"Some storms don't come with thunder. They arrive in silence and shatter you from within."

Shivangi Rathore sat in the green room of the upscale bookstore where her book launch was minutes away. The air buzzed with excitement outside—journalists, influencers, book lovers—all waiting for a glimpse of the reclusive writer whose words had once touched a million hearts. But inside the room, her hands trembled.

She clutched the edges of the sink in front of the mirror, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on her face. Her kohl-smudged eyes bore into her reflection, but all she could see was the ache.

It had been four days since her appointment with Dr. Samarth Randhawa. Four days since the term Polycystic Ovarian Disorder was sewn into her skin like a wound refusing to heal. She hadn't slept more than three hours in any night since. The moment her head hit the pillow, questions bombarded her—loud, harsh, and relentless.

Would this affect her fertility? Did this mean she wasn't enough—not as a woman, not as a person? What about the constant bloating, the hair fall, the moods that dipped into silent, colorless voids?

She had Googled until her eyes stung.

She had cried until her chest ached.

And now, here she was—expected to smile, to inspire, to sign copies of her latest book about resilience and growth.

Life's irony could be cruel.

"Ma'am, the anchor is ready. We'll call you on stage in five," 

someone knocked gently and informed.

"I'll be there," 

Shivangi replied, her voice sounding alien to her own ears.

She slipped into her beige silk kurta—minimalist, elegant, a farce of calm on the outside. As she stepped out, flashes went off, microphones appeared like thorns, and yet, somehow, she walked onto the stage like she was born to be there.

The questions began. Book inspirations. Writing discipline. Women empowerment. Mental health.

She answered each with poise, while her insides writhed.

When the anchor asked,

 "You always say your characters are mirrors to your own self. Who is your mirror in Letters to My Shadows?"

 Shivangi smiled softly, eyes gleaming with uncried tears.

"The girl who thought she was unlovable because the world didn't know how to love gently."

The applause was thunderous. But all she wanted was to vanish.

Later that night, her phone vibrated.

Dr. Samarth Randhawa: Appointment scheduled tomorrow at 10:30 AM. Blood test results will be discussed.

She stared at the message.

Part of her wanted to cancel it. Pretend none of this was real. That she could keep drowning in deadlines, launch parties, and signed copies. That she could outrun her own body.

But the other part—the part that remembered Samarth's calm eyes and the gentleness with which he spoke the truth—knew she needed to go.

The clinic was quiet the next morning, its serene pastels a stark contrast to her stormy heart. Shivangi sat, hands cold, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

The receptionist smiled.

 "Dr. Randhawa will see you in two minutes. Please be comfortable."

Comfort. What a complicated word.

She stood up when her name was called and walked slowly to his cabin. The door was ajar. Inside, Samarth sat, writing something in a file. He looked up, and for a second, she didn't feel like a patient. Just a woman lost in a world she didn't understand.

"Good morning, Shivangi," he greeted.

"Hi," she replied, her voice low.

He gestured to the chair.

 "I have your reports. We'll go through them one by one, but first—how are you feeling?"

She laughed bitterly. 

"Do you want the polite version or the real one?"

He tilted his head, fingers interlocked. 

"The real one, always."

She inhaled. 

"Like I'm fighting a war no one can see. Like my body betrayed me and I'm expected to smile about it. Like I'm failing at something I didn't even know I was supposed to succeed at."

Silence.

Samarth nodded slowly.

 "That's valid. You're not exaggerating. PCOD isn't just a condition—it changes how you feel, think, even perceive yourself."

He pulled up her reports.

 "Your insulin levels are slightly elevated. That's common. There's hormonal imbalance, but it's manageable. We'll talk about changes—diet, physical activity, supplements."

She blinked rapidly. 

"So I'm not... permanently damaged?"

His voice softened.

 "You are not damaged, Shivangi. You are navigating something many women do—but the shame around it makes it feel isolating. You're not alone. And it's not your fault."

Her lip trembled. She didn't want to cry again. Not in front of this man. Not in this clean, calm room.

He noticed. 

"If you want to scream, cry, or sit in silence—it's okay. There's no rulebook here."

She managed a broken whisper. "I just want to be okay."

"And you will be. But healing isn't linear. There will be days like this, and days brighter than you imagine."

Her phone buzzed again.

Publisher: Today's coverage is going viral. We need a post-launch Q&A live session tonight.

Samarth caught her glance. "Work stress?"

She nodded.

 "My book just released. Everyone expects me to be this strong, graceful version of myself. I don't know if I have the energy to keep being her."

He stood up and walked to the small corner of the room with a framed quote.

"'You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work in progress.'"

She looked at him, eyes wide.

He smiled. "I keep it there for women like you."

She left the clinic with a small prescription and a list of lifestyle recommendations. But more than anything, she carried hope.

That night, during the Instagram live session, when asked about the real inspiration behind her latest story, she paused.

Then she looked straight into the camera.

"Sometimes, you meet someone who doesn't fix you, but helps you remember how to fix yourself."

Thousands of comments poured in.

But her heart knew—this wasn't fiction anymore. This was her story. Beginning now.