“They are burning all the witches, even if you aren’t one

They got pitchforks, and proofs, they don’t need their reasons

So light me up, light me up, light me up, go ahead and light me up…”

– I did something bad (Reputation, 2017, Taylor Swift)

You’d probably think I’ve lived a hundred different lives based on the sheer volume of blog posts I write daily. If you ever scrolled through my Notes app, you’d assume I have an innate flair for dramatic storytelling.

Now, while my life might not be “full” in the traditional sense, it has certainly been full of drama—and filled with dramatic people who love to accuse me of “exaggerating.”

“I swear I don’t love the drama, it loves me!”

— Endgame (Reputation, 2017, Taylor Swift)

Anyone who knows me knows that my personality is essentially a chaotic amalgamation of sitcom quotes, pop lyrics, and a million Taylor Swift interviews. I might cry over something trivial, and I might be genuinely heartbroken when “friends” say derogatory things about me behind my back… but I will always bounce back.

And frankly? I don’t give a single fuck if someone thinks I “exaggerate,” “lie,” or “manipulate” to get my way. Surprisingly enough, the people who throw those words around are usually the biggest manipulators I’ve ever met—classic wolves in sheep’s clothing.

Right about now, you’re probably wondering: Why is she rambling about this? What went wrong? Who hurt her?

This is where my borrowed Taylor Swift personality traits start to make a lot more sense.

Anyone who follows pop culture even casually knows about the whole Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber saga. We all have our takes. But Taylor’s stance was crystal clear. When asked about Justin in a post-awards interview after one of their breakups, her entire reaction was just a classic eye roll, a heavy “UGH!”, and a sharp “Next question.”

Her priority was her best friend, her sister, her lifeline—not some guy who had the potential to hurt her. (And before anyone jumps down my throat: this isn’t a hot take, just an observation. As a girl’s girl myself, I’ve rarely liked my best friends’ men, and the feeling has usually been mutual.)

That interview was core-memory material, and I realized just how much it stuck with me last night.

A little someone from my tertiary circle (or honestly, an even farther orbit) told one of my closest people that I am “all about exaggeration.” Why? Because I shared a simple story about someone I knew through him, and the details got a little blurry on who did what to whom.

When it eventually got back to me—because of course it did—my reaction was an instant eye-roll and a heavy UGH. What else is new? Just another cheapskate wannabe who decided to hate me.

Here’s the thing: if you dislike me, simply stop existing in my orbit and stop keeping me in yours. With very few exceptions, I genuinely do not care who stays and who goes. I have zero time for two-faced energy—people who ask the thief to steal and then run to report it to the police. Grow a spine for heaven’s sake, and have the courage to confront people directly.

Besides, watching people audit my life and police how I tell my own stories has made two specific moments live rent-free in my mind—and they have practically become my life philosophy.

First, that iconic moment in the Miss Americana documentary where Taylor just bursts out laughing at the sheer absurdity of someone trying to micromanage her:

“Sorry, was I being loud? In my own house? That I bought? With the songs I wrote? About my own life?” (Miss Americana, January 2020)

That response blew my mind because… exactly. The audacity of people telling you that you’re “too much” in a narrative that you are living and creating? It’s comical. I’m writing from my own experience, in my own space, and you’re mad that I’m taking up room? Please.

And second, that legendary speech where she broke down the endless, unwinnable moving target of public commentary:

“They say I’m dating too much? Okay, fine, I’ll stop dating and just hang out with my female friends. Oh, now that’s a calculated girl gang strategy? Okay, fine, no one will see me for a year…” ((Billboard Woman of the Decade award acceptance speech of Taylor Swift, December, 2019)

It made me realize that when people decide to misinterpret you, you will lose no matter what move you make.

• If you express your feelings, you’re “dramatic.”
• If you tell a story with passion, you’re “exaggerating.”
• If you set boundaries and walk away, you’re “calculating.”

When you realize that the goalposts will always shift depending on who is trying to tear you down, you stop running toward them. You stop trying to explain yourself to an audience that was only ever looking for a flaw in the performance.

