"White It's 2 a.m., and once again, I'm here, writing in the soft, muted glow of my phone screen. I'm lost in a certain genre of music, one that I'll keep unnamed as if keeping it secret might somehow shield me from the thoughts that keep me up at night. The darkness outside mirrors the void within me, a void that has grown wider and more consuming with each passing day. It's as though every moment that goes by adds another layer of something I can’t quite put into words—a kind of void that keeps expanding inside me. They say time heals all wounds, but what if time is the wound itself, slowly etching away at me, carving out pieces of who I am until there's nothing recognizable left? Yet, despite it all, we carry on, don’t we? We stand tall because that’s what’s expected of us—we put on this façade of being unbreakable, hoping that if we pretend long enough, maybe, just maybe, it’ll become our reality. ©Gargi Banerjee"