I remember the moment I realized nothing was going to happen.
Not the dramatic kind of nothing.
No explosion. No goodbye.
Just the quiet violence of unanswered messages and a body that knew before the mind admitted it: this is it.
I replayed every sentence. Every pause. Every almost.
I told myself I could have spoken differently. Softer. Braver. Less available. Less intense. More mysterious. More patient. Less honest. Less me.
That’s when the question appeared—not as self-help, not as advice, but as an ache:
What could I have done differently?
It’s a seductive question. It implies control. It suggests that love is a chessboard, not a collision. That if we just move the right piece, the ending changes.
But here’s the truth most people don’t want to hear:
Sometimes the only thing you could have done differently
was leave the story earlier—
before it taught you everything it came to teach.
Finding Noir is not a book about how to get it right next time.
It’s a book about what happens when you stop editing yourself for an outcome that was never available.
It traces a connection that lived vividly in the interior world and failed spectacularly in the physical one. It explores twin flames, projection, longing, somatic memory, and the way absence can feel more intimate than presence. It refuses to tell you whether the connection was real, spiritual, imagined, karmic, or psychological—because the body doesn’t care what we name the wound.
This book doesn’t offer closure.
It offers recognition.
For anyone who has loved someone who never fully arrived.
For anyone who felt chosen in private and abandoned in reality.
For anyone who wonders whether depth itself is a liability in modern intimacy.
Finding Noir asks a quieter, more dangerous question:
What if you didn’t do anything wrong—
what if you were simply brave enough to feel everything?
And if that question unsettles you,
you might already be standing at the edge of this book.
Relationships that have a positive impact on me are those that feel like safe havens and secure bases—a delicate balance of comfort and challenge. They’re the connections that allow me to stay rooted in the rhythm of the ordinary while also encouraging me to dream beyond it. These relationships don’t demand perfection or performance; instead, they celebrate authenticity, resilience, and growth.
I think of the people who have shaped me in ways both profound and subtle. My parents, with whom I share a complex dance of tradition and individuality, have taught me the strength in cultural roots. Then there are friends like Loretta, who enter your life like a warm cup of tea on a rainy day, offering a quiet kind of wisdom that reshapes your understanding of love and support. Even the stories I’ve written—fictional characters like Noir and Kayra—feel like relationships in their own way, teaching me lessons about vulnerability, self-discovery, and spiritual connection.
But perhaps the most impactful relationship is the one I’ve built with myself. It hasn’t been easy; there were times I felt invisible or unheard, times when self-doubt crowded out self-love. Yet, through journaling, writing, and introspection, I’ve learned to treat myself with the same kindness and curiosity I offer to others. This relationship has taught me that I’m allowed to evolve, to dream of lives that feel far from my current reality, and to embrace every cliché along the way.
These relationships—be they with family, friends, fictional creations, or myself—aren’t about grand gestures or perfect harmony. They’re about showing up, being present, and holding space for growth. They’re about finding the people and moments that make you feel both grounded and limitless. And that’s exactly the kind of connection I hope to inspire through Diary of Clichés—because sometimes, the most impactful relationships start with a simple story.
Through the pages of Diary of Clichés, I invite readers to examine the relationships in their own lives—those with others, with their dreams, and most importantly, with themselves. We often overlook the quiet, everyday connections that shape us in profound ways, just as we dismiss clichés as trivial. But within those seemingly mundane expressions and encounters lie universal truths, the kind that make you pause, reflect, and perhaps even smile knowingly.
For me, the act of writing became a bridge between who I was and who I wanted to be. It gave me permission to explore the dichotomy of my dreams and reality—the Silicon Valley high-rise life I once imagined versus the cultural rootedness of my middle-class existence in India. It helped me reconcile the feelings of being torn between wanting adventure and craving stability, between daring to embrace the extraordinary and finding peace in the ordinary.
And isn’t that what relationships, at their best, do for us? They challenge us to grow while reminding us of where we came from. They hold up a mirror, showing us our potential even as they ground us in our flaws. They allow us to be both dreamers and doers, to straddle the line between ambition and contentment.
Some relationships feel fleeting yet transformative, like my brief encounters with new friends or even strangers who left a lasting impression. Others are steady and enduring, like the bond I’ve built with my family and closest confidants. And then there’s the complex, layered relationship I have with myself—a work in progress, but one that grows richer with each page I write, each story I tell.
