Author Viara is not just a name. She is part Kshavi , part Kshayra - the girl I lost in candlelit corridors, the myth I stitched back together under rain-heavy nights. I keep my softness hidden like a wound that refuses to heal, a hush beneath my ribs that hums with blades. I write because I don't know how to bury my rage or my softness - so I stitch them into every word and hope you taste both when you read me. Some truths I leave raw, wine-dark, bruised green like midnight bruises blooming under a cathedral's breath. If you read closely enough, you'll hear the hush between storms, the pulse that stays even when the page goes quiet. If you stay - if you listen - you carry a piece of my storm inside your chest. That is all I ask. And all I promise.