His eyes are coffee brown— the kind that stay warm long after the cup cools. Some days they meet mine with a sincerity I’m almost afraid to hold, like he’s offering something he doesn’t realise. Something I’ve spent years trying not to want.
In sunlight, they soften— turn lighter, almost amber, like someone stirred a drop of honey into something already sweet. There’s a gentleness there, a warmth that makes the world feel less sharp for a fleeting second.
At dawn, though— they have a different story. Quieter. As if he carries dreams he never speaks of, shadows of thoughts he’ll never admit to, and I catch them only in those unguarded moments between sleep and what he pretends to feel.
And then there’s that other look— that impish curl of light he doesn’t hide, the spark that tugs at the corner of my caution, makes me wonder what falling could feel like if he wasn’t so determined to stand his ground. It’s ridiculous how someone can make you wish for a different version of yourself— one that wasn’t stitching her heart together one careful thread at a time.
But I know better. I know the universe doesn’t redraw its lines just because a pair of coffee-brown eyes decided to look at me like I was something soft, something worth choosing.
So I breathe. I smile. I let his charm skim the surface of me and go no deeper— even when a small, foolish part of me wonders how it would feel to stop pretending I don’t fall in love every time you look at me.
I have always loved the idea of wedding vows. No matter how the marriage ends, imagine loving someone so much that you write several words and read it out in front of hundreds of people. While I don’t see myself getting to do this anytime soon, I will pen this down for the man who is apparently meant for me.
Dear you,
It’s November 24th, 2025 and I’m in my apartment alone. My eyes are tired as I write this- but what’s tired when it comes to love right? So here goes:
This might be several years later as I stand in front of you today
Draped in my Sabyasachi wedding saree and you in your Manish Malhotra wedding outfit
I know it’s real because we have our closest people right here with us
But also because my heart’s finally at ease
It’s not racing anymore. It’s finally resting, knowing that I have found someone who’s kind to my heart and soul
You’re someone who loves me like it’s breathing and is stubborn enough to love me on days when I’m being difficult
You listen to me talk endlessly about Taylor and her lyricism and know that I’ll always love her a teeny bit more than I love you.
You’re my Chandler telling me that the world can call me high maintenance but you like maintaining me
You’re my Jake surprising me just when I thought you have lost the ability to surprise me, by proposing me out of the blue!
You’re my Ted who will steal the Blue French Horn just because I stated once I liked it
You’re my Travis because you’re my human exclamation point!
You’re the person who makes me say that I’ll marry you with paper rings even when I love shiny things
And you’re nerdy enough to understand all of this!
I’m nowhere close to being Monica, Amy, Robin or Taylor- but I am good at being one thing- and that’s yours.
I’m grateful to have found you in this mayhem called life
You’re everything my heart had hoped for. You’re the person I’ve been writing about since I was a teenager going to college.
You’re the person who makes me laugh and cry from it.
You’re the person who comes up to me and says “Let’s figure this out” because the love we have is greater than whatever argument we had.
You’re the person who makes me fall in love with literature more because I see how you light up when we talk about Dostoevsky or Kafka or Plath.
You’re my person.
I guess what I’m trying to say is you’re everything and more
And nothing like the ones I have met before.
From yours,
Penny ♥️
I am no where close to finding love like this as I write this. But I really hope that when I finally find you, my life sounds like this. That you sound like exactly what I’ve written here. And if you’re reading this right now, I hope our paths cross soon- because I can’t wait to meet the man who makes my life sound like peace.
This blog is going to be a little different from my last few. I’ve realised that switching between literary styles feels oddly liberating. It lets me breathe, expand, and exist as someone who processes the world through words. Okay, that’s enough word vomit. Let’s get to the point.
Growing up on a steady diet of Disney movies, my idea of life was—of course—fairy-tale coded. Girl meets boy. They fall in love. Get married. Cue the happily ever after. On top of that, I also had the Bollywood version playing in my head: me living in Central London with a fancy big-girl job in one of the dreamiest cities in the world.
Well… turns out that while that might be true in lore, real life isn’t that linear. Not for me, at least. And I’m sure not for most of us.