Through this journey, I’ve learned that relationships with a positive impact are not always easy or straightforward. They can be messy, imperfect, and sometimes even painful. But they’re also where we find our strength, our joy, and our purpose. Whether it’s the parent who teaches resilience, the friend who listens without judgment, or the diary that silently absorbs your thoughts, these relationships shape the story of who we are.
So, when I think about the question, “What relationships have a positive impact on you?” I realize it’s not about the grand gestures or dramatic declarations. It’s about the quiet moments of connection, the spaces where you feel seen, heard, and valued. It’s about the people and experiences that help you uncover your authentic self, even if that journey takes you through heartbreak, healing, and a healthy dose of clichés.
And as I continue to write, dream, and reflect, I hope that Diary of Clichés becomes a positive relationship for others—a companion to those navigating the twists and turns of life, offering solace, laughter, and perhaps a new way of seeing the world. Because at the heart of it all, that’s what relationships are meant to do: remind us that we’re never alone, that our stories matter, and that there’s always beauty to be found in the chaos of life.
The streets of Chicago pulsed with life, but Kayra hardly noticed the thrumming energy around her. Dressed in a flowing golden saree, her heels clicked softly against the pavement of the Riverwalk. The warm breeze danced along her skin, lifting the edges of her pallu as her husband, Maes, draped his jacket over her shoulders. His gesture was comforting, grounding, yet her heart beat erratically, stirred by an undercurrent she couldn’t name.
She looked up at him, his warm, kind eyes gazing back with unwavering devotion. “What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice steady and reassuring.
“Just… how far we’ve come,” she replied, smiling faintly. It was true. Maes had been her anchor, her safe harbor. He was her now, her always. And yet…
Her thoughts scattered as they reached the bridge overlooking the shimmering water. For a moment, time seemed to still. A man stood at the edge of the walkway, his silhouette sharp against the backdrop of the city lights. Her breath caught, her hand instinctively clutching Maes’s arm.
“Noir,” she whispered before she could stop herself.
The man turned at the sound of his name, his dark eyes locking onto hers. The air between them crackled, as if the universe itself held its breath. Kayra felt her knees weaken, her past rushing to the forefront of her mind. His gaze was the same—piercing, magnetic, and devastatingly familiar.
“Kayra,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the city, yet it echoed through her entire being.
Maes glanced between them, his brow furrowing. “You know him?”
Kayra hesitated, but Noir stepped forward, extending a hand to Maes with an ease that belied the tension crackling around them. “Noir,” he said smoothly. “An old friend.”
Friend. The word lingered in the air like smoke, taunting her. Noir’s hand was firm as Maes shook it, and Kayra’s heart ached at the sight of them together—a man who held her present and a man who had once held her soul.
“We should go,” Kayra said quickly, pulling Maes’s arm. She couldn’t endure this. Not here. Not now.
But Maes was nothing if not gracious. “Nonsense. Join us for a drink, Noir.”
Kayra froze, her mind racing. Noir’s lips curved into a faint smile as he nodded. “It would be my pleasure.”
The bar was intimate, dimly lit with flickering candles casting shadows on the walls. Kayra sat stiffly, her fingers wrapped around her glass of wine as Maes and Noir exchanged pleasantries. She barely heard the conversation, too aware of Noir’s presence, the way his eyes lingered on her, burning through the space between them.
“Chicago suits you,” Noir said suddenly, his voice low, directed at her.
Her throat tightened. “Does it?” she replied, her voice barely steady.
Maes glanced at her, then at Noir, sensing the tension but unable to decipher it. “So, how do you two know each other?”
Kayra opened her mouth, but Noir spoke first. “We met years ago. A chance encounter.” His gaze held hers, unflinching. “One I’ve never forgotten.”
Her chest constricted, her breath shallow. The wine in her glass rippled as her hand trembled. “We should leave. It’s late.”
Maes frowned, concerned, but Noir stood, his movements smooth and deliberate. “I should be going anyway,” he said, his tone calm but his eyes telling another story entirely.
Maes extended a hand once more. “It was good to meet you, Noir.”
Noir shook it, his fingers brushing hers as he reached for his coat. The touch was brief, but it sent a shiver down her spine. As he walked away, he turned back once, his gaze lingering on her. It was a look that spoke volumes—of unfinished stories, of love unspoken yet deeply felt.
Kayra watched him go, her chest heavy with emotions she couldn’t name. She felt Maes’s hand on hers, grounding her, anchoring her. But her soul—it was still with Noir, somewhere in the space between what was and what could have been.
This was just the beginning. A collision of past and present. A spark reignited.
Would Kayra surrender to the safety of her now or risk everything for the fire of a love she thought she’d lost forever?
