Hello, there!

  When the stars gazed back at us,  it was not about beginnings; it was about recognition. About that rare, almost fleeting moment when the universe did not feel distant or indifferent, but attentive, almost complicit. ;) I woke up remembering you, All your words, old and new. Of dreams I hold of lands unseen, As if your name’s the hum I’ve known, your face the only thing I’ve seen. Even the sun bears your name,  Without you, rain feels strangely tame. They may call me mad, broken, or even wrongly built, I’d still reduce to dust all that may keep us apart, without remorse or even a speck of guilt. You and me, we took an oath, To be each other’s home through misery and gloat. If I were to do it all over again, I would, of course, I would, Wouldn't change a thing even if I could. I’ve held you through your sin, you’ve seen me through my crime Miles and miles I’ve carried all your shadows; you have borne witness to mine.  Across all lives, though you forg...

Khaama-khaayii kaisi ye  aadat , Chalo maana jaayaz tumhari shiqayat. Kabhi baaton ka rang udh jaaye, kabhi khamoshi ruk jaaye, Dil ke pardon ke beech koi purani dhoop thodi der tik jaaye. Kabhi tumhari parwah hawa ki tarah aakar guzri, par kaha nahi, Jhaank ke jab tumne apne dill ko dhoonda, tumhe vo mere paas mila, vahan nahi. Masle toh the, par jaise sirhaane se khud hi phisal gaye, Sargoshii ke taar bhi ek din be-sabab sisak gaye. Mohabbat nahi, par ek narm si hasrat tumhari reh gayi, Guftugu nahi, par ek halki si mehfil dil mein beh gayi. Sabr aur khair tera aqsar kare zikr, Qissa na bhi sunau intezaar ka, mujhe phir bhi rahegi thodi fikr. Na hi jaan aur na koi pehchaan, toh bewajah yeh kaisi shiqayat? Fitoor mera tum toh nahi, phir bhi kaisi ye  aadat ?

Maybe the mind is just a lantern, swinging on some invisible thread, casting light on shapes it half-remembers and half-invents so the heart won’t go dark. Maybe this man, with his crooked smile and watch set a few seconds faster, is far less a person and more an idea the universe borrowed from a dozen tiny places: a character in a book, a stranger in a café, a line from a song you once hummed without knowing why. And maybe that’s alright. “Get out, get out of my head,” she almost whispered into the pillow, the words breaking somewhere between plea and command.  “Why do you want him to get out?” the therapist asked gently, voice a careful weight that didn’t disturb the stillness. She leaned forward just a fraction, the faintest smile softening her eyes. “There isn’t anything to be scared of, just a flicker of your imagination shining brighter on a Wednesday, as long as we can talk about it.” The room exhaled calm. White walls softened by amber lamplight. A low bookshelf with a scat...

It’s a love language built from quiet conspiracies, keeping someone’s bookmark but returning their books, fingers intertwined while glaring at a painting of Mount Etna in some forgotten gallery in the south of Wales, slipping folded notes into the spine of a John le Carré novel.  It’s leaving a pressed wildflower between borrowed pages and saying nothing, standing shoulder to shoulder on a night railway platform until the last train pulls away and your hands finally find each other, softly debating which café chair has the better view and trading places halfway through. It’s sharing music on a tiny USB drive instead of a link, tracing secret shapes on each other’s palms while pretending to study a museum map, leaving cryptic sticky notes on coffee cups, walking an unfamiliar city under one half-soaked umbrella. It’s mapping constellations with your fingertip on their wrist beneath a quiet sky, tucking a single printed photograph into the lining of their coat. A romance stitched tog...

There’s a story I’ve been carrying inside me for a while. Not a plot line or a pitch, but something else, something that feels like memory but also like myth. And it’s not about love, not the kind we usually talk about. It’s about Time . Yes, Time . That ever-present, slightly dramatic character that haunts everyone’s calendars, under-eyes, and birthday cake candles. Except in this story, Time isn’t a villain. It’s.. well. It’s something closer to God. And this girl I’m going to be telling you about, let’s just say she wasn’t born for chasing trends or hurrying through moments. She was more of a dusty piano in a world obsessed with bluetooth speakers. A little out of place, a little out of sync, but stubbornly intact. This story isn’t a love story in the classic sense. There are no stolen glances or sweeping gestures. But it’s still about love - the strange, slow kind. The sort that grows without asking. The sort that isn’t always easy to see, until one day, you realise it’s be...

It was the kind of afternoon that made time hesitate. The garden lay suspended in a hush, as if the world had exhaled and decided to stay that way for a while. Trees, tall and gnarled with age, stood cloaked in saffron light, their leaves turning shades of burnt amber and rust.  Somewhere in the center of it all, under a wooden pergola wrapped in ivy and old, sleeping roses, a swing creaked ever so gently. A boy sat there, legs curled, back slightly hunched, lost in the pages of a book so worn it looked like it had belonged to generations before him. Sunlight filtered through the latticed branches overhead, dappling his face with moving gold. His fingers occasionally paused on a line, not to turn the page, but to feel the weight of a word. A woolen shawl hung loosely around his shoulders, and next to him lay a steaming cup of something that smelled faintly of cardamom and crushed cloves. Beyond the garden, faint outlines of mountains watched in silence, draped in a gentle haze that...

I’ve lived in the mountains. Not visited or passed through or stayed for the season, but truly lived where the trees remember more than people do. Woken up to the sound of silence so complete it felt like the earth was pausing to listen. There is something there, something you don’t quite see but always feel. It creeps into your bones no matter the weather, snow or sun, and settles behind your ribs like a secret. The place doesn’t try to impress you. It doesn’t perform. It just exists with such quiet magnitude that you can’t help but feel watched. Not in a fearful way, but in a way that makes you soften, makes you smaller in the most honest sense. You don’t live on a mountain. You live inside it. And some nights, if you’re still enough, you can almost hear it breathing.