Prolouge : The Girl who Cries in the Rain
They say you should write what you know.
If you’ve read my other works—Little Princess, Sparsh, or The Shadow King’s Light—you probably think you know me. You think I’m a queen of shadows, someone who understands the mechanics of revenge and the cold silence of a locked room.
But there’s a secret behind those stories.
I wrote The Shadow King’s Light while listening to the most soul-aching Bollywood romantic ballads on repeat. I wrote about crime lords and “daddy dangerous” tropes while sitting in a conservative home where my most daring act was a “rare hi-bye” to the boy next door.
His name is Spandan.
In the story Sparsh, he’s the hero. He’s the one who breaks the rules, the one who saves the girl, the one who stays. In real life? He’s the neighbor I’ve known since we were kids playing with Beyblades—the one who grew up to be a beautiful, awkward stranger.
This isn’t a story about him, though. Not exactly.
This is a story about a boy who saw through the “Shadow King” and found the girl who was actually closest to Sparsh. A boy who was drowning in the monotony of reality—balance sheets, 2 AM library sessions, and bloodshot eyes—and decided that my words were the only thing worth breathing.
I’m 17. I write love that bleeds because, in my world, love is a quiet, protected thing. I cry when my protagonists cry because every tear on the page is a tear I haven’t been allowed to shed yet.
Welcome to the bridge between my fiction and my reality.
Prepare yourself. Because if you’re looking for a “torch-bearer of culture,” you’re in the wrong place. But if you’re looking for a soft heart with very sharp edges...
