"Smile, even when the soul trembles. Sometimes the loudest cries wear lipstick and heels."

Shivangi's POV

Today was supposed to be my day.

The launch of my fifth book—the one I poured my soul into, the one I stayed up writing while insomnia kissed my spine and anxiety curled up beside me like a loyal pet. The book that bled pieces of me on every page. This day was supposed to mark a personal victory. A silent scream of I made it, even if no one else fully understood what that meant.

But mornings have their own mind, don't they?

I woke up feeling heavier than usual. Not just mentally, but physically. My stomach churned the moment I tried to get out of bed. Nausea curled around my throat like smoke, thick and stubborn.

 My head throbbed with a quiet, rhythmic vengeance, pulsing behind my eyes and down my neck. It wasn't the kind of sick that could be soothed by ginger tea or a nap. It was deeper, denser—like my entire body was protesting the weight it had been silently carrying.

Still, I reminded myself, "This is your day, Shivangi. Come on."

The sari I had planned to wear hung proudly in my wardrobe like a dream stitched in silk. Silver with muted blue borders—elegant, powerful, unapologetic. A gift I had bought myself six months ago the day I signed the publishing deal. It was my armor. My silent celebration.

But as I slipped into the blouse, something snapped.

Literally.

The hooks at the back refused to meet. My fingers trembled as I tried again, more forcefully this time. I sucked in my stomach. Twisted. Pulled. Begged.

Nothing.

"What the hell? This fit me perfectly three weeks ago!" 

I muttered, my voice cracking under the pressure. 

The blouse landed on the bed with a dramatic thud. I stared at my reflection, blinking back something bitter. The woman in the mirror didn't look like someone who had a book launch today. She looked tired. Bloated. Dull.

 Her eyes—usually lined with kohl and confidence—were puffy, rimmed with fatigue. My chin and jawline bore the signature of my condition—acne, red and unrelenting. My breasts ached. My waist felt like it didn't belong to me. The cruel cycle of PCOS was dancing its dance again.

I changed into a satin teal dress instead. Loose. Breathable. Forgiving. Still elegant. Still me, or at least what was left of me today. My reflection didn't roar, but it didn't apologize either. And maybe that was enough.

The event was hosted at a posh bookstore in Bandra. Soft fairy lights dangled from the ceiling. Stacks of my book lined the shelves in pristine symmetry. There were readers—some familiar faces, some strangers with kind eyes. Reporters milled about with notepads and mics. A hundred faces all turned toward me, expecting grace, brilliance, presence.

The cameras clicked.

People clapped.

Words flew from my mouth as if I had rehearsed them in some alternate life. My lips smiled, almost expertly. My voice sounded confident, even when my hands trembled just enough to be hidden behind the podium. I posed with the oversized banner bearing my name in a glossy, embossed font that glared a little too brightly under the spotlight.

Inside, I was crumbling.

The room spun—not fast, but enough to make the world tilt like an uneven seesaw. I was midway through a thank-you speech, nodding at the publisher, the bookstore team, my editor, when my vision blurred at the edges. I paused. Clutched the podium with discreet desperation.

Then I laughed it off. "Looks like the wine's already getting to me!" 

My voice tried to carry the joke.
The audience chuckled along, unaware that I hadn't had a sip. Not even water.

It wasn't the wine. It was the exhaustion. The hormonal storm. The quiet collapse happening inside my skin while my outer shell stood there, trying to play author-celebrity. My body felt like a paper boat caught in the middle of rain. Soft. Fragile. Doomed to fold.

After the event, I barely made it into the cab. My head fell back against the seat, and for the first time that day, I allowed myself to stop performing. The silence in the vehicle felt like a balm. No clapping. No questions. No lights. Just me—and a body that had begged for rest all day long.

My phone buzzed nonstop with texts, DMs, tags on Instagram, congratulatory voice notes from people I hadn't spoken to in years. I didn't reply to any of them. I didn't even open most of them. The dopamine high everyone assumed I was experiencing never arrived.

When I reached home, I slipped out of my heels, letting them clatter near the shoe rack. I didn't even bother putting them in place. My dress felt too heavy. My skin felt like it wasn't mine.

I walked to the bed.

Sat.

Stared.

Breathed.

Or tried to.

There it was again. That wave. That crushing, invisible wave rising inside my chest, pulling tight at my lungs. My throat closed in, as if choked by grief I hadn't admitted to. My heart pounded with no rhythm, just chaos. Like a drum gone rogue in a silent room.

I was breaking.

Right there, in my little Mumbai apartment, fresh off a "successful" book launch, I was unraveling at the seams. Piece by piece. Breath by breath. Emotionally naked.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry until my ribs gave out. I wanted someone to hold me—to tell me it was okay to feel like this even on a day meant for celebration.

But there was no one.

No one, except...

My fingers hovered over my phone.

Dr. Samarth Randhawa

His number stared back at me, still saved in the most unromantic way possible. No emoji. No code name. Just his full title and name, like a file label.

I hesitated.

Then I dialed.

One ring.

Two.

He picked up.

"Shivangi?"

His voice was warm. Not sugary or artificial. Just... steady. Real. Like warm rain hitting dry earth.

"I—I don't know why I'm calling,"

 I whispered, hating how weak I sounded.

"Are you okay?"
He didn't ask it like a doctor. He asked it like a human. Like someone who understood that pain doesn't always scream. Sometimes it just sits quietly, suffocating you from the inside.

I swallowed hard.

 "I had my book launch today. Everyone clapped. It was beautiful. But... I feel like I can't breathe."

He didn't speak for a few seconds. But it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind that listened.

"Take a deep breath for me," 

he said softly. 

"You're safe. It's over now. You did it."

My eyes filled. Completely. Without warning.

"I couldn't wear my sari,"

 I admitted.

 "I looked... I felt huge. Bloated. Wrong. And during the speech, I nearly fainted."

"You didn't,"

 he said, so gently it hurt.

 "You stood tall. You launched a book. You survived today. And you called someone. That's strength."

Why did his words feel like medicine?

He continued,

 "The medicine I gave you might take some time to balance your hormones. Dizziness, fatigue, even those emotional crashes... they're part of it. But we'll monitor. We'll tweak things if we need to. We'll get there."

We.

That word undid something in me.

I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear it.

"You're not alone, Shivangi," 

he added.

My heart twisted.

Why was this man—a gynecologist, someone I barely knew weeks ago—the only person who saw through the exhaustion, the pain, the silence?

Why did he sound like safety?

We stayed on the phone for a while. Not saying much. Just... breathing. Together. In sync, like waves that had finally found a rhythm.

Before we hung up, he said, 

"Tomorrow, come in for your follow-up. We'll take it slow. One day at a time."

"Okay," I whispered. My voice barely above air.

"And Shivangi?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not your body. You're not the mirror. You're the mind that writes stories strong enough to silence a room. Don't let PCOS define you."

I bit my lip to keep the sob from rising again.

"Thank you,"

 I murmured.

After the call ended, I stared at the ceiling. The room was quiet, but not empty. Something invisible had shifted. A whisper in the chaos. A thread of connection. Maybe, just maybe, I was allowed to be seen.

Even if only for a moment.