So, why is this blog titled “Sorry, Not Sorry”?

Because for a brief second, the polite, conflict-averse part of me—the part trained to keep the peace—thought about softening the edges. Thought about saying, “Oh, maybe I should clarify,” or “Maybe I shouldn’t take up so much space.”

Then I remembered who I am.

• Sorry that my life doesn’t fit into your sanitized, boring narrative where everyone speaks in polite whispers and pretends to care.
• Sorry that I tell stories with passion, love with intensity, and refuse to play small just to make petty people comfortable.
• Sorry that I curate my inner circle with ruthless precision—if you’re not in it, your opinion carries the exact weight of a skipped ad on YouTube.

…But NOT SORRY for living out loud. NOT SORRY for rolling my eyes, hitting “next question,” and saving my energy strictly for the people who actually ground me.

At the end of the day, my life isn’t a courtroom, and I’m not standing trial for background extras. You call it drama; I call it living with flavor. You call it exaggeration; I call it good storytelling. Sure, I might cry a lot over the messiness of it all—“I cry a lot, but I am so productive, it’s an art.”

I write my stories, process my emotions, build my life, and still manage to turn out post after post while you’re sitting back watching.

So to the tertiary circle, the whisperers, and the side-character spectators trying to grade my life performance from the cheap seats: keep talking. You’re just giving me great material for the next entry.

And honestly? Ugh… try and come for my job!

“People always

Trying to escape it

Move on to stop their heart breaking

But there’s nothing I’m running from”

– Strong (Midnight Memories), One Direction, 2013

Two days ago, I hit up my best friend on WhatsApp and ranted about everything under the Sun. How beauty is all about physical features and not the way a person makes someone feel, how tarot readings and FYPs have fucked us up and made us stay in situations longer that we ideally would have, how amazingly extraordinary it is for two people to feel the exact same way, to fall in love with each other at the same time…you know it was “the talk”. The girlies who are reading this knows exactly what I am trying to convey. It’s the call you make when nothing makes sense- at the end of the call maybe it still doesn’t (most probably you are even more confused as to what to do) but you feel a 100 times lighter. Anyway, this is not a blog post to talk about girlfriend rituals of pillow fights and 3 hour long calls and every other thing that make it so much special. I want to talk about something else.

During the call I had on Saturday with my best friend, I was very clearly and understandably pissed off with someone. I hated his guts, ranted about him for 30 minutes and then made a promise to my girlie pop that I will go back to my 2016-2020 self. Why? Because I felt was stronger back then.

The first time I fell in love was the winter of 2016. The feeling was surreal, believe me. The story? Not so much. We knew each other since junior school and then reunited in high school- fell in love. But that was it I guess. I fell in love. My folks got to know- all hell broke loose (I mean understandable, given that the guy was not the best fit for me) and I was banned from talking to him, being seen with him (they might as well have gone as far as saying, his shadow should not fall on you- thank the lord that they didn’t). I cried. And cried. And cried. And then I just stopped talking to him. I would go to my tuitions, sit in the same room, a hand or two’s distance away and I would not as much as look at him. He ceased to exist for me. I did not so much as flinch at the sound of his name. It was like we never even happened.

This is the person I told my best friend I will become again. That my 2026 self was very weak, brittle if you will, the one who crumbles just at the mention of a name, the whiff of a perfume, the slightest hint of a familiar tune. Two days ago, 12 hours ago as well, I hated the person I have become. The one who wears her heart on her sleeve. The one who cries herself to sleep, takes an oath that this is the last time she does this for someone as absent, the one who has written more than a thousand words about him and has repeatedly told herself “this is the last time I weave you into my words and let it bleed on my pages”, only to find herself writing about him again, a few hours later. The one who actually, kind of, manifested this person into existence since 5 years ago. My 2017 self would have moved on easy. But then, I remembered something one of my most favourite sitcom character, Ted Mosby, once said:

“Actually, there is a word for that. It’s love. I’m in love with her,(or him) okay? If you’re looking for the word that means caring for someone beyond all rationality and wanting them to have everything they want no matter how much it destroys you, it’s love. And when you love someone you just, you… you don’t stop, ever. Even when people roll their eyes, and call you crazy. Even then. Especially then. You just — you don’t give up. Because if I could just give up… if I could just, you know, take the whole world’s advice and — and move on and find someone else, that wouldn’t be love. That would be… that would be some other disposable thing that is not worth fighting for.”

