I am a girl from India — not a famous name, not a face the world recognizes, just a girl from a middle-class family who carries the weight of storms behind her eyes. My life isn't a fairy tale, and this story isn't made up. It's mine. Every word you'll read here is real. It's the truth. I'm not here to create fantasy — I'm here to show the beauty, the pain, the mystery of what it means to survive, to feel, to dream.
My story starts with a day that split my life into a "before" and an "after." I was still in high school, just a teenager, when I lost the person who meant the most to me — my father. It was a normal day until it wasn't. He was at home, and suddenly, he had a heart attack. There was no time to process, no time to panic. Just instinct. I held his head in my lap, my hands trembling as I stroked his chest, silently begging the universe to bring him back. Beside me, my elder brother rushed to pack a bag, thinking maybe we could save him. Maybe the hospital could save him.
But fate didn't wait.
In those final moments, my father gently placed his hand on my head. I still remember how it felt — warm, like a blessing, like a goodbye wrapped in love. And then… he was gone.
Gone from this world, but never from me.
My mother wasn't there. She had gone to a relative's house to ask for money — money we needed for his treatment, money that would come too late. We didn't tell her what happened over the phone. We just said, "Come home. Please come home fast." And when she returned, she found not a man in need of medicine, but a man already at rest — her husband, lifeless, cold. I'll never forget the sound she made. A howl from somewhere deep inside, a sound I pray no one ever has to hear from their mother. That day shattered her. That day shattered all of us.
There was no one left to earn. No savior knocking at our door. No miracle. Just me, my mother, and a brother who, within months, would choose his own path. He fell in love and got married. I didn't blame him for wanting happiness, but he left us — his unstable mother and teenage sister — behind to figure it all out alone.
My mother, now lost in a world of grief, began to change. She wouldn't take her medicine. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't speak for hours. I begged her, tried to convince her, tried everything. But nothing worked.
One day, out of desperation, I did something that changed both of us forever.
I cut my wrist.
It wasn't to die — I wasn't trying to end my life. It was a scream. A silent scream to say, "Look at me! I need you to live, too!" That act jolted her out of her silence. She saw the blood, the fear on my face, the pain I couldn't hide anymore — and only then, she began to take her medicine again. But that moment came with a price.
Now she was terrified.
Terrified that she'd lose me too.
So terrified, in fact, that she wouldn't let me go out alone. She clung to me like a child clings to their mother. Every time I tried to leave for work, she followed me, crying, sometimes even running after me on the street. People stared. Some laughed. Some pitied us. I ignored them. Because we needed to survive. I had to earn. There was no other way.
But life didn't make it easy.
Every job I took, I had to leave. My mother's emergencies, her sudden breakdowns, my mental exhaustion — something always came in the way. My career never got a chance to take off. I never finished higher education. The dreams I once had about studying, becoming someone , they faded behind the curtain of responsibility.
It's been nine years.
Nine long years of being stuck between duty and desire. Nine years of sleepless nights and silent prayers. And now, for the past six months, I've been jobless. Not because I don't want to work, but because life doesn't seem to give me a break.
But I've found something else. Something that gives me a new kind of hope — my dreams.
Not goals. Not ambitions.
Real dreams. The kind you see when your eyes are closed, but your soul is wide awake.
Every night, I dream. And these dreams… they're not ordinary. They are vivid, strange, sometimes terrifying, sometimes divine. I see places I've never been. I hear voices I've never met. I feel emotions too deep to describe. Sometimes, I dream of a boy — a shadowy figure who doesn't speak, but always appears when I'm at my lowest. Other times, I see ancient temples, falling stars, dark oceans. And once, I dreamed of flying above my city, as if I had wings.
These dreams aren't random. I know that. I feel it in my bones. They mean something. And I believe, maybe these dreams are messages. Maybe they are my angels — the ones I always feel walking beside me — trying to show me a path I cannot see when I'm awake.
That's why I'm writing this book.
I want to document my life and my dreams — every twist of fate, every sleepless night, every whisper from the world beyond. I want you to read this and not feel pity, but connection. Because maybe you've also been through something. Maybe you've had to grow up too soon. Maybe you've had dreams that haunted you — or saved you.
Writing is my way of breathing again.
It's my way of saying — I'm still here.
And I want to invite you into this journey. Every chapter will uncover a piece of my truth and a piece of my dreams. Some stories will make you cry. Some may leave you with questions. And some… may feel like your own.
To anyone reading this — if you've ever felt lost, if you've ever looked up at the sky and asked, "Why me?" — know this:
You're not alone.
I don't have all the answers. But I believe, by writing, by sharing, by dreaming out loud — we can start to find some.
This is not fiction.
This is me.
My name doesn't matter yet. But maybe, by the end of this book, you'll know me not just by my pain, but by my strength.
And maybe, just maybe… you'll remember your own.