If someone had told me a few years ago that I'd be sitting on my couch, listening to my cousin read out hate reviews about my book while sipping coffee that had gone cold, I would've laughed in their face. And yet, here I was, questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.

"Aarushi Shekhar should stop writing books. Her recent books are trash!" Naveen read aloud, his voice dripping with exaggerated glee.

"Wow. Straight to the point," he added as a side comment before continuing. "Day by day, her books are becoming shittier and shittier."

I let out a long sigh, biting my nails nervously. Each review cut through me like a freshly sharpened knife, and Naveen, my dear cousin, seemed to be enjoying the bloodbath.

Even though I had once delivered bestsellers, my recent track record was a straight-up disaster. My last three books had flopped so hard that even my self-esteem had applied for permanent leave. And judging by these reviews, my fourth was following the same tragic fate.

"Even if someone paid me in crores to read this book again, I wouldn't dare."

Naveen let out a low whistle. "Damn, Aarushi. Even I would reread your books if someone paid me crores."

"Okay, you can stop pleasuring yourself by reading these reviews," I snapped, standing up and walking away. "There must be at least one or two people who actually liked it."

I was trying to sound nonchalant, but the truth was, I felt like someone had just pulled out my intestines and tied them into a decorative bow.

This morning, I had woken up with a mix of hope and anxiety to check the readers' responses. Naveen, ever the opportunist, had arrived at my apartment early, not to offer emotional support, but to gleefully witness my downfall firsthand.

Oh, and let's not forget the bet. Before the book release, we had made a bet—if my book flopped, I had to hand over my credit card to Naveen for unlimited spending. And well, here we were.

Grumbling, I walked to the drawer, pulled out my purse, and handed him the card. "Here. Don't buy anything stupid."

"Haan, so sweet of you," he said, flashing a toothy grin as he snatched it away like a kid who had just been given a lifetime supply of chocolates.

Sometimes, I really liked my cousin. Other times, I wished I could lightly stab him. Nothing fatal, just enough to make him reconsider his life choices.

Suddenly, my apartment door burst open, and in strode Sathish, my best friend and, unfortunately, the owner of my publishing house, BlueInk. He didn't even bother with a greeting—just picked up a pillow and threw it at me.

I barely managed to catch it before gaping at him in shock. "Sathish! What the hell?"

First of all, how did he get here so fast? Chennai traffic was practically an unsolvable puzzle, and yet this man had managed to teleport to my apartment within minutes of calling me.

Sathish stood there, hands on his hips, his perpetually frazzled curly hair making him look even more stressed. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've caused me? This is the fourth book in a row that has flopped! My investors are breathing down my neck!"

Naveen snickered beside me. "She's already down, Sathish. No need to kick her."

Ignoring him, Sathish continued, "Do you even know how much money I've lost? Aarushi, I am one step away from selling my kidneys!"

Okay, it was serious. He had activated the 'big boy tone'—a rare phenomenon reserved only for life-threatening situations, such as my books flopping harder than a fish out of water.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to keep my composure. "I'm sorry, Sathish. I really thought this one would do well."

Naveen, the ever-helpful little devil, chimed in, "Maybe it's time for a break. You've been writing non-stop for years. Maybe you need some time off to get your mojo back."

I shook my head. "I don't need a vacation. I just need to figure out what went wrong."

But even as I said the words, I knew the answer. My father's death, my third failed relationship (which, by the way, I was convinced was going to be my 'forever'), the betrayal of someone I had trusted blindly—everything had piled up. My mental health had taken a nosedive, and I had been too stubborn to acknowledge it.

Because admitting it would make it real. And I wasn't ready to face that reality.

Sathish sighed, rubbing his temples. "Aarushi, look at yourself. You're exhausted. Your writing is suffering. Go somewhere, recharge your soul, and come back with a fresh perspective."

I clenched my jaw, the frustration bubbling over. "I said I'm fine!" I snapped, standing up. "I don't need a break! I just need to work harder!"

With that, I stormed off to my room and slammed the door behind me. I leaned against it, my breath shaky. My vision blurred for a second, but I quickly blinked away the tears.

Not again.

From the other side of the door, I could hear Naveen and Sathish talking in hushed tones. Their concern was obvious, but I didn't want their pity. I didn't want their sympathy. I just wanted them to understand that I wasn't okay right now. But that didn't mean I had to admit it.

They knew—better than anyone—that I breathed through words. Writing wasn't just a career for me. It was how I survived.

I collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling more lost than ever. A couple of years ago, I had everything—or maybe I just thought I did. When had things started falling apart? Had I been too lost in my own grief to notice? Had I been too stubborn to accept that my writing was no longer the escape it used to be, but a prison I had locked myself into?

A sudden noise from the living room snapped me out of my thoughts. Naveen and Sathish were arguing—one about financial losses, the other about saving me from losing myself completely.

Both of them were right in their own way. But the problem was, I had lost the perspective to see it.

I wasn't just struggling to write a successful book. I was struggling to be me.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe they were right. Maybe I did need a break.

But how could I admit that—to them or to myself?

How could I face the reality that I was no longer the confident, successful author I once was?

I didn't have the answers.

But I knew one thing for sure—something had to change.

Before it was too late.