This past year, life has felt less like a fairy tale and more like riding that mechanical bull—or whatever it’s actually called—holding on for dear life while it tries to throw me off every five seconds. And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, I fell in love with my so-called Prince Charming. Or that’s what he seemed like at the time. Spoiler alert: he turned out to be Prince Hans from Frozen. That’s all I’m going to say about him.
Was it disheartening to get my heart broken again? Yes. Did I stay in that phase longer than I should have? Also yes. Have I lost hope in love? Absolutely not.
And yes, I’m painfully aware I sound like I am personifying an Instagram reel right now.
But here’s the crux: despite everything, I still haven’t lost hope in love. In fact, my many failed “love stories” have shown me exactly why they didn’t work out. It’s because I convinced myself that these were the kinds of “men” I wanted (yes, the quotes are intentional). But honestly, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
The truth is—I’ve never liked nonchalance. I need someone who loves literature, someone who doesn’t think I’m weird because I listen to Taylor Swift on repeat or because I love Taylor slightly more than I love him. I want someone who understands my obsession with writing, who shows up with cute stationery because he knows it’ll make my entire week.
I want a man I can love. A man whose family welcomes me as their own. A man who embraces mine the same way. I want to build a home where Sunday mornings mean breakfast in bed, taking turns cooking each other’s favourite things.
It might sound like a long wishlist, but the past year has taught me not to settle. I’ve learned that manifestation works in mysterious ways. Sometimes you meet someone randomly and realise you could’ve crossed paths years ago—when you were teenagers, or again at some mutual friend’s event—but the Universe made you wait. Maybe a little too long. Or maybe we were too young, too raw, too unpolished to understand that some edges needed to be softened first.
And yes, I know I’m not supposed to chase love or talk about it too much. But like I said, I’ve never been a nonchalant person. Not in family, not in friendships, and definitely not in love. I’m the kind who will scream “I’M ENGAGED! I’M ENGAGED!” from the rooftop the moment it happens—so here’s to the man I didn’t settle for, but the man I genuinely, wholeheartedly and completely fell in love with.
Last night, the cigarette burned like my soul Slowly and in vain. That slow burn that used to give peace- it’s killing me now. The made-up love that once was peace- is now the torment my heart can no longer take. Half-breaths and half-alive but never half in love. Never the person with one foot out the door- when in love. Burning. I’m burning in vain and killing myself- slowly. Do they see me burn? Do they see me burn? Do they? Do you? Do you see my agony? An ivy wrapping my throat- choking me to death. Much like your love. Or are you blind to my greys still? Should I’ve been more obvious with my love? Or did I stifle you with my intensity? Is that too many questions? My mind keeps going down the spiral- do you see me ruin myself in the hopes of your love?
and she will get what I dreamt of from him— without asking, without begging. she won’t have to cry herself to sleep, won’t whisper his name into the dark like a plea the stars grew tired of hearing. she will let the night know his name in jubilation, in release.
she will have it all. and I hope she knows— she found the person of someone else’s prayers. I hope she takes care of him. and I hope he remembers what it took for me to let him go.
because love like that doesn’t vanish, it just finds quieter places to live— between pages, in songs I can’t skip, in the way my heart softens when I hear his name.
I don’t wish to have him back. I only wish that he’s learned to love gently now, that he holds her the way I once imagined he would hold me— without fear, without leaving. and if someday she finds the cracks I once tried to seal, I hope she sees them as proof— not of his failure, but of my faith.
because sometimes loving someone means wanting the story to turn out better for them, even if it’s no longer yours to tell.
I suppose this is my last letter to you — or maybe to the idea of you. The version that only ever existed in the soft corners of my mind, painted in half-truths and the kind of hope that should have known better.
You see, I didn’t fall in love with you. I fell in love with the fragments I assembled when you weren’t looking — the fleeting moments where you almost looked kind, the words that sounded like warmth until they turned to smoke. I built you from the best pieces of my imagination, stitched them with what I wished love could feel like, and then had the audacity to call it real.
You were never mine. Maybe you were never anyone’s — only ever the kind of person who loved being loved. You wore attention like a crown and fed off affection as if it was proof of power. I was naive enough to mistake your hunger for depth, your cruelty for carelessness, your indifference for mystery.
