MAP OF MY SOUL

So I sat down to revise Electromagnetic Induction, Alternating Current , and Magnetic Materials  for my test tmrw like a serious NEET aspirant™… But somehow, I ended up diagnosing fictional men using Physics and overthinking Jungkook’s stare again. Turns out, I wasn’t studying. I was just getting emotionally manipulated by science . Let’s break this chaos down. EMI: Emotionally Manipulated Interactions In simple terms? You expose a coil to a changing magnetic field → an EMF (electromotive force) is induced. In not-so-simple, k-drama-warped , BTS-ARMY-core terms? You expose me to a scene where Jungkook looks at the camera like he knows my trauma → an Emotional Breakdown is induced. Lenz’s Law but Make it K-Drama Lenz’s Law says the induced current always opposes the change . So like— When a K-drama couple goes from enemies to lovers in 1 episode and your single brain short-circuits? Your brain tries to resist the emotions, but fails miserably. That’s Lenz’s Law. You = c...

  I grew up hearing stories most kids didn’t. Stories about broken stretchers, hospital calls in the middle of dinner, newborns saved in the nick of time, and night shifts that made my parents forget what the sun looked like. My mom’s a pediatrician. My dad’s a dermatologist. I’ve seen white coats hung beside schoolbags. Heard case studies over breakfast. Smelled antiseptic before I knew what it was. But now—it'll be  my turn. And I wondered: will MBBS at places like AIIMS or JIPMER be the life I’ve dreamed of? Spoiler alert: it won’t. It’ll be worse. And it’ll be so much better . IT GOES ON LIKE THIS............  The War Begins: Year One You walk in like the main character—aced NEET, carrying dreams and dopamine. Until reality slaps. Anatomy doesn’t care about your passion. Biochem laughs at your confidence. You’re suddenly in a hall with cadavers, trembling fingers, and the realisation that you're not a topper anymore—you’re everyone . The nights get long. Slee...

  (scribbled somewhere above the clouds) It’s not even the plane. It’s before that. When the announcements start, when they stamp your passport, when your parents’ faces start shrinking in your rearview, when your best friend texts "call me when you land" and you don’t even know how to reply because you’re already crying, but the tears haven’t fallen yet. It’s like you’re walking underwater. Everything around you is moving normally, but you —you’re floating inside your own chest. And it’s loud. And quiet. And so much . You’re not just leaving a country. You’re leaving versions of yourself you’ll never meet again. The one who sat on the terrace crying and ranting about nothing and everything. The one who danced wildly at 2 a.m. The one who laughed until she forgot she was tired. The one who loved too quickly, forgave too deeply, stayed too long. The one who used to whisper to herself, “One day I’ll get out. One day I’ll be more than this.” And now… you are ...

there’s something heavy about being “the one who gets it.” people around you don’t even say it anymore — it’s just… expected. you’re the one who won’t argue. the one who’ll take the high road. the one who’ll suppress the scream, wipe your own tears, and get back to studying like nothing happened. and yeah, okay — i do get it. i am mature. i am focused (most days). i’m preparing for NEET, and it’s not a joke. i’ve seen people break down under the pressure of it, and i know i don’t have the luxury to fall apart. but… does that mean i can’t smile without guilt? does that mean i can’t want things other than a college seat and a “secured future”? because i swear, it feels like the second i even breathe outside of the bubble — if i laugh too hard, watch a kdrama, dance too much, text someone for too long, or god forbid, fall for someone — it’s like i’m failing some invisible test everyone’s watching me take. and i'm just… tired. and then there’s the whole eldest siblin...

  I used to think I couldn’t be loved. Not because I wasn’t good enough — but because the world told me I wasn’t allowed to be. Too dark. Too loud. Too boyish. Too stubborn. Too real . I was stuck between two versions of me — The “perfect girl” they wanted, and the wild heart screaming to break free. My parents judged me. Society boxed me in. Even my own friends wore masks of acceptance, then whispered behind mine. “Why do you listen to that kind of music?” “Why don’t you dress more like a girl?” “You need to stop complaining. No one wants to hear it.” Their words felt like chains. Ever felt that? Like simply being is an offense? Like you're not allowed to be human unless you edit yourself first? I’ve seen seniors told to “fix” their hair just to get a job. I’ve watched people’s DMs flood with hate just for existing outside the algorithm’s aesthetic. I’ve felt the sting of being the only dark-skinned girl in a room — and the silence after someone says, “Yo...