself: what if I had ended everything in class eleven? Would it have been easier to leave it all behind? Maybe. But I can’t now. I can’t leave the people I love, especially when they need me.

So I rest my thoughts on hope. Maybe God, maybe the universe has bigger plans for me. Maybe this isn’t the ending. Maybe the colors will return.

Until then, I keep going. One breath, one day, one dream at a time.

Lately, I’ve been feeling super nostalgic. I found this old hard drive with golden videos that hit me like a time machine. And let me tell you—being a child? Peak life. Zero career stress, no peer pressure, no assignment deadlines. Kya pata tha yaar ki adulthood sirf thodi responsibility aur kaafi struggle ka dusra naam hai? Nobody tells you as a kid that adulthood isn’t just about “freedom”—it’s about figuring out your taxes, crying over Excel sheets, and pretending you’re okay when you’re not. If I had even an inkling back then that growing up meant juggling responsibilities and feeling ‘tired’ as a personality trait, I would’ve sat my 6-year-old self down and said, “Beta, soch le. Bade nahi hona.” Had I known, I would’ve voted to stay smol forever.

We used to live life aaj mein, getting pampered without guilt. No one judged you, society wasn’t on your back, and your existence wasn’t a topic of someone’s tea-time gossip. The biggest question of the day was, “Aaj kiske ghar khelne jaayein?” The fun was real, yaar—no pressure of being cool, looking perfect, or having an “aesthetic” life for Instagram. No one cared what you looked like, what you owned, or if your life was “cool enough” for social media.

And childhood birthday parties? Oh my god, what a vibe. Forget five-star venues and Instagrammable decorations—our parties were elite in the most basic way. Menu? Pastry, chips, burger, and a bottle of Fanta. That’s it. No talk of themes or aesthetics, no stress about cake designs that “align with the mood board.” Cake has to be a whole masterpiece—it’s all about Taylor Swift-themed fondant figures, Pinterest themes, and hashtags like #BirthdayVibes. But back then? Our parents showed up with their favorite cake (not yours), usually topped with some random cartoon—Mickey Mouse, Shinchan, or even a slightly questionable, squished animal. And you know what? No one cared. As long as it was tasty, we were living our best lives. Kids these days are unwrapping iPhones or driving home in Mini Coopers on their birthdays. MINI COOPERS, bhai! Back then, if someone even gave us a Barbie doll or a Hot Wheels car? Peak happiness.

Your four closest friends would show up in their most mismatched outfits (no one cared about ‘fits back then), a birthday cap would crown you as king/queen for the day, and together, you’d create absolute chaos. The photos? Legendary. Unhinged poses with missing teeth and blurry smiles—zero effort, pure joy. And the games! Musical chairs? Top-tier entertainment. You’d push your bestie off a chair and call it strategy. Dance Statue? Standing frozen in the weirdest positions, trying not to giggle. Sounds cliché now? Maybe. But back then? We were LIVING. Today, people might roll their eyes and say, “Boring parties,” but those were real vibes. You didn’t need fancy decorations or iPhones as return gifts to prove your birthday was lit. Happiness didn’t need validation back then.

School wasn’t just a place where you “learned stuff.” It was a comedy show, therapy session, and adventure all rolled into one. Bus rides were mini concerts where window seats were prime property, and someone always screamed songs off-beat because “feel aayi toh aayi.” The classroom? Pure, unfiltered fun. We laughed at jokes that didn’t make sense, whispered gossip like it was breaking news, and passed notes with cringe-level secrets. No one cared about looking cool or being perfect. Competition? Barely existed. Sure, we announced big dreams with full confidence—“Doctor banunga!”, “Engineer toh pakka.” or "I'll be an astronaut!" We said it without knowing that today’s doctors would be prepping with ChatGPT, and engineers would be staring at error messages at 3 AM with tears in their eyes. Because let’s be real, hum bachpan mein chand-sitaro ke piche hi bhagte the. As kids, we wanted to fly, chase the moon and stars, and explore space. Little did we know that to become an astronaut, you gotta deal with Rosenmund reactions in 12th-grade Science and survive the never-ending physics equations—like, who signed up for that? Becoming a rocket scientist, a doctor or even an engineer felt dreamy back then—now, it feels like a marathon of study guides. Cheating? It’s evolved into a science now. Back then, we copied from our best friend’s paper and still had the audacity to fail together. Iconic teamwork. I did not knew that life apne haathon mein hai would literally mean staring at your phone to check your bank account balance or count your daily steps and let an app decide whether if you are healthy or not? Lol, we didn’t!