I know now that I was the joke you told to your friends. That the moments I replayed in my head, the ones that felt cinematic, were nothing more than your temporary boredom. It used to sting — the thought that I had become an anecdote, a story told over drinks, with laughter filling the space where my sincerity once lived.
But here’s the thing — you only get to laugh if I still care. And I think I’ve reached the part where your voice stops echoing. Where your name doesn’t feel like a wound anymore.
You once told me that I made things too heavy, that I felt too much, that I was too easy. Maybe that was true. But I’d rather feel everything than live half-alive, mistaking manipulation for charm. I used to think love was something to earn — now I know it’s something that should never have required convincing.
Some nights, I still catch myself missing you — or what I thought you were. Then I remind myself: you were never that person. You only played the part long enough for me to believe. And I, foolishly, kept the script long after you walked off stage.
If you ever think of me — and maybe you won’t — I hope you remember someone who loved you when you didn’t deserve it. Someone who meant every word. Someone you couldn’t break completely, no matter how hard you tried.
You were a storm I mistook for the sea — vast, consuming, but never meant to stay.
And so, I’ll leave you here, in this letter. I’ll leave the ache, the questions, the what-ifs, and every version of me that tried to be enough for you. I’ll let you live on only as a story — a necessary one, but no longer mine to tell.
You’ll remain a chapter — the one that taught me that love without truth is nothing more than illusion.
So here’s to you, my favourite muse — not because you inspired beauty, but because you made me write my way back to myself.
And as I walk away now, lighter than I’ve ever been, I realise closure isn’t something you give — it’s something I choose. You can keep your laughter, your lies, your version of me that fits your narrative. I’ll keep my peace. You were once the noise I mistook for music, but I’ve found a quieter song now — one that doesn’t end in ache.
didn’t think I’d do this again— fall into something that feels like spring sunlight after too many winters.
you appeared, not with thunder or poetry, just with kindness that didn’t demand to be noticed.
and suddenly, the air felt different— lighter somehow, as if I’d been holding my breath for years and didn’t know it.
I don’t have to shrink my laugh around you, don’t have to translate my heart into smaller words. you listen, and that feels new. no games, no shadows— just the quiet thrill of being understood.
maybe it’s not love, not yet. but it feels like walking toward light without fearing the fall.
and if this is what healing sounds like— soft, steady, uncomplicated— then maybe falling doesn’t have to hurt this time.
It’s a random Friday afternoon, and “Phiriye Dewar Gaan” hums faintly from my phone — soft, almost hesitant, like it knows it’s trespassing into old memories. I let it play anyway. Music has a way of finding the ghosts we’ve learned to live with. And just like that, I’m back in March of this year.
You were the breath of fresh air my heart had been craving for without knowing it. The kind that fills the lungs too suddenly, makes the chest ache a little, and yet feels like survival. You arrived without warning — no build-up, no grand beginning. Just a quiet entry into my world, and somehow, everything after that felt different.
I still remember how it started — how your name lit up my phone screen for the first time, how ordinary that moment was, and how it would later hold extraordinary weight. We talked about small things at first: the weather, favorite songs, movies that felt like memories. And then, before I knew it, you had slipped past the guarded edges of my heart, making yourself at home in its unlit corners.
It wasn’t dramatic — it was gentle, like sunlight seeping in through curtains. I wished for us to last, you know? I really did. I wanted us to survive the shifting seasons, the uncertainties, the inevitable distances. I pictured us in all the tomorrows I hadn’t lived yet. I wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, some stories don’t have to end.
But life — or fate, or timing, or whatever name we give the cruel poetry of it all — had other plans.
I think about that last meeting often. It’s strange how you never really know it’s the last one until much later. You walk into it thinking there will be more — more conversations, more laughter, more days that begin with your name and end with your voice. You don’t realize you’re standing in the final scene until the credits start to roll in hindsight and the director shouts “CUT!”
That day, I remember, the sky was undecided — half cloudy, half sunlit, like it couldn’t choose between holding on or letting go. We met as we always did- all our friends around us, easily, naturally. I remember your smile — not the bright, carefree one, but the softer one, tinged with something I didn’t have the courage to name. We spoke like everything was normal, like we weren’t already fading. And maybe that’s what made it harder.
