It was raining, and I was late. My umbrella had snapped in the wind, and I stood at the bus stop soaked, frustrated, and on the verge of tears. That’s when she appeared—an older woman with a calm smile and a spare umbrella. She didn’t
For years, I shortened my name. I let people mispronounce it, reshape it, dilute it. I told myself it was easier—to fit in, to avoid awkward corrections, to be accepted. But every time I heard the wrong version, something inside me winced. My name wasn’t
I used to fear silence. It felt like a void—an empty space where my thoughts grew louder and my insecurities echoed. I filled my days with noise: music, conversations, endless scrolling. Anything to avoid being alone with myself. But after a burnout that left me