When he wraps up his day, he eats alone at the counter, scrolling through his phone like it’s the only companion he’s ever known. Then, it’s off to bed—late, of course, because he seems like the kind of guy who runs on nothing but sheer willpower and caffeine.
And no, I’m not a creep. If he had curtains, I wouldn’t know his smoothie schedule by heart.
There was this one time when I was absentmindedly staring out the window, and our eyes locked. Just for a second. His gaze was intense enough to make my heart stutter before he picked up his phone and quickly left the room.
But I’m not going to waste any more thoughts on this human. I have work to do, people to deal with, and deadlines to follow. I have a mountain of tasks demanding my attention, a stubborn manuscript refusing to cooperate, and a life I need to sort out.
My phone was blowing up with unread messages from Maggie—manager, damage control expert, and currently, one text away from a nervous breakdown:
Ten days, Kiara. Deliver the manuscript or face legal action.
Pick up your damn phone. If I don’t hear from you in the next 24 hours, I’m boarding the next flight.
Whatever happened, you can’t disappear. The world’s still moving. So should you.
France is escalating—it needs you.
Say something.
Even your therapist is worried. Call. Back. Now.
KIARA. We'll talk tonight. Or I show up.
Some days, I want to vanish off the face of the planet. For a few years. Or maybe a million.
I grabbed my laptop and sank into a deck chair, facing the horizon where the sun was slowly dissolving into the sea. The breeze kissed my skin, soft and warm, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close.
I closed my eyes. It’s Dad’s birthday today.
I’ve been trying to call him all morning. He hasn’t picked up. Not once. And I don’t know why I’m still trying. Maybe some stubborn, delusional part of me still hopes things might go back to normal—whatever that even means anymore.
But every unanswered call feels like a door slammed shut. Like a fresh reminder that the distance between us isn’t just emotional. It’s intentional.
I checked my phone again, but there was nothing. Not even a message.
Since the moment I was born thirty years ago, my dad and stepmom somehow managed to act like I didn't exist. I don't know why, but they've perfected the art of pretending I’m invisible, except for those rare occasions when they acknowledge me once or twice a year. My Mom died minutes after giving birth to me, and that was all the reason my dad needed to hate me. In his eyes, I was a curse, the bad luck that stole his wife away forever.
My friends were always envious of the extravagant gifts and lavish parties I had on my birthdays. They saw the glitter, the glamour… never the gutting loneliness underneath. The way I would unwrap those presents with tears in my eyes, knowing that once the party ended, everyone would return to their own lives. I’d be left alone, falling asleep on a pillow soaked in tears.
Roy was away at boarding school most of the time. I missed him deeply. Somewhere in the endless stretch of sleepless nights, I began to understand why my parents, especially my stepmother, resented me. Dad had been terrified of having another child after losing my mom during childbirth. It wasn’t just grief he felt—it was fear. In their eyes, I was the reason behind everything that had gone wrong. I was the reminder of what they had lost, the shadow of their pain.
Sometimes, I find myself yearning for something I know I can never have—memories of my mother. I wish I could remember the sound of her voice, the warmth of her touch, the way she might’ve smiled at me. What it would’ve been like to meet her, to know her, even for a moment. Would she have looked at me with the same coldness as my father does? Would she have hated me, too?
But there’s nothing.
It all began the first time they sent me away to boarding school. I was just five years old, barely old enough to understand what was happening. After only a few months, the school administration told my parents that I wasn’t suited for boarding life. They quoted, “She is not a boarding child.” God knows, that one sentence was enough to ignite my stepmother’s hatred for me. I remember the night clearly—the shouting, the way their voices cut through the walls. There was a huge fight, and I could hear their anger spilling out like poison.
I had been so homesick that I had fallen seriously ill. For weeks, I was under medical care. The next thing I knew, I was being taken far away from them and sent to live with my grandmother (Dadi), Shanti Randhawa. Without her, I don’t think I would have survived those years. She’s thefiercest woman I know—her strength held me together when my world was falling apart. Dadi became my everything—my rock, my protector—when I was practically without a family. I was raised by a parade of servants and staff, all under her watchful eye.
The hardest period of my life was my teenage years. I had these intense mood swings, and my anger was constantly simmering, always ready to explode. There were days I didn’t even recognize myself—my mind, my body, my emotions—everything was a tangled mess and I couldn’t make sense of any of it.
Even worse, I hated myself for how out-of-control I was, but I couldn’t do anything to stop it. Over time, sleepless nights became my new normal, where anxiety wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket, keeping me wide awake as my thoughts raced uncontrollably. And in those moments, all I wanted was to hold someone, to feel anchored to something real until the panic passed. All I craved was the comfort of touch, to cling to someone until I could finally catch my breath. But I was alone most of the time when Dadi was busy traveling for charity events.
I was teetering on the edge of rebellion, so close to spiraling out of control. That’s when I discovered writing. It became my escape. Whenever I felt overwhelmed with feelings I couldn’t handle, I’d grab a pen and a notebook and disappear into the words. I’d write and rewrite everything that was swirling in my mind, pouring my heart onto the pages. It was messy and raw, but it was mine. Writing became the only way I could make sense of the chaos inside me. It will always be my escape, the place where I can finally breathe, where I can still disappear when life gets too hard.
One day, I realized something unbelievable: I had accidentally written a book. I was only nineteen when I finished it, and it wasn’t until later that a Hollywood production house reached out, asking to buy the movie rights.
It’s been a long time—too long since I last published a book. I never imagined I’d be stuck in this never-ending cycle of this mental fog that’s been living rent-free in my life for months, slowly driving me insane. Every day feels like a battle. Finding the words that once came so easily now feels like pulling teeth. And my phone? It buzzes every other second—editors, publishers, pressure, pressure, pressure.