That’s it. That’s all it took for me to embrace the person that I have become. The 2017 me was never in love. Nor was the 2021 me. It was more of an infatuation, a crush that lasted longer than expected. It remained because it was convenient. It remained because the situation presented itself in a way where them staying in my life was a better reality to be a part of. But it was never love. I don’t think I ever felt what love is until some time last year.

I was taken aback by how much someone’s mere existence or absence affected me. I will be honest, initially it did seem like I was feeling exactly how I felt the first time or even the second. But that was not the case at all.

This was different. I stopped in my tracks the first time I saw this person. It was like high school me all over again who did not know that she would ever develop a crush for the guy on the swim team. Or the University girl ,who would fall for the athlete. I might as well go as far as saying that I might have felt what it is to have a real life crush that makes you go all giggly and girly and purr like a kitten at the age of 27. My crushes up until this point were movie stars, singers, sportspersons- basically people who were not tangible for me. But this man right here was standing in front of me, merely steps away and was very tangible (iykyk).

Slowly, the initial spark deepened, and the red turned to a rich, permanent crimson. Suddenly, there was no inconvenience big enough to pull me away, no mistakes heavy enough to make me doubt, and no amount of time spent losing myself in those caffeine eyes or singing like carefree kids in the car was ever enough to satiate what I needed. It hit me all at once: this was the heavy, breathtaking feeling that people have spent centuries writing songs about. This was the exact, elusive person I had been dreaming up and tracing into the margins of my notebooks since I was a fifteen-year-old kid. I was finally standing inside the kind of love that the great rom-coms of our time are built upon—something larger than life, yet entirely real.

Because with him, the old rules just didn’t apply. I realized it because even when I was completely fuming and wanted to tell him off—and I did—I couldn’t just sit on my bed with my ego as high as the Eiffel Tower. In the past, pride was my armor; I would have gone completely cold and felt like I won. But with him, the armor melted. Instead of nursing my anger, I would sit and stare at the sky, trying to come up with ways to apologize, wondering if he wanted me back to talking to him. So I would retreat, staying in my own cocoon, realizing that being vulnerable with him was better than being right. I felt relaxed around him, not performative. I didn’t have to play a part or hide the messy pieces of who I am. I could just be me, even if he doesn’t fall in love with me the rom-com way of looking at me do my own thing.

And the weird part is, even when I kept battling away and trying to force myself to walk away, the Universe, a higher power, or someone just kept bringing him back to my life. It was as if every time I tried to close the door, reality found a way to kick it back open. I went out on dates, trying desperately to find a distraction or a fresh start, but they failed miserably because no one else could match the quiet gravity of what he brought into my world. And then, right when I thought I had finally built up enough distance, there he was—after three weeks of no contact—standing right there at my door by some weird happenstance.

You’ve made this far on my blog post? You must really like it <3. Subscribe maybe? 

That’s exactly what Ted Mosby was talking about. You don’t give up on the person you love because the going got rough. And I don’t want to. No matter the bloodshed, the hours spent crying (although, Universe, if you’re listening, I think it’s time to show me that it gets real good now. I believe it’s time to make it happen and give your bravest soldier that you have trained the entirety of the last decade a respite and fulfil her wish). I know, I know everywhere there’s chants of love is meant to be easy. And while that is true, love also requires work and patience and falling down and breaking and building back up. So no I am not giving up. Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to. I love you in the darkest of your times. I love you completely, wildly, inconveniently, and eternally. 

