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I’ve often been told that boys and girls can be the best of friends. I’ve seen people proudly declare, “She’s my girl best friend” or “He’s my boy best friend,” as if that title in itself is a badge of purity, trust, and balance. But every time I come across these stories, something inside me resists believing it. It’s not that I’m cynical about relationships or friendships. It’s just that, from where I stand, the line between a friendship and something more always feels too thin, too fragile. At some point, one of them either feels more than the other, or the person who is truly in a relationship with one of them begins to feel uncomfortable with the closeness. And then? Something breaks. Sometimes the friendship, sometimes the love, sometimes both. I’ve seen it happen in different ways. A girl who swears by her “guy best friend” ends up choosing between her boyfriend and her best friend when things get serious. A boy who promises his girlfriend that his friendship with another girl i...

People say I always give her the benefit of doubt. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I do. But sometimes, when I sit with my thoughts, I wonder if it’s less about her and more about me. I don’t think she was ever really wrong. Maybe she was just being herself. Maybe she never meant half the things I thought she meant. Maybe I read too much into her words, her pauses, her silences. Maybe I picked up on signals that weren’t even there. It’s possible that I was just another person in her world. One of many. But in my head, I made it bigger. I gave it more weight. I assigned meaning where there was probably none. And then when people ask me why I don’t stop talking to her, why I don’t distance myself, I don’t know what to say. Because it’s not really about caring for her. It’s about me. That’s just who I am. I don’t like cutting people off. I don’t like holding grudges. I can’t bring myself to treat someone coldly, even when it feels easier to do so. It’s not because I’m clinging. It’s not be...

There comes a point in life where you stop hoping people will see your worth—and you start demanding it. I’ve reached that point. I’ve spent too many years being the one who stays. The one who understands without being understood. The one who listens even when no one asks how I’m doing. The one who forgives not once, not twice, but every time—because I believed in the good, even when it was buried under excuses and silence. But you know what that does to a person? It wears them down. It makes them question if love is supposed to feel like endurance. Like sacrifice. Like slowly fading away just to keep someone else lit. And I’m done with that version of love. I’m done being the sanctuary people run to when their world falls apart—only to leave me the moment they’re whole again. I’m not a pit stop for people in transition. I’m not here to teach you how to love so you can give it to someone else. I’ve earned my scars. I’ve cried alone in rooms full of people. I’ve smiled while breaking in...

They say you have to try. Try harder. Try everywhere. Search for her in clubs, cafés, apps, friend circles, airports, bookstores, even in the unlikeliest places. They say  she won’t come knocking at your door .  She won’t find you. You have to find her. But here’s the truth— I don’t know where to go. Where do you even begin searching for someone you haven’t met yet, someone you wouldn’t even recognize until your heart says, “There… that’s her”? It might sound dramatic. Maybe even foolish in today’s world of endless swipes and likes. But I believe in something else— Something slower. Something real. I believe in crossing paths. Not chasing. I want to meet her like you meet rain unexpectedly on a sunny day. Like two people missing their buses, sitting on the same bench for five minutes too long. Like two souls walking opposite directions but turning around at the same moment—without planning it, without expecting it. I want that eye contact where a thousand questions are asked a...

There’s a different kind of power in walking into a room full of people who hate you… and still owning it. I’ve felt it. That tension. That subtle shift in energy when I enter. The whispers suddenly turn into pin-drop silence. Eyes dart away. Smirks fade. Some pretend to scroll their phones, others suddenly become “too busy” in meaningless conversations. You can feel their judgment, their insecurities disguised as opinions, their gossip masquerading as truth. But the best part? They never say a word to my face. Call me crazy, but there’s a certain thrill in it — standing tall in a room where most want to see you fall, and still being the one they can’t compete with. They don’t like my confidence? Tough. They think I’m too loud, too real, too direct? Good. Because I’d rather be hated for who I am than be liked for a fake version of me that keeps everyone comfortable. People say,  “They’re talking about you behind your back.” And I say,  “Let them.” They only do it behind my bac...

A friend once told me something that has stayed with me — not because I agreed, but because it made me question what we’ve normalized in the name of modern love. He said, “Kamal ka phool toh kichad mein hi khilta hai, bhai.” And what he meant was even more disappointing —  “If you want to find someone amazing, you have to go through the dirt. Go out, flirt, party, club, date many… only then you’ll find the one.” I smiled back then. But honestly, I wanted to tell him —  mujhe Kamal ka phool nahi chahiye, agar uske liye mujhe kichad mein utarna pade. I’m not here to clean myself off someone else’s mess. I’m not here to collect heartbreaks as experience. I’m not here to normalize disloyalty in the name of “trial and error.” I’m not a beta version of someone figuring out what they want. I’m the final version. And I’m looking for someone who knows how to love like it’s their only job. You can call me old-school, but I don’t want a love that comes with scars from a thousand casual f...