EVEN THE STARS LIED VOLUME-I

“Even the stars lied—promising light in the dark, yet leaving me lost in shadows.”



                        DEDICATION 


To my universal home, Pratap —
thank you for bringing a writer to life in me, for walking beside me while I found myself on the page.


                      ACKNOWLEDGEMENT 


Writing this book has been more than just a journey of words—it has been a journey of self-discovery. I would first like to thank God for giving me the strength and the courage to pour my heart onto these pages.

To my universal home, Pratap—thank you for believing in me when I doubted myself, for awakening the writer within me, and for being my constant source of love and inspiration. Without you, this book would not have found its voice.

To my family, who have stood by me through every storm, your patience and unconditional love have been my safe harbor.

To my friends, who encouraged me, listened to my endless ideas, and reminded me to never give up—your support means more than words can hold.

Lastly, to my readers—thank you for opening your hearts to my story. This book belongs as much to you as it does to me.




    Chapter one :  ISABELLA [Echoes in the.                                  Quiet]


Pain doesn’t ask permission—it creeps in quietly, then stays like it belongs. It kills you from the inside first, stripping pieces of you until only a shell is left to walk, to talk, to breathe. People see you moving, smiling even, but they don’t see the funeral that takes place within you every single day. That’s the tragedy of pain—it makes you feel dead, yet forces you to keep living.

"Izz ! " a familiar voice called out from behind, pulling me out of my thoughts. I hated that feeling—the intrusion, the sudden break in the quiet space I tried to build inside my own mind. It was as if I could never have a room of my own, a corner where my thoughts and my inner self were safe from the world’s interruptions. And that was what I disliked the most—not the voice, not the person, but the way silence was always stolen from me.

My eyes shifted slightly, narrowing at first before recognition softened my expression. It was Shania—though she preferred to be called Shan, a name she carried with a kind of playful pride because she thought it sounded sassier, sharper, more her.

Shan had been my bestie ever since kindergarten, the one constant thread woven through all the changing seasons of my life. With her nonstop yapping that could fill an entire room, she had this uncanny way of making silence feel foreign. I had spent years listening to her chatter—sometimes amused, sometimes exhausted—but always comforted by the fact that no matter what, her voice was there. She was the noise that steadied my quiet, the chaos that somehow felt like home.

"Ah, Shan… you’re here," I murmured, caught in that peculiar mix of confusion and relief, as if every unexpected moment with her blurred the edges of my world.

"Yeah, Izz—don’t look so shocked," Shan said, a grin tugging at her lips, half-scolding, half-teasing. "I know I’m ruining your precious alone time, but I couldn’t just let you roam the street like a lost little puppy."

There were countless reasons to clash with her, yet my heart always wandered a different path. Emotions often outweighed logic, love hushed my anger, and affection quietly outshone pride. Even when sharp words lingered, the bond between us whispered that peace—shared and gentle—was far more precious than any victory.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around Shan, clinging as if this hug alone could lift the haze clouding my mind. “Oh, Shan… I needed this more than I can say,” I whispered into the warmth of Shania’s jacket.

"Mm, this feels so cozy. I’m completely at ease, Shan," I sighed, my voice soft with relief. Then a mischievous grin spread across my face. "But you know what would make it even cozier? Me squishing your face just like this."

Shan pressed her palms gently against my cheeks, and I felt my face flush. "See? All red… as if it couldn’t resist making you look happy for me."

I groaned, half-laughing. "Shan, you’re impossible. Do you ever get tired of turning me into your personal stress ball?"

"Nope," Shan replied with mock pride. "You’re my therapy, and honestly, you should be honored—only the best get their faces squished by me."

"You’re totally crazy, and yet… it’s fine."

Shan rolled her eyes but smiled—the kind of smile that softened every edge of the moment. "You’re ridiculous… but also kind of right. Honestly, I’d take this over any serious talk right now."

Shan leaned back, eyes locked on mine, a sly grin tugging at her lips. "See? I told you—I don’t argue, I cure. Think of me as your official happiness doctor… or your very own personal therapist, available 24/7."