I don’t want to be my 2017 self anymore, because I don’t want to not feel in love. I refuse to trade the depth of what I feel now for the safety of a numb heart. I haven’t been able to move on—by happenstance or by choice—because this is different. This is not obsession. Not infatuation. Not limerence.

Just plain, old love.

The one thing you build everything for. The one thing you change trajectories for. The one thing you can give up everything for.

Hey bestie, I am so sorry that I am gonna break this promise. But I guess you knew that already right? Looks like this topic isn’t going away any time soon. Oh and yeah I know you hate me for this. XOXO. 

Your love is the dagger I keep in me

In it’s sweet pain piercing through me 

     My heart. 

                 My gut.  

          My limbs. 

My body. 

And I bleed. Ever so slightly now. 

Drip. 

        Drip. 

                Drip. 

The blood, it clots. 

I try taking it out. The unbearable pain of my flesh tearing. 

Why to feel this excruciating pain when I can keep the sweet pain of “almost”? 

    My almost love story. 

My almost lover. 

                     My almost forever. 

                                                   My almost home. 

I scatter. 

            And look up to you in prayer. 

The pain now a vine wrapping me like your hands should have. 

The pain is comfort. The pain is the air I breathe. 

The dagger in me is shaped like you. 

                                  the dagger no longer turns. It sits there; a throbbing pain.

I find no end to this. I have to. Or do I? 

We ask “maybe in another life?” with trembling voice.

And hear a faint “yes” from the person in front.

But what if this was it?

This was the last life where we found each other?

And you never held my hand, again?

What if throughout every timeline the Universe conspired us to meet?

What if it made sure we were everything for each other in every life?

What if the Universe made me confess to you how much I love you again and again?

And what if every time you turned your blind eye saying I’m not the one you want?

What if you are right and I’m not the one you want?

But what would you do if I am the one you need? To fight the demons that live in you?

And I’m long gone. What would you do if tomorrow you wake up and you cannot find me again?

Will you break down at my grave and let me know how you love me?

Even then, I will try and reach out to you. But I can’t haunt you. So I will stop my soul. From letting you know that I love you too. Still.

Will you move on? Will you be able to? Or will you finally realise how much you loved me too? And wish that we had more time?

Will you decorate the grave of “us” with my favourite flowers?

Will you pray for another life just to find me again? Will you promise to love me back in the next life then?

And if the Universe grants you the wish, will you find me again? Will you remember to love me? Or will you let me go again?

What will you do, love?

---

1. The Line That Stayed

A couple days back I read these two lines somewhere. I have tried to remember it but can’t really put a pin on it. Anyway, the line goes,

“I’m good at lying
I learn that from you”

No jargons. No difficult emotions. Just some simple words strung together to mean something devastating. Did the person who wrote it think that this line can stir feelings in a person? Let alone make her write something of her own? Maybe they did. Sometimes the blue curtain is a metaphor for the writer’s depressive symptoms.

Anyway, I noted down these lines almost 5 days ago on my notes app and forgot all about it. Then yesterday I read it all of a sudden and I could not think of anything other than how we all lie about how we feel about someone just to make sure we don’t mess up what we already have going on. We gulp down our feelings with vodka (well it’s whiskey or tonics in my case), we turn a blind eye to the stolen glances, pictures taken amidst all the chaos, the smile, the soft eyes, the smirks etc. Basically we LIE. Again. And again. And again. Till either of the two things end up happening: either you remain in the status quo or one of you ends up in a situation where you just articulate how you feel in a moment of acute anger. Either way, you destroy something. The first option destroys the two of you. The second? Well, the second ruins the friendship.

“I’m good at lying
I learn that from you”

---

2. The Fear of Ruining It

This line stirred something in me. Ever since I read these two lines one phrase has been going in circles in my head. “Ruin the friendship”. Just that. Just those three words. I cannot help but wonder how many people are currently thinking about the same thing. Weighing their options. Battling the possibility that if they cross that metaphorical line, they might mess up the one bond that is synonymous to home for them.

