The calmness of visiting a music show alone — enjoying the music and feeling good without having to feel the solitude. Is this part of growing up? Is that part of spinster life?
There was a lot of fame and fab around the event. The noise, the excitement, the crowd, the glamour. But none of it moved me the way the music did. The music felt personal. It felt enough.
Still, somewhere in between, I missed the prospect of visiting together with a companion. Just the thought of standing beside someone, sharing the moment, maybe exchanging a glance when a favorite song played.
And all the while, that thought about a companion was about that dull guy.
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I knew all along.
The knowledge wasn’t something to boast.
I kept sensing it. I knew it.
I tried my best to hide from all sorts of triggering, because I was fearing the irreversible. I was fearing the departure.
I was screaming.
Frightening away.
Chills crawling through me, thinking of what she’ll do—
if she gives up on life—
without having the courage to keep going on. -
There are so many sections that require rereading multiple times. It’s a mental boom so far for me, to realise the perspective the author is trying to give the reader. I have not come across such a revealing book on this topic so far.
I’m trying to get every part of the facts, and it has been so impactful that I’m writing this review while I’m just 27% into the book. I paused and had to note down my thoughts on the book.
This author also made rethink on the bias I had on indian and foreign authors.
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Something that happened to you out of ordinary, an unusuality. Even you had questions on how it ever happened but now that its robbed off, why do i have this sense of loss, sadness which tells me i should cry or scream out. But for no reason i m calm with deep distress of the loss. Is it freeing or sadness ?
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The funny irony.
On this exact date last year, I was introduced to someone.
On the same date, a year later, we talked about quitting.
And today—exactly one year from that—I wrapped it up.
I never planned it. Never.
It’s funny how it makes me feel sad and liberated at the same time.
I’m not the same me who landed here last year—naive, scared shitless of whatever life would throw at her.
That me has grown. Learned to carry suffering, to hold pain, to take every lesson life throws her way.
Even now, there’s a melancholy running deep inside.
And still, I’m asking the cosmos—this ending, this termination—what’s next?
Bigger? Better?
Because I’ve learned: when something is snatched away, It’s never just cruelty. It’s a sign.Something else is coming. Something better.
That’s why this had to go.
That’s why it had to be taken away. -
Each heartbreak, each suffering, draws you closer to what is meant for you. Though you wish the mishaps and losses had never found you, though it still aches—even now, faintly, somewhere in the quiet corner of your heart—there is purpose in it.
Like the removal of weeds, pain is often more necessary than joy. It cuts, clears, and reshapes. It molds you into who you must become, carries you to places you deserve to stand, places your hands and heart are finally skilled enough to hold. Along the way, it opens doors and hearts that were always destined for you.
Sometimes, what breaks you is exactly what leads you where you belong. -
Compartmentalizing people based on their upbringing, origin, race, community, and countless other labels feels never-ending. I recently came across an interesting question where a podcaster asked someone to describe themselves without mentioning their profession, where they come from, or any of the usual identifiers.
It made me wonder — how would we describe ourselves then?
I think I would introduce myself as a curious, brainy soul on a journey between birth and death. But beyond that, I realize there’s a kind of wordlessness. Our vocabulary suddenly feels too small to hold our entire identity.
So it makes me question: Are we left without an identity when we strip away profession, appearance, and nationality? Or have we simply forgotten the deeper ways to see ourselves?
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The story we tell ourselves about someone usually comes from our own minds. The assumptions we make often do as well. They may not reflect who that person truly is. Sometimes we start with a generous narrative. Other times, we’re too naive to see the narrative they’ve been painting all along. But where do we learn to tell the difference? How do we understand these things for the sake of better relationships?
Our ego steps in with its rules: don’t confess first, let them come to you, don’t always be the one who tries. Meanwhile, their timeline for effort may look different from ours. And just because you arrive at a feeling or a decision doesn’t mean the other person must arrive at the same moment.
People have their own pace and their own approach. As long as they’re not disinterested, it’s okay to respect that pace and be patient. In the end, it’s more about the process than about whether the story has a perfect ending.
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There is so much uncertainty today, and our threshold to endure it wanes quickly. Waiting used to make more sense in slower-paced times; it even added value back then. Now, even a single dragging minute makes us impatient and anxious. This is why it’s becoming harder and harder to settle on a choice. The 100–0 effort formula isn’t working anymore—it only makes things worse and leaves us feeling sorry for ourselves. Where are we really going with all these complications inside our heads?
I recently read an interview with India’s NSA, Ajit Doval. He said, “There are no inherently right or wrong decisions. There are only choices. It’s only through execution and the results that we come to know whether a choice was the right one.”
So does that mean I, too, will only understand my choice later—after the time and effort are spent? And what if the choice costs us our life?
The Book Nook 