They call it pichi rathalu.
They laugh. Say I’m wasting time.
Say I should just focus on studies, like everyone else.

But they don’t know.
They don’t know these pages hold my pain—
not drama, not attention-seeking.
Real pain. The kind that keeps you up at 2 AM.
The kind that chokes you when you're trying to smile.

I write because if I don’t, I’ll explode.
I write because it’s the only thing that listens without judgment.
Because no one asked me,
“What happened?”
They just said,
“Be strong.”
“Move on.”
“Stop being so emotional.”

So I bleed on paper.
That’s not madness. That’s survival.

Let them call it anything.
This—
this is the only thing keeping me alive.