My life was peaceful once — a calm cup of chai on a rainy afternoon, a playlist full of old ghazals, and not a single notification that made my heart race. And then, she walked in — with all the chaos of a missed deadline, a cracked phone screen, and an overboiled milk pan. She wasn’t a storm; no, storms are temporary. She’s the full-blown climate change of my existence. The kind who debates over pani puri vs. vadapav like it’s a national crisis, picks random fights only to end them with “kitni cute lagti ho gussa karte hue,” and thinks planning is for weaklings — “let’s just wing it” is her life motto.
She’s the walking, talking contradiction to my carefully structured world. And my no skin routine survives her unexpected pizza orders, my yoga mat lies untouched on days she decides we’re “escaping to the hills,” and my peace? It's now this strange blend of madness, mischief, and memories. She is the plot twist I never saw coming — not the heroine I asked for, but the one who brings laughter in my low days and dance moves in grocery aisles. Yes, she’s the moving chaos of my still life.
But somehow, in all that mess, she’s also my favorite scene.
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