We laughed in unison, the sound mingling with the warmth of the moment. But before I could respond, my phone buzzed sharply against my pocket. I pulled it out, the glow of the screen slicing through our little cocoon of coziness. A message flashed across the display: “Come home soon, sweetheart. Don’t be late.” It was from my mom. My smile faltered for a moment—reality creeping back in. The comfort of Shan’s arms and the playful bubble we’d created suddenly felt fragile, like it could shatter if I moved too quickly.

The sigh that slipped from my lips this time wasn’t relaxed—it carried a pinch of frustration, the kind that comes when a little therapy session gets abruptly cut short. “Well… looks like our mini therapy session just got interrupted,” I muttered, showing Shan the text. Her eyes followed the screen, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, so the world demands your attention now, huh? Guess I’ll have to settle for being your stress antidote another time.”

I stared at my phone longer than I should have, my thumb frozen above the screen. "You know what’s funny, Shan?" I whispered, the grin I’d worn moments ago dissolving into something heavier. "They act like perfect parents in front of everyone—polite, flawless. People think I’m lucky… but the moment I step inside, the mask falls. Mom shuts down, silent and distant, and Dad…" I bit my lip, swallowing the knot in my throat. "Dad’s voice is the first thing I hear, yelling at me for the smallest things. Always something. No one sees that side of them. No one sees how it drags me down every single day."


Shan’s expression softened, the teasing completely gone. She reached out and squeezed my hand gently, grounding me in the moment. "I’m sorry, Izzy," she said softly, her voice steady. "You don’t deserve that… none of it. But… this is life, I guess. And sometimes, it’s unfair. Just… know that you don’t have to face it alone."


I forced a crooked smile, shrugging as if I could brush it off, though the motion felt weak. "It’s fine… I’ve gotten used to it," I whispered, my voice fragile. I gestured between us, letting the quiet speak. "Moments like this… they mean everything to me. They remind me there’s a version of life that isn’t so fake… one that feels real, warm… like this." Shan squeezed my hand again, her touch steady, and I felt a small, rare spark of peace ripple through me—like maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to face the world alone.

The phone buzzed again, cutting through the quiet. I glanced down at the screen to see my mom’s second message glowing back at me: “Come home now. It’s quite late.” The words felt heavier this time, a reminder that the cozy bubble I’d been wrapped in was about to burst, and reality was waiting just beyond the door.

The moment I pushed open the door, the air seemed to change. The warmth and safety of Shan’s hug evaporated, replaced by the cold edge of my father’s voice. “You think this is a hotel?” he snapped, the words slicing through the walls. “Walking in late like you own this place! This isn’t your house—it’s your father’s. And you’ll follow the rules… and the timing, whether you like it or not.”

I paused, gripping my bag tightly, wanting to speak… to explain, to justify, to be heard. But I held back. I knew, deep down, that no matter what I said, it would never matter. Being expressive here made no sense; words would vanish into the air, powerless against his anger.

From the living room, my mother’s voice cut through, sharp and questioning. “Why are you so late? What were you doing outside? It’s not safe for a girl to be out at this hour!” Before I could even respond, my father’s voice thundered over hers. “I made the biggest mistake putting you into St. Xavier’s College. What do you even do there, Izzy?”

Mom jumped in again, her tone a mixture of frustration and disbelief. “College, friends, hanging out, wasting time? Is that all? Nothing else? When do you even have time for anything at home?” 

It seemed my father had no intention of stopping, his voice sharp and relentless. “You’re 18, and yet here you are, wasting your time doing nothing like this! Do something with your life! Build something of your own instead of depending on your parents for everything!” 

The barrage of voices pressed down on me, relentless and suffocating, leaving no room for explanation or breathing. Every word felt like an accusation, every pause a judgment I couldn’t escape.

As his lips parted, no sound came out. The reality was almost laughable—She barely had friends. An introvert, quiet, always on the edges, keeping her head down, attending classes, and slipping back home without a trace. But saying that aloud? Pointless. They had already written her role in the story, and no explanation, no protest, could ever rewrite it. Her reality didn’t matter—they’d already decided what it looked like, and she was trapped in the margins of their version of her life.

*Her father, still holding the newspaper, spoke over the table in a clipped, practiced tone. “Are you just going to stand there and stare, or will you go freshen up and join us for dinner? And if you don’t want to, fine—just sleep, okay?” His words carried the blunt precision of someone who had repeated this command a hundred times, losing any trace of warmth or thoughtfulness.

