"Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is speak the truth you've been hiding from even yourself."

Shivangi's POV

The ceiling fan above me spun in a steady, slow rhythm, cutting through the heavy silence of the room. It created a soft, white noise that somehow made the quiet feel less lonely. The rain outside played its own gentle symphony — a steady tapping against the windowpane that blurred the city lights beyond into a shimmering watercolor.

It was one of those nights when the world felt like it was moving on without me, when everything outside my four walls kept spinning but I was stuck in place — trapped in a storm I couldn't escape.

Three days had passed since the book launch. The event had been both exhilarating and exhausting, a whirlwind of emotions and expectations. The initial buzz was fading now, and the silence it left behind felt heavier than the applause. 

Reviews were rolling in — some glowing, some thoughtful, even a few critical. But they all meant one thing: people were reading my story. They were seeing parts of me in those pages.

And yet, I couldn't shake the anxiety that clung to my skin like a second, unwelcome layer. It was a dull, persistent ache in my chest, an invisible weight that made breathing feel like a chore.

My nights had become restless. The medication prescribed to me was a mixed blessing — it helped, but the side effects were brutal. Mornings greeted me with nausea that churned through my stomach, making even breakfast an ordeal. Nights brought hunger that gnawed at me relentlessly, and the bloating made me feel like I was carrying a weight I couldn't drop.

I hadn't looked at myself in a mirror properly for days. When I caught a glimpse in the reflection of my phone screen, I barely recognized the swollen cheeks and tired eyes staring back. The skin around them was stretched too tight, the dullness impossible to ignore.

I hated it.

I hated that I felt this way.

I hated that the body I'd once taken pride in seemed to be betraying me.

So I avoided mirrors. I avoided reflections. I avoided myself.

I was halfway through answering emails when my phone buzzed, breaking the monotony.

A message from Samarth.

It was a small thing, but it made my heart leap just a little.

"Don't forget to check your water intake today."

I stared at those words longer than necessary. It was so simple — such a mundane reminder. But knowing he was thinking of me, paying attention to me, made the world shift on its axis.

I smiled, despite myself, and typed back.

"Done. 2.5 litres already. Now I just feel like a watermelon."

His reply was almost instant.

"A very hydrated watermelon, then."

A small laugh escaped me, shaky but genuine. The first real one I'd managed in days.

On a sudden impulse, I typed again.

"Do you have time to talk?"

His reply came immediately.

"Yes. Call or video?"

"Video," I typed without hesitation. Tonight, I didn't just want to hear a voice. I needed to see someone's eyes — someone who might remind me I wasn't alone.

The screen flickered and lit up, revealing his familiar face. But even through the grainy pixels, I could see the exhaustion etched on him — the faint dark circles beneath his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. He looked tired.

"You okay?" I asked softly.

He smiled — a real smile, warm and gentle.

 "I should be asking you that."

I took a shaky breath. For a moment, neither of us spoke. We just looked at each other, the silence between us a fragile bridge.

Then, the words I'd been holding in burst out.

"I was bullied in school."

It felt like ripping a bandage off a wound I'd been covering for years.

His eyes softened. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I nodded, even though he couldn't see it.

"I was the fat girl,"

 I whispered, voice trembling. 

"The one who was always picked last in P.E. The one boys whispered about, laughed at when she walked by. I faked stomach aches to avoid school sometimes. My mom thought I was just being dramatic."

A lump formed in my throat.

"I started writing because books didn't laugh at me,"

 I admitted, voice cracking.

Samarth didn't interrupt. He simply listened, the way he always did — steady, patient, present.

"I still hear their voices sometimes," 

I confessed,

 "especially now. When my body's changing again. When PCOS makes me feel like I'm broken."

"You're not broken," 

he said firmly. The strength in his voice made me blink, surprised.

"I feel like I am,"

 I said.

 "Like I'm losing control of everything — my body, my mind, my emotions. What if it gets worse? What if I can't work? What if I can't..."

He cut me off gently. 

"What if you don't have to figure it all out tonight?"

I frowned, confused.

"What if," 

he said slowly, 

"you let someone carry part of it with you? Just a little part."

My throat tightened. "You mean... you?"

He smiled softly. "If you let me."

I didn't say anything. I didn't need to.

My silence was its own kind of yes.

Samarth's POV

When she told me she'd been bullied, something clenched deep inside — not in pity, not in anger, but in that quiet ache you feel when you look at something beautiful with a small tear in its fabric.

It explained a lot — her sarcasm, the careful walls around her heart, the way she sometimes pulled away when people got too close. And yet, despite it all, she'd let me in. Just a little. Enough.

I had patients to see, emails to answer, mountains of reports waiting on my desk. But that night, I shut my laptop. I pushed the world away. I chose to listen.

"I had my own version of school hell," 

I said when she finally fell silent.

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"I was the nerd. The one who corrected the teacher in a science lecture and never lived it down."

She smiled faintly.

"I got locked in the biology lab once,"

 I said, 

"with all those preserved frog specimens."

She laughed — a real laugh. "Gross."

"It was. But maybe it pushed me toward medicine. I wanted to understand, to control things."

"Like ovaries?" 

she teased, her eyes sparkling.

I laughed. "Exactly like ovaries."

We fell into a silence that felt different — light, easy, almost healing.

"Thank you," she said after a while.

"For what?"

"For seeing me. Not as a diagnosis, or a patient, but just... me."

"Always," I said.

And I meant it. More than she could ever know.