And reunions? LOL, kya reunion? A few days back, we tried planning one—group chat was buzzing, enthusiasm was sky-high. “Chal bro, ek baar toh milte hain!” The plan started with dates, places, excitement, and… it fizzled out. Why? Because everyone’s busy. Legit, no one’s ever free at the same time. It’s wild how we went from “Bro, aaj tu free hai kya?” to “Let me check my schedule and get back to you.” Life has us running around so much that we’ve forgotten how to pause.

Sometimes I wonder—time kitna jaldi nikal gaya, yaar. One moment, we were kids in messy uniforms, laughing uncontrollably, living life without filters. The next, we’re adults, scrolling through old photos and grainy videos, trying to feel those moments again. I swear, if someone handed me a time machine, I’d run back. Back to that classroom where I sat with my best friend, whispering nonsense and getting scolded. Back to awkward, blurry photos and “shh-ing” each other in the library because everything was suddenly hilarious. Back to those “small rebellions” that felt wild but were actually just innocent fun. Because now? Everything is a memory. Those carefree days are locked in badly shot videos and weird poses, frozen in time. I miss those days. I miss my friends—my ride-or-dies who didn’t care what I wore, or how I looked. I miss the simplicity of childhood when happiness was a pastry, a round of Musical Chairs, or an extra hour of playtime before sunset.

Growing up? Overrated. If I could trade adulting for even one day of childhood, I would do it in a heartbeat. No filters, no judging—just the raw, unfiltered joy of being me.

It’s been way too long since I last wrote down my thoughts. Not just thoughts, actually—everything that's been happening in my life. 2024 is almost at its end, and let me tell you, what a ride this year has been. Life-changing, chaotic, and honestly, a little overwhelming.

Let’s rewind to the start of the year. The first two months were pretty uneventful because, surprise, surprise, my phone was taken away during my 12th boards. Typical Indian parent behavior, right? The classic “no distractions = better focus” logic. Did it work? Haha, let’s just say old habits die hard. But somehow, I survived. By March, I was living my best “post-board exams” life—jumping around, learning new things, and soaking in the freedom of finally being 18. The icing on the cake? A family trip to Kerala! The backwaters, the food, the laughter—I still feel the warmth of those memories. Its the memories I’ll cherish forever.

Then came May, aka the results month. The dreaded 12th board results came out earlier than expected, and let’s just say they weren’t exactly brag-worthy. I’m not spilling numbers here, but yeah, it was a blow. What followed was a solid 15 days of sulking and frantically hunting for colleges that would take me. Rejections came in like uninvited guests, starting with NMIMS, which outright told me I wasn’t shortlisted. Brutal, right? Cue the mini existential crisis where I kept thinking, “What if I had just studied a little harder?”

But then, something shifted. I realized I hadn’t really done much in life to make my mom proud. This time, I wanted to turn things around—not for anyone else, but for myself. I started manifesting hard, like really hard. And guess what? On June 15th, the same NMIMS that rejected me came knocking again, offering me a spot through counseling. I tried not to get too excited—it was just counseling, after all—but deep down, I was hopeful. Fast forward to a lot of effort, prayers, and paperwork, and I got in! The same college that had rejected me was now welcoming me as a student. Talk about a plot twist, right?

By this point, I had the next six months of my life all mapped out. I was super excited to start college, but the moment I set foot there, reality hit me like a truck. Suddenly, I was surrounded by so many people, and I felt like I was fighting this battle of making friends all on my own. See, I’m a social introvert—it takes me time to open up, but once I do, I’m all in. Luckily, hostel life forced me out of my shell. My first roommate became my friend of the same course, and through her, I found my little circle of amazing people; but oh well, i must admit that a few are still annoying!

