#shivanwrites

But now? I'm tired.

First, I don’t wanna run anymore. I don’t wanna see another hyper-competent, hyper-responsible woman who has to do everything while the world barely keeps up. Hermione had to be the brains of the trio while Ron and Harry bumbled through life. Elle Woods had to prove she was worthy of Harvard just because she liked pink. Kiran Mazumdar-Shaw had to fight for credibility in biotech because investors didn’t take a woman in science and business seriously. The pressure, the expectations, the constant need to prove yourself—it’s exhausting. I want softness. I want mess. I want to exist without having to conquer.

Second, even if I still want to see women in media, let them be girlfailures. Give me Fleabag, give me Shiv Roy, give me Maddy Perez, give me Devi Vishwakumar, give me girls who are deeply flawed, selfish, struggling, making terrible choices, crying in the bathroom, ruining their own lives and still being worth watching. Let them be disasters and still be loved. Let them breathe.

there are two sorts of people you come across when you talk about your problems. first, the ones who listen. they are nice, they are cool, they either try to understand or simply don’t care, which is also fine. we like them.

then there are the talkers. now, these are tricky people because they come in three types.

first, the rare gems—the ones who empathize with you, acknowledge your problem, maybe even help find a solution. perfection. we love them.

then comes the second type: the me talkers. no matter what you were saying, whether they were even part of the conversation, they will make it about themselves. they must insert their cheap two cents, even when nobody asked.

and finally, the worst of the worst—the dismissers. the ones who hear your problem only to tell you why it’s not a problem. why it’s your surroundings, your mindset, your perception. why they, personally, are totally fine with it—so clearly, it’s not an issue.

I carry it inside me—this hate, a storm caged beneath my skin, its thunder pressing against my ribs, its fire curling deep within.

I do not let it spill or lash, do not let it poison the air, so it seeps into my marrow, festering, sinking, rotting there.

Maybe it stains the blood that flows, maybe it blackens part of my soul, a quiet ruin, a slow collapse, a hunger I cannot console.

But I do not let it touch the world, do not let it set hearts ablaze, for once unleashed, I know too well, there’d be no way to cage the flames.

So it stays—a shadowed wound, a ghost I cannot name, silent, unseen, a quiet decay, that only I will claim.