"Sometimes the hardest battles are fought in silence,
where the heart cracks open, yet the world stays unaware."

The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the emptiness of her 1BHK apartment in Andheri. Shivangi Rathore leaned against it for a moment, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs. The elevator ride had been a blur, the traffic a white noise. But now—now it was all catching up. The diagnosis. The sterile clinic. His voice.

PCOS.

She tossed her sling bag onto the chair near her writing desk, barely noticing as it toppled a stack of book proofs. Her editor had called twice while she was at the clinic. Messages blinked on her phone screen: Final PR schedule confirmation pending. Please revert.

Her upcoming novel, "Scarred Ink,"   was releasing in less than three weeks.

Another message. From her mother this time: 

"Beta, eat something proper today. You always skip when you're stressed."

Shivangi kicked off her sneakers and walked barefoot into the living room. The room was dim. Only the soft ambient light from her bookshelf lamps flickered faintly across framed posters of Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and a quote she'd written years ago: 

"Writing was my rescue. Until I forgot how to save myself."

She stood still for a second, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if trying to hold something broken together. And then it came.

The tears.

A single sob at first—choked, dry, resistant.

But soon it cracked her composure like a dam finally caving in.

She sat down on the cold tiled floor, knees to her chest, sobbing into her sleeves. She wasn't even sure what she was crying for anymore—was it the diagnosis? 

The idea of cysts inside her body like tiny ticking bombs? The fatigue she'd dismissed as "writer's exhaustion"? The way her periods came and went like unreliable guests?

Or was it Dr. Samarth Randhawa's voice?

So calm. So certain. So infuriatingly composed.

"Your ovaries are polycystic, Shivangi. It's manageable. You'll be okay."

You'll be okay.

What did he know about what was okay and what wasn't? He didn't wake up at 3AM wondering if her words were good enough. He didn't carry the burden of every cruel nickname from her teenage years—Fatty Fiction, Miss Marshmallow, Boring Bookworm. He didn't know what it was like to have a body you felt betrayed by. To look in the mirror and wonder if something in you was fundamentally unlovable.

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, chest still heaving. She knew breakdowns. She'd written them a hundred times in characters. But this—this real one—was raw, sticky, hard to control.

With shaking hands, she picked up her phone and googled again.

PCOS. Weight gain. Infertility. Mood swings. Acne. Excess hair.

"Great," 

she muttered aloud. 

"So I'm basically a hormone grenade."

("Main ek hormone se bhara hua bomb hoon jo kabhi bhi phat sakta hai.")

She let out a small laugh through her tears. Bitter. Self-deprecating.

The notification for her next appointment blinked on the screen: "Dr. Samarth Randhawa - Ultrasound & Bloodwork - Wednesday, 4PM."

She stared at the name for a few seconds.

Why did it feel so personal, already?

She finally managed to drag herself up and into the kitchen. A half-eaten protein bar sat on the counter. She tossed it in the dustbin. Her stomach growled, but the nausea was stronger. Instead, she poured herself a glass of cold water, sat down at her dining table, and opened her laptop.

The cursor blinked back at her, mocking.

Chapter 26. The final one. It was supposed to be the moment of resolution between her characters—Maya and Vihaan. Closure. Triumph. Love.

But Shivangi couldn't write love right now. Not when she didn't feel it in her own skin.

Not when her body felt like a traitor.

She rested her head against the wooden table and closed her eyes.

And then, without thinking too much, she opened a new Word file.

She began typing. Not fiction. Not narrative.

Just truth.

"Today, I found out something was wrong with me.
And somehow, that small word—wrong—burned louder than the diagnosis itself.
I am tired. Of smiling when I want to scream.
Of hiding behind characters when I barely recognize my own reflection.
But maybe—just maybe—this is not the end. Maybe it's just the start of a chapter I never thought I'd write."

She stared at the lines for a long time.

And finally saved the file as: Unedited Truth.

The next morning, Shivangi woke up feeling like her eyes had aged a decade overnight. She groaned at the sunlight filtering through the curtains and buried her head under the pillow.

She had emails to respond to. A book launch to prep. And now, blood tests to do.

"Why can't I just be a tree? I had to only stand without any expectations " 

she mumbled.

(Translation: "Kaash main ek ped hoti, sirf khadi rehti, koi expectation nahi.")

Still, she forced herself up. She wore an oversized black t-shirt and track pants, tied her hair in a high bun, and booked a cab to the diagnostic lab.

The lady at the reception smiled sympathetically when she handed Shivangi the paperwork.

"First time?" she asked softly.

Shivangi nodded, clutching the file like it was a bomb.

The technician was gentle. The prick of the needle wasn't bad. But the way her mind kept spiraling—what if it's worse than just PCOS? What if I can never...—that hurt.

Later, she found herself standing outside the clinic, staring at the pharmacy next door.

She walked in and asked the pharmacist for Metformin.

He asked, "PCOS ya diabetes?"

She blinked.

"...PCOS," 

she replied quietly.

He nodded and packed the medicine. She paid silently and left, the white packet feeling heavier than it should.

Back home, she spent the day working through emails, cancelling two podcast interviews, and approving cover art proofs. By 7 PM, she was mentally drained again. Her phone buzzed.

Samarth Randhawa
"Hope the blood tests went smoothly. I'll see you Wednesday. Try not to stress. You're doing better than you think."

She stared at the message.

Why did this man—this absolute stranger—manage to say the one thing no one else did?

She typed back.

"Thank you, Doctor. Trying. It's...a lot."

Seconds later, the typing dots appeared.

"I know. But every strong story needs a messy middle. Yours is no different."

She stared at that reply far too long.

A messy middle.

Maybe that's what this was.

And maybe—just maybe—it would turn into something worth writing about.