How many people are keeping their feelings to themselves only for their eyes to show the bare truth. How many people can see two of their friends in love- except for those two idiots. How many people gave up the idea altogether.

People who read my blogs on the daily, know that I grew up on a daily dose of romcoms. Especially Hollywood romcoms. And if you are one of those people who has consumed their share of these movies, you know the friends-to-lovers trope is a common theme in most of them movies. Think Monica and Chandler from F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Two friends who know each other since years find each other in love years later. Or Jake and Amy from Brooklyn 99. Or Penny and Leonard from The Big Bang Theory. Or movies like 13 going 30 or 500 days of Summer or a million more. There are so many more from where these came. What I mean to say is, we’re sold this trope because this is one of the most beautiful bonds to think about. But what about the weight of actually risking the friendship?

---

3. The Quiet Shift

No one really talks about what happens before that moment. The almost-confessions. The way your words stop just short of meaning something. The way you start noticing things you never paid attention to before—who they text first, who they sit next to, whether their voice changes when they say your name. It’s subtle at first. And then it’s not. And suddenly something that felt easy starts feeling careful. Like you’re constantly editing yourself in real time. Because now there’s something at stake.

So you lie. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just in small, convincing ways. You say it’s nothing. You say it’ll pass. You say you’d rather have them like this than not have them at all. And maybe that’s true. Or maybe that’s just the version of truth you can live with. Because the alternative is terrifying. Because the moment you say it out loud, you can’t take it back. And the worst part is—not that they might not feel the same—but that they might look at you differently after. Like something has shifted. Like something has been broken.

And maybe that’s why that line stays. Because it’s not just about lying. It’s about where you learnt it from. It’s about how the one person you want to be honest with is also the one you hide from the most. And somehow, that feels like the biggest betrayal of all.

---

4. Choosing the Risk Anyway

Now despite the mess, despite knowing the price, we still fall in love with the one person we should not. Despite all of the things I just said about the weight of risking the friendship, I will always say friends-to-lovers is one of the best ways to fall in love. Imagine finding your best friend and also the love of your life in the same person. Isn’t it special? If you haven’t had the chance to feel it, let me tell you that it is one of the most amazing feelings.

I have been reading quite a lot about this “trope” nowadays and I completely agree with what my fellow bloggers have to say. The “slow burn” is easier said than done. The “confession” is easier said than done. There’s a lot at stake even without the other person not receprocating the same feelings. But while the 30-minute sitcom episodes or 3-hour movies hardly show the struggles, (simply because it’s not possible to be true to the art as well as the reality of the trope) I will always crave for what Monica and Chandler had or Jake and Amy had. Or what my parents and my friend’s parents have.

I want someone who knows me without me having to translate my soul because we speak the same language (even if the dialect is slightly different). I want someone who did not feel attracted to me because of what I had to offer, no matter how little. I want someone who saw me and found me interesting in the unromantic way. I want someone for whom I did not experience falling in love, at first sight. But rather one for whom my feelings developed, slowly and steadily. A love where I started noticing the little knowing smile he has when he knows he struck a chord. Or the baby face he makes when something doesn’t go his way. Or the way his eyes always find mine amidst the chaos. I want to feel the safety of friendship with my person and be undeniably in love.

While I write this, I am reminded of a line from one of the most unlikely book I should be thinking about right now. It’s “My Dark Vanessa” by Kate Elizabeth Russell. The line goes:

“People will destroy everything for a little bit of something beautiful”

And while I don’t want to experience a little bit of this beautiful story, I believe it somehow perfectly portrays what goes on in someone’s mind right before they confess. And you know what? I believe if there’s a chance for you to find love in your best friend, I say go for it. Risk it all. You know what Taylor Swift said about this right?

“My advice is always ruin the friendship
Better that than regret it for all time”

Wow I have blabbered on about friends-to-lovers for an ungodly amount. Anyway, ignoring the voices in my head, I want to say this one last thing: sometimes the “risking it all” is better than the “what could have been”.

To all my readers gushing over all the characters I named here, I love you and I hope you get your love story.