Her mother cut in, her voice softer but equally decisive. “I think she’s already eaten outside. I don’t think she’ll want any home-cooked food.”

*I stood there, gripping the edge of my bag, fighting back the tears I refused to let fall. “I’m full,” I lied before I could stop myself, my voice tasting dry and flat, like paper. My stomach twisted in protest, each step toward the stairs heavier than the last.

From the living room, my mother, Sybil, didn’t miss a beat. Her words came sharp and fast, slicing through the air like practiced arrows. “Don’t waste our money eating out!” she snapped, her voice rising with that unmistakable tone of righteous authority only an Indian auntie could wield. “If you want to eat, then work and buy your own food! Then maybe you’ll understand what your father struggles with, and what I endure slogging away all day!”*

Those words cut sharper than needles. My feet felt borrowed, heavy and reluctant, as I trudged upstairs. Once inside my room, I let the door click shut behind me, the sound sealing me away from the world. My bag hit the bed with a tired thud, and I collapsed beside it, surrendering to the sobs I had held back. Not the loud, cinematic kind—these were the slow, winter-slow sobs that seemed to squeeze the very breath from my chest. 

“Oh God… why?” I whispered between shuddering breaths. “Why do I have to endure this… every single time?” My chest ached, and the walls of my room felt smaller, pressing in, as if the weight of their words had followed me here, relentless and unyielding.*

I sank onto the edge of my bed, whispering to myself, “Sometimes the loneliest place isn’t an empty street… it’s a crowded home where no one truly sees you.” My fingers traced the edge of the blanket, and I added quietly, almost to convince myself, “And yes… this is my home.” The words felt hollow, yet strangely comforting—a fragile acknowledgment of where I belonged, even when belonging felt like a lonely burden.

I pressed my palms against my stomach and felt the hollow there—not just hunger, but a deeper emptiness, a space where comfort should have been. It wasn’t just food I craved; it was warmth, safety, a quiet reassurance that someone cared. The hollowness settled like a weight, heavy and unyielding, pressing against my ribs as if reminding me of everything I had to carry alone.

The image that came to me was ugly and honest—rats scurrying through a dark cellar, desperate for anything that could fill them. That’s how my anger felt: no drama, no flourish, just a yawning, restless business of survival. I pulled out my diary, the little book that had been my refuge for years, and flipped to an empty page. In that blank space, I suddenly felt the safest place in the world, a fragile sanctuary where nothing could touch me and every word I wrote could be mine alone.

Dear Diary,

It’s been such a long day. Everything feels louder than it should—my parents’ voices in the house, the wind pressing against my ribs like it’s trying to shake something loose. They think I’m just playing at life—college, friends, fun. If only I could show them the truth.

How I shrink into the back row during lectures, hiding from every pair of eyes. How I bury myself in a quote and read until the library closes, finding refuge in someone else’s words. I don’t have those effortless friends they imagine; I have a few, just a few.

They see my name and assume my story is written, but it’s never theirs to tell. Every time the world asks me to live someone else’s narrative, I feel impossibly small.

I wish I could be seen—not for what they think I am, but for what I am. For the quiet corners I retreat to, for the words that keep me alive when no one is watching.

The rain taught me something. It doesn’t fall because it wants to—it falls because it can no longer bear the weight of its own heaviness. Tears are the same. They don’t seek attention; they come quietly, because the heart can hold its burdens no longer.

I am hungry. Hungry for food, yes, but hungrier still for something far rarer—a voice that whispers, I see you, a hand that lingers instead of pulling away, a name that doesn’t echo as a complaint. I don’t know if asking for such things is too much. Perhaps it is. Perhaps it always will be. And yet… even in that uncertainty, even in the quiet ache of longing, I cannot stop reaching for it.*

     - Izzy 

I wrote until the page blurred, ink bleeding like quiet rebellion. No shouting, no slammed doors—just lines that claimed a space no one else could touch. The room felt emptier, yes, but it was heavy in its own way—a ledger of quiet victories, tiny resistances, survival in a world that demanded my silence.

