“Stories have always been my hiding place.”

I was the kid who filled entire notebooks with sad quotes and tragic little dialogues, convinced that melancholy was the highest art form—and who got away with reading past bedtime without ever being caught. Essays in exams were my chance to sneak in whole short stories, messy handwriting and all, because my ideas were endless.

Now, I write surrounded by three mischievous cats who insist on climbing across my laptop, endless cups of tea, sad playlists that help me feel everything, and a blanket I refuse to let go of because I’m always cold.

I write for the ones who stay up too late thinking about everything they didn’t say, for the ones who’ve ever felt too heavy for their own heart—and, in the end, for me too.