Cheers, Penny! 🧿✨

---

You’ll always be my melancholic touchstone, it seems—

the one I fold into every 11:11 wish.

The place my heart returns to

to remember

what it felt like to be almost chosen.

To be known

and still not kept.

And me—your mirrorball.
All shimmer and borrowed light,
spinning just so
your eyes can glow a little brighter.

I make constellations out of you.
Out of us.
Out of things that never quite exist.

And when the night ends?
I don’t.

I stay.

Still.
Abandoned.
A glimmer with no gaze to hold it.

Even in your melancholy,
you breathe life into me—
carelessly,
like it costs you nothing.

And then you stop.

You stop
once you’ve taken all the light you needed.

Because I’m not the one you love.

I’m the one who stays—
despite the quiet,
despite the knowing,
despite the melancholy
you leave behind in me.

Midnight rain piercing through your flesh armour.
Armour? The armour hasn’t existed in months.
It rusted quietly
in the corners of sleepless nights,
in the pauses between your sentences
when you pretended you were fine.
The rain knows this.
It doesn’t knock anymore.
It walks straight through you—
cold, familiar, merciless.
Once, you would have called it pain.
Now it feels more like recognition.
Like the sky
finally touching the wound
you kept insisting
was only a scar.
The rain lingers there,
as if it has been waiting
for the armour to disappear.
Drop by drop
it maps every fragile place
you tried to bury
under bravery and silence.
And you stand there,
not fighting it,
not running—
just letting the storm
remember you.
Because somewhere along the way
you realised something strange:
the armour never really protected you.
It only kept the world
from reaching your pulse.
And tonight,
under a sky that refuses to be gentle,
you feel everything again—
the ache,
the warmth,
the unbearable honesty of being open.
The rain keeps falling.
But for the first time in months,
you are not trying
to build the armour back.
You are simply standing there,
bare as truth,
letting the storm pass through you
like a long overdue confession.

They say men do everything for the woman they love.
I never believed that—
thought dislike was fixed,
unchanging as the sky above.

I thought when you said no, you meant never,
that taste and time could not conspire,
that people stayed the same forever,
unchanged by want, untouched by fire.

But that isn’t true, is it?

It’s been four years of knowing you,
three and a half of loving you through.
I say was—yet still it’s true,
some part of me still leans toward you.

But you aren’t the man I loved back then,
or maybe you are—just rearranged.
Same bones, same voice, same quiet grin,
only the wanting has been changed.

You watch the theatre now. You stay. You like.
You call it beautiful, call it right.
Do you remember Swan Lake at night—
when you told me, find someone else, and I swallowed the slight?

You watch it now with someone new,
turn moments into something rare.
Experiences you once outgrew
now bloom because she’s sitting there.

You sit in cafés you once called tacky,
order hazelnut lattes without shame.
You don’t flinch, you don’t mock me,
don’t call me South Kolkata like a name.

You go on dates. You trace new starts.
You wear a tattoo on your skin.
Ink where once I held your heart—
proof of the man you grew within.

I wish you were this version then.
I wish the timing had been kind.
I wish I met the now of you
instead of loving the almost kind.

But wishes don’t bend time’s decree.
They ache, they hope, they learn to wait.
So we exist in memory—
a lesson dressed as fate.

A man who learned what love could be.
A woman who showed how to begin.
You carried the knowledge forward with you.
I stayed behind where we’d been.

It’s been a year of letting go,
of finding hands I thought would heal.
Of telling myself I no longer know
the way your absence makes me feel.

I said I was done with tears and you,
that grief had finally run dry.
But here I stand—proven untrue,
still breaking when your world goes by.

You watch the theatre. You watch rom-coms, too.
You became what I prayed you’d be.
Just never, not once, with me and you.

I hope she is everything I was not.
Every softness, every ease.
And if you remember me at all,
let it be kindly. Let it be at peace.

In faded gold. In quiet blue.
In gentle light, in borrowed hue.
The way I still—
the way I always—
think of you.