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I am not the person
who walks into love so easily.
It takes me years,
six of them,
after my first heartbreak,
to even open that door again.

And when I did,
it lasted six months.
Six months of hope,
and then silence,
because he wasn’t ready
to stand up for me.

So, I left.
Left Delhi.
Left the noise, the whispers,
the weight of eyes
that always had something to say.
I went to Mumbai,
not to escape,
but to breathe.
To think.
To heal what was left of me.

But they said I ran.
Ran from problems,
from people,
from truth.
Funny how choosing peace
is called running away.

I built myself again in that city.
Worked hard,
thrived,
stood on my own feet.
I was inches from a promotion,
until I came back,
for family,
for love.
And still,
they said I ran.

Does choosing your mental health
mean running?
Does saving yourself
mean surrendering?

Then came him.
A friend’s friend.
A light in my quiet city.
He made me feel like I was his world,
and for a while,
I believed it.
But love has layers,
and when you peel them,
you see truth,
raw, uneven,
sometimes cruel.

I was his world,
until one day he believed
he was just my punching bag.

I never shared much before.
I carried my pain
like folded letters
in a locked drawer.
But he made me speak,
made me open,
made me trust.
And then,
those words were used against me.

I became the girl who ran away.
The angry one.
The one who never listens.
The one who says too much
when she’s mad.

Yes, I get angry.
I have fire,
but I’ve learnt to live with it.
It used to burn me,
now it burns bridges.
And still,
I never meant to hurt.

But to him,
I’m selfish.
Two-faced.
Changing colours like a chameleon
trying to blend into love.

Isn’t it cruel,
that the person
who once felt like home
can now make your heart ache
in your own house?

I spoke in anger.
He threw the same words back.
But somehow,
I became the villain.
The one who destroyed
what I was trying to save.

He says he’ll stay,
but he won’t feel.
How do you stay
with someone
who shuts the door on his heart
but keeps you standing
on the other side?

Maybe I was wrong
to love again too soon.
Maybe I mistook comfort
for connection.
But he felt safe,
like home,
like finally,
I didn’t have to fight to belong.

Now, I’m tired.
Tired of explaining.
Tired of being misunderstood.
Tired of being called
what I am not.

I didn’t needed a solution.
I just needed someone to listen.
To sit beside me
without turning my pain
into a debate.

I’ve never used someone’s scars
as weapons,
but somehow,
mine are always fair game.

Maybe this is life,
loving, losing, learning.
Maybe this is strength,
to keep standing
when everyone says
you ran away.

Because I didn’t.
I never ran.
I simply chose
to walk toward myself again.

Things are constantly changing, and the hectic office life can be a bit stressful, but this much daily travel is now like me having no spare time for myself. And why so? Because I have to travel to the office for around five and a half hours daily, and then back home. This travel is somehow good for me because it keeps my mind away from overthinking like everything, but then on the other hand, it makes me tired like fuck.

I get to pause my thinking, I get to be calm… but with a tired ass.

Then the daily dispute on the metro. I hate travelling through it; people don’t leave any space. As a writer, I have to be a people person, and I am… but that depends on my mood. I can’t entertain anyone after the hectic office life, and we have to wait for the metro station from the office. Because guess what? The mere distance, overloaded with traffic, which usually takes around 20 minutes to commute from office to Huda City Centre, takes me around 30 to 45 minutes after office, just because of traffic. And then, yes, I can spend on rapidos for some time only… because it is fucking expensive.

By the time I step out of the office, it’s like the whole city has decided to move at once. The air smells of dust, exhaust fumes, and that faint burnt smell from food carts cooking roadside pakoras. My ears are already ringing from honks layered over each other, drivers leaning out of windows shouting at no one in particular, and the occasional blaring siren slicing through the chaos. I speed-walk to the station because I know if I miss that one train, the next will be more packed than a jar of pickles.

The metro ride itself feels like being packed into a moving box of human noise. Someone’s phone is blasting a reel on full volume, another person is talking on a call like they’re auditioning for a megaphone job, and there’s always that one stranger who somehow manages to step on your shoe and elbow you in the ribs in the same motion. My bag digs into my shoulder, my legs ache from standing, and the smell of sweat, damp clothes, and perfume fighting for dominance clings to the air.

When I finally get a seat, it’s like winning the lottery. My shoulders drop, my grip on the pole loosens, and I can finally put my headphones in to drown out the chaos. Sometimes my playlist syncs perfectly with the ride, a slow song as the train glides through an empty stretch, a beat drop just as we rush into a dark tunnel. I forget I’m in a crowd and just… breathe for a few minutes.

But most days, when I reach home, my body feels like a sack of bricks. My brain is too tired to think, my stomach is running on just water, and my patience for human interaction is down to zero. I scroll aimlessly through my phone, not even processing half of what I see, and then it’s suddenly midnight and I’m setting alarms to do it all over again.

And yet, there are rare moments that keep me going, catching a sunset from the metro window, feeling a cool breeze at an open platform after a humid day, overhearing a stranger’s funny conversation that makes me chuckle. Those moments feel like tiny life rafts in an ocean of exhaustion.

I tell myself it’s temporary. That by September, I’ll have my evenings back, my weekends will feel like weekends again, and I won’t have to measure my life in train stops and traffic signals. But until then, I’m here, surviving on coffee, music, and the stubborn hope that this commute will just be a story I tell one day.

In the calmness of evening touch,
Where shadows move and whispers hush,
A cold wind is carrying all the secrets,
Through trees and land that stand for years.

Stars are twinkling bright,
Painting stories in the dark sky,
Each star is telling a different tale, 
Thousands of stories appear in the night sky.

Some heard the laughter,
Some witnessed the cries,
Some are still finding the beginning,
And some are lost in the ending.

But the moonlight shines with a gentle beam,
Guiding us in our sweet dreams,
A place where magic seems true,
The silence of the night makes it real.

Singing rivers and dancing trees,
Under the moon's watchful eyes, 
Time passes, as it moves, 
Making the night peaceful.

Let's stay here, in a dreamy space,
Where whispers find their place,
Here, the darkness is so bright,
So, let's admire the beauty of this night.