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May you always find your way home

  May your home always feel like home, so that you never need to take shelter in the cracks— and when you do, may you grow like a wallflower, quiet and intentional, not like a weed fighting for a place that was never meant for you. May you never confuse noise for belonging, or attention for love. May you never sit in a bus with teary eyes, watching familiar streets blur into something distant, wishing you didn’t have to leave at all. May a completely new and strange path never feel kinder than the road that leads you home. And when things grow heavier than your hands can hold, may you always have somewhere to set them down— a place, a person, a pause that does not ask you to be strong all the time. May you never have to carry storms alone, and if you ever find yourself drenched in one, may there be a shelter that opens without hesitation, without conditions, without making you feel like you owe your survival to it. May you never have to choose escape over return, never find comfort...
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Why me?

 Why Me? “Why me?”   It’s a quiet question at first. A whisper we throw into the universe when things don’t make sense. Lately, though, it has stopped being a whisper for me. It has become a question that visits too often. In fact, it was the only thought running through my mind a few days ago while I was lying on the cold floor of my hostel room—almost unconscious—for nearly two hours. The ceiling above me looked strangely still, like time had paused just to watch me figure something out. Before I go any further, let me tell you a small, ironic detail about me. I am a final-year MBBS student. Someone who is expected to stand calmly in front of blood, needles, procedures, emergencies—the things most people look away from. And yet, I am still terrified of blood and needles. A medical student who almost faints at the sight of them. Life has a strange sense of humour. Because lately, I’ve had to undergo a few procedures myself. And every time a needle comes closer, every time I s...
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3 am is a different city

  3 A.M. Is a Different City A month ago I was in another city, and somehow another version of myself. New Year’s night. Streets glowing. My best friend next to me. We were tipsy, loud, dramatic about nothing. The kind of happy that feels cinematic. Surrounded by people I love. Music spilling into the roads. The year beginning like it owed me something beautiful.I remember thinking — this is the life I’ll talk about later. Then college fest happened. I participated without planning to. It was messy and unexpected and strangely perfect. I fixed my schedule. I started studying seriously. I felt like I was finally syncing with my own rhythm. And now it’s 3 a.m. The city outside is asleep. My room feels unfamiliar in the dark. My hand is wrapped, stiff, inconvenient. Not tragic. Just there. A constant reminder that things can shift without asking you first. I’m not brave about it. I’m not poetic about it. I’m just… alone with it. There’s something strange about how fast joy ev...
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Where do all the misfits go?

  Where Do All the Misfits Go? So here's a theory - all the misfits are the aliens from the outer planets , their spaceship crashed into muggles world and they are yet in search of some portal which will lead to their own warm and sunny world where shadows are lighter in colour, where air is thinner and less suffocating , where sun doesn't interrogate , where there is no "why" and no questions on staring too long at empty sky.  Where do all the misfits go? We line the rooms in quiet rows, like background chairs , like borrowed air, like ghosts that learned to pose. We sit where laughter passes through, never asked, but always there, smiling in the proper places, folding feelings into prayer. The walls are quieter than they seem — they hold the words we never say, every almost, every maybe, every time we turned away. Our voices shrink to fit the space, our edges filed, our colors low, we master how to take up less until there’s barely us to show. ...
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