I didn’t know that it was the last time I’d hear your voice the way I knew it then. I didn’t know it would be the last time your name would feel warm on my tongue, before it turned into a quiet ache I’d carry silently. I didn’t know it was the last time you’d look at me and see us– and not two people who were no longer reading the same book. Not a person who was too much for you. Not a person who was easy to let go, and easier to forget.
And yet, the universe, in all its irony, decided that my birthday would be the last day our worlds touched. I sometimes think about that — how the day meant for beginnings became an ending – in itself. I don’t know how it happened — how our laughter turned to distance, how comfort turned to silence. But there it is: my birthday, frozen in time as the day I unknowingly said goodbye to someone I was still wishing to meet again.
There are nights when I replay our story like a reel — fragments of conversations, laughter echoing through late hours, words that now feel too tender to touch. You live in me like that — as a montage of the polaroid pictures we never took. The almosts, the nearlys, the could-have-beens. If I close my eyes, I can still see them — blurry snapshots of a love that never found its way into permanence. A love that only lived in my mind and not yours.
Sometimes, I wonder if you remember me too — not as a person, maybe, but as a feeling. A fleeting comfort. A familiar tune that plays unexpectedly and pulls you back for a second before fading into background noise. I wonder if certain songs still remind you of the me you let slip through.
It’s funny, isn’t it? How something that felt infinite can shrink into memory, into something you carry like an old ticket stub from a concert that once changed you. I don’t hate it anymore — the ending, the silence, the distance. I’ve made peace with it. Some stories aren’t meant to last; they’re meant to move you. To make you see yourself differently.
You will always live in me — not as a wound, but as a quiet part of my becoming. You were the reminder that I could feel deeply, that I could still be undone by beauty. You were the fleeting season that made everything else pale in comparison.
So here I am, months later, on a random Friday, with that same song playing — not to mourn, but to remember. To smile at the memory of us, blurry and unfinished, but real.
Because maybe that’s all love really is — a series of beautiful moments, stitched together by the ache of knowing they can’t last. And you, you will always be my favorite unfinished story.
Somewhere, in a parallel universe, maybe we did take those polaroids. Maybe we stayed. But here, in this one, I’ll keep you as you are — a soft blur of laughter, light, and the faint echo of “Phiriye Dewar Gaan” on a random Friday afternoon.
You’re gone now—vanished, exiled from my world. And I’m gone too—no longer naming myself as someone who ever belonged to yours. Yet somehow you linger, a burn mark I cannot scrub from my skin.
You kissed my forehead as though you couldn’t see a world beyond me. You kissed my neck—playfully, I thought then—like my scent was the only thing that mattered in that neon-lit crowd. You held my hand as though letting it go would be letting life slip through your fingers.
And still, after all that, you tell me you did not feel it too? Then lie— Lie if you must to keep your peace, Lie if you must to sleep at night, Lie if you must to forget.
I unshackle you from my love. I unshackle you from every gift, every piece of myself I pressed into your palms. I unshackle you from me.
I break the chain of my love. I take back what I gave, piece by piece, until your hands are empty again.
I leave you nothing of me to hold, no trace to follow back.
And so, my love, this is the final scene, the curtain call of my loving you.
This is the hundredth time I’ve promised myself— the hundredth time I’ve said this will be the last piece about you. And still, here I am, pen trembling, dragging your ghost into the margins of another night. How did it all crumble this fast? Why did you look like forever when you were always meant to be a moment? Why did you resemble love so closely when you were never supposed to be the love for me? I circle these questions like a prayer wheel, as if turning them over might summon an answer. But all I find is silence— the kind that bruises louder than words ever could. They say repetition dulls the ache, but each time I write you, it cuts deeper, like breaking the same bone again and again. Maybe I keep writing because I’m afraid— afraid that if I stop, you’ll vanish completely, and then what would all this hurt have been for? So this is the hundredth time, the thousandth time— me, trying to turn you into words when all you ever left me with was silence.
Penny's World 