theshewriter

[theshewriter]

If staring at a blank screen counted as writing, I’d have 3 trilogies done by now.

[theshewriter]

Writing a novel is 90% daydreaming and 10% screaming into the void when the words don’t show up.

[theshewriter]

#11

"Why do you walk in the rain so often?" they wondered.

"Because no one can tell if I'm crying," she smiled faintly, watching the puddles ripple.

[theshewriter]

Writing at night is always such a vibe. You don't write "He crouched down in front of her." You write, "He knelt at her feet, like a sinner at a shrine."

[theshewriter]

#10

People often thought that pain was something transitory, something that arrived and departed like the seasons. But she knew better. The pain did not pass. It did not fade with time, nor did it lose its strength with distance. It simply transformed, taking on a new shape, fitting itself into the cracks of the mind, into the interstices between memories, seeping into the bone of being.

It became a part of you.

Suffering wasn’t loud. It wasn’t always the gasping sobs or the desperate cries for help. It was the fatigue of waking up to another day when you didn’t want to exist. It was the empty ache in your chest when laughter was around you, but you felt nothing at all. It was the heaviness of memories weighing down, strangling you, but never quite killing you.

People say that pain makes you stronger. It was a lie. The pain did not build; it corroded. It did not make you stronger; it hollowed you out. It was a gradual rotting, peeling away pieces of you until you were left questioning whether there was anything left to save at all.

People had learnt to accommodate it, this silent suffering, this persistent ache beneath their ribs.

But was it living?

Or simply another way of dying?

An excerpt from my ongoing novel

[theshewriter]

Writing is fun until it starts involving... writing.

[theshewriter]

#9

I laughed at jokes that weren't funny,

bled for people who never noticed the red.

I learned to shrink, to sweeten,

to fold myself into shapes that fit their hunger.

I called them mine with a mouth full of splinters,

but they never stayed long enough to know my name.

Love was a trick I was not ready for.

Family was a script I never got the lines for.

[theshewriter]

#8

POV: Born to read literature, forced to study physics.

They call me the bright one. the one who always knows the answer, always finishes the homework, always gets the grade. I smile when they say that. It’s easier than explaining the ache. I’ve learned how to solve equations, but not how to silence the noise in my mind when the room is silent and I’m still not enough. Straight A’s look good in ink,

But they don’t show the nights I stared at the ceiling Wondering if I’m anything beyond a number,

a rank, a result. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to do something just because I love it, not because it might come in the exam,

I’m tired–

but not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. It’s the kind that sinks into your bones, The kind you carry into every classroom,

every “I’m fine.” They think I have it all together. Sometimes, I think so too. Then, the silence comes back— loud, pressing, endless.

I don’t remember the last time someone asked

“Are you happy?” And waited for the real answer. Maybe I’m a good student. Maybe I’m a terrible friend.

Maybe I’m nothing if I’m not exceptional. It’s a strange thing— to be proud of your achievements and still feel so unseen.

[theshewriter]

#7

“Constellations,” he stated quietly. “They’re just the myths we inscribed in the heavens. The universe provided us with random stars, and we strung them with lines. Stories. Forms. Meaning.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Because we’re creative.”

He shook his head. “Because we’re lonely. And desperate to establish meaning in the randomness.”

Her breath caught. What he said sounded like something she’d always had in mind but never dared to utter out loud.

“What if I told you that I’m lonely as well, just like you?” he went on. “What if I told you that we’re simply two unnamed vagabonds, walking the same dark night?” He faced her now, straight on, eyes capturing hers. “Would you let me accompany you on your journey?”

An excerpt from my ongoing novel

[theshewriter]

#6

He was her first love, the one who taught her what it felt like to dream.

He was also her last, the one who left, teaching her never to dream again.

[theshewriter]

#5

What if love is a mirror, showing us not just who we are but all we are afraid of becoming? What if it asks us for a surrender so complete that it strips away the armour we’ve constructed around our souls? To love is to step into a world where knowingness unravels, and there’s only the shaking pulse of hope and fear left.

[theshewriter]

#4

Every time I try to let go,

My heart whispers: What if he turns back?

What if he still waits? What if he still cares?

But my mind whispers back: What if he never did?

What if you were just a passing game?

What if he's already forgotten your name?

And so, I stand in the wreckage,

Torn between a heart that hopes 

And a mind that knows.

[theshewriter]

#3

I was the poet, and he the poem I could never write.

I was the fire, and he the smoke that disappeared.

I was the sea, and he the ship that never docked.

I was the clock, and he the time that never stopped.

I was the sky, and he the star that never shone for me.

I was the answer, and he the question never asked.

I was the mirror, and he the face that never looked.

I was the wound, and he the hand that never healed.

I was the prayer, and he the god that never listened.

I was the love, and he the silence it echoed in.

[theshewriter]

#2

Love is a mystery that evades our grasp like smoke, but smoulders more intensely than any fire we would risk igniting. It is not an emotion, but a confrontation with our greatest terrors. The what-ifs that torment the heart are not doubts; they are the whispers of past wounds, the spectres of loss, and the phantasms of forgotten hopes.

[theshewriter]

#1

With her voice so soft she hardly dared to breathe, she asked, “But what if… You go away like everyone else?”

She blinked rapidly, struggling to keep herself together. “What if you go and I’m empty all over again?”

He faced her then, firmly, without wavering.

“If I go, it won’t be because I wanted to—it’ll be because you healed enough not to need me anymore.”