Hostel life has its charm, though. Late-night Maggi runs, binge-watching movies, talking shit about people, getting hookup gossips, and those deep, soul-baring conversations where we see each other at our absolute worst—it’s raw, messy, and oddly comforting. We’re all just trying to figure life out, you know?

But it hasn’t been all sunshine and roses. Adjusting to this new environment has been tough. I miss my mom. I miss the old me—the girl who would fill pages of her diary with poems, stories, and random creative bursts. I miss the way I used to live so freely, without overthinking. College is fun, sure, but there’s this constant, underlying loneliness. Back home, I had my friends—my constants. Here, I’m still figuring things out, and it’s exhausting. Sometimes, I just want to hit the pause button and go home to recharge.

Oh, and classes? They’re a rollercoaster. Some faculty members are amazing; others… not so much. Let’s just say I’ve had my moments where I’ve wanted to smash a chalkboard over their heads. And don’t even get me started on the students who come to class just to be a nuisance. Like, if you’re not here to study, at least don’t make it harder for the rest of us.

But amidst all this chaos, I’ve found some genuinely good people. Without them, I’d probably be stuck with a bunch of immature kids pretending to be “cool.” So, yeah, college life is an experience, but sometimes, I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost that spark I used to have. I look back at the girl I was and wonder where she went—the girl who was so unapologetically herself, who loved hanging out with friends, and who lived every moment to the fullest.

It’s not easy starting over in a new environment, far from family and familiarity. But here’s the thing—I’m determined to find my way back to that girl. I’ve decided that 2025 is going to be my year. I’m going to take bigger, bolder steps. I want to rediscover myself, let go of the hesitation, and embrace life with open arms.

So, here’s to writing more, feeling more, and living more. It feels good to let all this out. Till next time.

I'm sorry, my love,

for you to witness

my haunting scars.

The scars you

didn't cause, yet you

feel them with me.

I know you've said,

you cherish them,

for each one

holds a story.

But some stories

are better left

unheard, and lack

If you're lucky enough to find

a girl who is a hopeless romantic

with a dirty mind,

you should hold onto that.

Because she’ll be yours at

two in the morning,

and at two in the afternoon

the following day.

She’ll kiss you where it hurts,

and until it hurts.

And that’s important.

Someone who not only knows

how to turn you on,

but also knows how to

treat you right

is someone worth

I’ve had a close friend for over a decade, and I’ve seen him go through various phases of life, witnessing his significant changes. Recently, over the past couple of months, I’ve noticed a considerable shift in his behavior, which became evident when he started making new friends at school. Honestly, I don’t mind him making new friends; it’s great to have many friends as long as they bring positivity and contribute to personal growth.

To lighten the atmosphere and address these issues, we went on a small trip organized by our school. I observed a significant change in his behavior towards me, even though he was generally polite. However, the way he treated me, perhaps unknowingly, was not acceptable. He was neglecting his long-time best friends for those he had met just a year ago.

While I don’t mind him forming new friendships, these new friends seem to have a negative influence on him, making him behave in an unlikable manner. He’s engaging in actions that don’t reflect the responsible person he should be. There are girls around him, and I’m not jealous of them, but they seem to be pretending to be someone they’re not. They are being insincere, trying to be something they can never truly be. These girls used to be individuals who didn’t seek attention, yet their natural charm drew everyone toward them.

I will keep hating her for the rest of my life.

“Moving on” for me is only a memory im trying to heal from a year but I’m unable to. It’s like I am happy but at looking her takes me back to the moments we cherished and we lived together, for me it triggers my past and I hate everyone who is participating accompanying her to traumatise me. She is someone who won’t haunt me down, but will keep on terrifying for the rest of my life. I am trying to escape from it and somehow people pull me back. She was literally my everything, I loved being with her, she was my fcuking goddam best friend and I can’t forget my pre-teenage years I enjoyed. She was my partner in crime and somehow was part of every second in my life during that time. She had our tops secrets together and for me she was a completely different vibe not gonna lie, she was the best I matched myself with and she was one I could really lie to my mom with.

