"Some storms don't come with thunder. Some rage silently inside the skin."

I don't remember the last time I woke up feeling okay. Not good, not great—just okay. Today, the sky outside my window is dull and cloudy, yet it feels blinding. The birds, usually a background score to my early morning tea, feel like static. The city moves outside, impatient and loud, while everything inside me feels painfully still.

The alarm blared at 7:30 AM, a shrill reminder that I had deadlines to meet, emails to answer, and a body I no longer recognized. I turned it off, not snoozed—just turned it off. What was the point of pretending I would get out of bed anyway?

I curled further into the blanket, arms folded across my stomach. A dull, familiar ache bloomed there. It had been like this for days now—the cramps, the fatigue, the bizarre nausea that came and went like a fickle lover. I wasn't hungry. I couldn't even look at food.

My fingers brushed against the packet of tablets on the nightstand. Prescribed by Dr. Samarth Randhawa. A name that still echoed with confusion and a tinge of embarrassment. I wasn't supposed to feel this self-aware in a clinic. I wasn't supposed to feel... seen.

But he had seen me. Not as a writer. Not as a grown-up woman with bestsellers and book launches and reader fan mails. But as a patient. A woman with a body quietly rebelling against her.

"You have PCOS," he had said calmly, his voice clinical yet not unkind.

Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. A name far too long, far too scientific, and far too foreign to me till a week ago. And yet, here it was, sitting inside me, like an uninvited guest rearranging furniture.

I sat up slowly, my head heavy, my limbs sluggish.

The book launch was two days away.

I had chapters to proofread. A speech to prepare. Outfits to try. Smiles to fake.

But I couldn't.

Not when every time I looked at the mirror, all I could see were the changes I hadn't noticed before.

The puffiness around my cheeks.

The few stray strands of hair on my chin I plucked in the dark bathroom, ashamed and desperate.

The weight that never came off, no matter how much I tried.

I opened my laptop. Emails blinked back at me. One from my editor. One from the PR team. One from a reader who'd written a painfully long message about how my last book saved her life. I stared at that one the longest. How could I respond when I couldn't even save myself?

I tried to write. Just a sentence. Just a word. But everything I typed sounded hollow. Like someone else was writing it. Someone who wasn't dealing with a hormonal storm inside her.

I closed the laptop and took a breath.

No. I couldn't do this alone. Not anymore.

The waiting room felt colder this time. Maybe it was me.

I fidgeted with the sleeve of my kurti, trying to ignore the sound of the receptionist typing or the mother with her newborn humming lullabies in the corner. Everything felt too loud. My thoughts. My heartbeat. My fear.

"Ms. Shivangi Rathore?"

The nurse called out, and I stood up.

Dr. Samarth's room looked the same. Calm, pristine, with a whiff of antiseptic and sandalwood. He looked up and offered a polite nod.

"Good morning, Shivangi. How have you been feeling since our last appointment?"

I wanted to lie. To say I was managing. But what was the point?

"Not great," I admitted.

He gestured for me to sit.

 "Tell me everything. The symptoms, the changes, anything you noticed."

So I told him.

About the nausea.

About the appetite loss.

About the body image issues that had begun whispering ugly things to me in the dark.

"I feel like I'm losing control,"

 I confessed, voice lower than intended.

 "And I can't even explain why."

He nodded, fingers tapping softly against his tablet. 

"That's understandable. Hormonal imbalances from PCOS can affect not just physical health but also emotional well-being. Anxiety. Mood swings. Even depressive episodes. It's a lot, and you're allowed to feel overwhelmed."

I didn't expect validation. Not here. Not from him.

His eyes met mine.

 "This isn't your fault."

I blinked, unsure what to say.

He continued, 

"I'm going to adjust your medication slightly. Also, I'd recommend incorporating a nutritionist and therapist into your care plan. PCOS affects everyone differently. But you don't have to navigate this alone."

"I can't talk to my parents about this,"

 I whispered.

"Then talk to me. Whenever you need."

There was something about the way he said it. No drama. No over-familiarity. Just... quiet sincerity.

I nodded.

As I walked out of his room with the new prescription, I felt slightly lighter. Like someone had helped me carry a box I didn't even know I was struggling with.

Back home, I tried to cook. Dalia with veggies, just like the nutritionist's pamphlet suggested. It turned out bland. But I ate two spoons. That was progress.

I journaled.

I took my medicine.

I replied to the reader's email. Thanked her for her words. Told her that sometimes, writers also needed saving.

I tried on a dress for the launch. It didn't fit. I tried another. It was okay.

I stood before the mirror and whispered to my reflection, "You're trying."

Sometimes, that had to be enough.

I picked up my pen and wrote the first line of my launch day speech:

"To every girl who's ever felt at war with her own body, this book is for you."

And maybe, just maybe, it was for me too.