I closed the diary slowly, pressing it to my chest as if it could shield me from the world outside. For a fleeting moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to be truly brave—slipping a note onto the dining table, the words trembling but honest, then walking out the front door with nothing but the weight of possibility ahead.

In my mind, someone was waiting at the corner—a familiar silhouette, a smile that promised warmth without judgment. The image was fragile, almost laughably impossible, yet it glowed so brightly against the gray edges of my reality that it hurt to look at. My chest ached with the sweetness of it, a dangerous, beautiful kind of hope that felt both forbidden and essential.
I pressed my hands tighter around the diary, knowing I couldn’t leave—not yet—but savoring the fleeting taste of freedom, the spark of a life where my voice might finally carry, and my footsteps might echo somewhere safe.

Somehow, between the damp window and the thin blanket, I decided—though I didn’t have words for it yet—that this wouldn’t be surrender. No, it would be storage. I would gather the small mercies like contraband, tuck them carefully into the pockets of my chest, and carry them forward one quiet, deliberate breath at a time.

A single line rose from the bottom of the page I had been writing on, clinging stubbornly to my mind as I drifted toward sleep. It was a line that felt like it belonged only to me, a fragment of truth stitched into the quiet of the night.

Hearts are funny. They can live in two rooms at once—one room everyone else sees, polished and performative, and another room that only I inhabit, private and unshared, where the colors and words breathe freely, untouched by judgment.


My thoughts kept circling, relentless and uninvited. How does a broken heart weep when the body continues its motions, but the soul has died a thousand quiet deaths? The world calls it living, but it feels more like inhaling torment, one heavy breath after another, each silence amplifying the screams that no one can hear.

To live with a shattered heart is to carry a grave inside your chest while still being expected to smile, to eat, to answer questions, to exist as if nothing is broken. It is to perform normalcy on a stage no one asked you to join, with every act of pretending heavier than the last.
Sometimes, I imagine the heart itself as a cavern, hollowed by grief, echoing with the faint whispers of all that has been lost. Each beat is a reminder, a soft but unyielding drum of absence. Each memory a shadow that stretches across the present, dimming the colors of the day.

As someone once said, sleep is the only escape for those whose hearts are louder than their voices. And yet, even sleep can be treacherous—dreams twist around the grief you try to hide, turning quiet nights into landscapes of sorrow. Still, it is the nearest thing to release, the closest I can get to shedding the weight I carry without shame or interruption.

Perhaps that is what survival is: not fixing the heart, not silencing its cracks, but learning to walk with the cavern inside you, carrying it gently, one fragile, breath-heavy step at a time.


There is no bruise darker than the one the heart conceals,
No silence louder than the one the soul carries alone,
No weight heavier than a name uttered without love,
No hunger deeper than the hunger for solace, for quiet reprieve,
And no torment crueller than existing while already feeling gone.

There are nights when the chest aches as if it holds a storm,
and days when the air itself feels too sharp to breathe.

The world expects smiles, conversations, motion—but it does not see the fractures beneath,
does not hear the quiet avalanche of sorrow that crashes behind closed eyelids.

And still, we endure. Somehow, we endure,
collecting fragments of light like contraband,
treasures small enough to hold in our palms,
promises whispered by the wind, the rain, a book, a hand held briefly—
these are the only stitches we have for a heart so tender it could shatter at the brush of a word.

    - Sylvia Eaton 

I lay back against the pillow, letting the shadows of my room settle around me like old friends. The walls, once so close and pressing, felt softer now—not because anything had changed outside, but because I had allowed myself to carry something small, something mine. A word. A line. A thought that refused to vanish.

And in that small, private sanctuary, I understood something: survival isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just the quiet act of keeping your own light alive, one fragile flicker at a time.

The world outside would not pause, would not soften—but here, in this room, I could.  I could be both broken and unbroken at once. Here, I could breathe without apology, and for a moment, that was enough.

Tomorrow would come with its sharp edges, its expectations, its voices—but tonight, I was mine. And sometimes, that was the greatest rebellion of all.

I closed my eyes, letting the weight of everything rest for just a heartbeat, and whispered to myself: I am still here. I am still me. And somehow, that is enough.





Chapter  2 : Aaviyan