Have you ever wondered how healthy relationships work? It’s a complex question because communication often plays a crucial role even in challenging situations. While I can’t speak for others, I’d like to share my personal experience:

It happened just yesterday when we had an accident. Both of us tumbled from our vehicle while he was attempting to answer his mom’s call. There was a significant pothole in the middle of the road that he tried to avoid. Simultaneously, I struggled with severe back pain that had plagued me for the past month. Unfortunately, he couldn’t steer clear of the pothole, and we ended up colliding with a divider at the side of the road. Once again, my right leg bore the brunt and got injured. However, this time, I managed to help him park the vehicle safely across the road to avoid obstructing traffic. While waiting, we searched for my phone and inspected the damage to our scooter.

Upon reaching home, I checked for injuries and surprisingly found only a minor scratch on my ankle. I assured him not to harbor any guilt since it was just an “accident” after all. He was burdened with guilt, remembering that when we had our first serious accident, he had promised it wouldn’t happen again. Yet, within five months, it did. At that moment, I remained calm, unsure of how to react. The incident had taken us by surprise, and although I felt a tad annoyed, I refrained from displaying it. It was disheartening how a day that had started so peacefully and joyfully was marred by this petty accident. He asked if I was okay, and I honestly assured him that I was. I didn’t want him to worry excessively, knowing that any reaction on my part would only intensify his guilt. I could sense his thoughts: “Am I truly worth it to her?” “Why does she want to stay with me?” “What will her mom think of me?”

My desire to stay with him stemmed from the belief that we could overcome anything and stand by each other. He’s been an incredible presence in my life, and I can’t bear to let him go. He’s my precious, my sweetheart, a constant source of positivity that I cherish.

Later that night, we engaged in a heartfelt conversation and established some ground rules. We recognized the importance of not taking our situation for granted. These ground rules serve as a reminder that we can’t simply let significant incidents slide. Instead, we need to approach them optimistically and learn from them to ensure they won’t be repeated. The consequences apply to both of us, and we’re committed to adhering to these rules until we’re certain we won’t make the same mistake again.

It isn’t easy to move on from someone you loved profoundly, knowing that person doesn’t comprehend the depth of your affection. Yes, I loved someone deeply, only to be hurt in the end. Despite the flaws others saw in him, I cherished everything about him. His ignorance somehow held an allure for me. I went blind in a one-sided relationship, hoping that one day our dreams would materialize, but none of them ever did. I was torn between believing he might have feelings for me too, but it was all a facade. Forever turned out to be an illusion. He disregarded my feelings, and I swear, no one will ever love him as intensely as I did. I gave him every signal, but he remained oblivious. I was like a green flag just for him, yet he took my emotions for granted.

I’ve never had an ex, but I’ve certainly experienced heartbreak. I gave my all, but he couldn’t reciprocate. He deemed my love immature, and so be it! At least it was pure and genuine, unlike you, who’s merely after fame. I allowed my heart to shatter into pieces multiple times, and he had the audacity to break it repeatedly, crushing it until he was satisfied. He consistently let me down, even though I always stood by him.

How can someone be so cruel as to repeatedly break another’s heart? It’s utterly maddening!

"Healing is messy." I understand that it has always been challenging for those of us who have gone through significant healing. Healing isn't just about moving on; sometimes it's also about learning to accept the life we've been thrust into. It's the life we may not want to live, but eventually, we must come to terms with it. I know it has been tough for all of us to navigate these phases where we may not fully grasp the effort required to hold everything together. Sometimes, we lose sight of the path we should be following during this process and unintentionally hurt the people we care about.

Another way to describe healing is as the genuine growth of your true self over time. During this journey, you realize that your assumptions about life are rarely accurate. You gradually acquire new knowledge because one doesn't wake up one morning as a completely "new" person. Growth is a gradual and, in its own way, beautiful process. You evolve into someone you will eventually fall in love with. However, this transformation doesn't happen overnight, and you don't become so different that you're unrecognizable.