There are some books you don’t read — they read you. They peel you open like an orange, sting the soft inner parts you thought you’d hidden well, and leave you sitting in silence long after the final page has closed. The Bell Jar is that kind of book. I picked it up on a tired Tuesday night, expecting a literary classic with polite gloom, maybe a sprinkle of poetic sadness. Instead, it dragged me by the collar straight into the suffocating hush of a mind unravelling — and I’m

The other night, I found myself lying awake long after I had turned the last page of Misunderstood: A Guide to Mental Wellness by Sree...

There are some books that don’t just whisper stories—they wrap you in their silence until you feel it pressing against your skin. Aparna...

A few weeks ago, I watched a toddler at a café being spoon-fed by his mother. In one hand, she held a small bowl; in the other, an iPhone...

Imagine stumbling upon a hidden stash of letters, each one a window into the soul of someone teetering on the edge of despair. This is...