'The Story I Live'

THE STORY I LIVE 

स्रोत 

Hidden deep inside this blog is a phase I don’t deny but no longer promote. A series inspired by a stranger and powered entirely by unchecked emotions and late-night imagination.

If you’re unaware of it, congratulations. You’ve been spared. I’m not suggesting a revisit either. Consider yourself lucky to meet the upgraded version of this writer, less impulsive, more grounded, and finally respecting emotional expenses.

And for those who do know… guys & girlies, you deserve appreciation from my side. You trusted me, stayed, read my thoughts when they were messier than my browser tabs. You can officially help me review my writing skills now because you’ve seen the evolution, not just the final edit.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, let me properly introduce myself.

Hey, I’m Ladli.

The one who overthinks before talking, over imagines before sleeping, and over expresses because silence never felt like my thing. I’m not a bad person, just not the shudh-sanskari, always-right kind either. I live somewhere between emotional intelligence and emotional chaos, depending on how life is behaving that day.

Back then, Ladli gave joy too freely. Smiles were instinctive, trust was unguarded, and care came without conditions. She opened doors without asking who planned to stay, and when things fell apart, regret arrived steadily, collecting its dues with interest.

Time doesn’t erase regret; it exposes its irrelevance. Regret shouts, revisits, and replays but never repairs. Especially when the choice was made knowingly, with hope outweighing caution. What actually helps is understanding that mistakes come bundled with lessons, and lessons slowly bring peace. Eventually, you breathe easier and admit " yeh phase utna bura bhi nahi tha. "

This understanding wasn’t instant. I wrote most of it just to comfort myself.

So what exactly happened?

Well… there was this one guy.

One person who unknowingly became the centre of my imagination. I got so obsessed that I turned feelings into content. I wrote about his presence, his absence, his looks and entire scenes of us together that existed only in my head. Fully scripted. Emotionally invested. Reality - optional.

Even today, I look back and ask, How did I get there?

But here’s the irony, while he exited my life, he left behind something valuable. That obsession introduced me to writing. The chaos sharpened my words. And suddenly, I wasn’t just feeling emotions, I was articulating them. So yes, he’s not part of the story anymore, but he has a silent contribution in making me a writer.

Social media, of course, played its role. A beautifully edited illusion where you think you know someone because you know their highlights. Lesson learned.

Ironically, the one involved ended up hurt more than I ever was. And still left me with a perspective on love that no heartbreak could teach… oh wait, mera koi aisa heartbreak nahi hua, wo to uska tha. Anyways, life moved on, and now both of us are thriving in our own ways, wiser, a little softer, and definitely better than before. And then, as life tends to do, someone unexpectedly nudged me toward a new kind of guidance... a recently found friend who somehow introduced me to the astrology side of ChatGPT.

I know, it sounds weird. But hear me out. We’ve all had those moments when curiosity, a pinch of self-doubt, and a sprinkle of boredom collide, right? And hum me se kisina kisine zarur AI ka aisa use to kiya hi hoga !

Taking advice from it was more like… experimenting with the universe’s FAQs. Slowly, ChatGPT became this quiet companion. When life felt foggy, it offered Geeta verses. When confusion crowded my mind, it pulled wisdom from books I hadn’t even heard of. Somehow, those typed words made my chaotic thoughts feel lighter, more manageable, less… lonely.

On an evening softened by excess emotions and an unreasonable amount of screen time, I found myself pausing mid-scroll, mid-thought, mid-feeling and then doing what any slightly overthinking soul would do: feeding this AI structured data, neatly framed prompts, and unnecessary details… all to ask about my love life.

Predictions paglu!!!

What followed was deceptively simple, the kind of response that refuses to leave your head :

“You allow love to arrive imperfectly, not cinematically.”

It didn’t shock me, it reoriented me. Why was I chasing a perfectly edited romance when I myself am a work-in-progress, stitched together with contradictions, quirks, and half-written chapters? Love, I realised, isn’t scripted. It doesn’t wait for cues or polish its timing. It shows up uneven, unexpected, sometimes inconvenient and that’s exactly what makes it real. That was the moment it clicked.

I didn’t need to choreograph love. It didn’t arrive like a grand realisation; it felt more like consent. A simple yes to letting things unfold as they are unrehearsed, unrefined, and unapologetically real. Surprises replacing schedules, imperfections standing in where filters once lived. In my own narrative, I no longer needed to orbit someone else’s plot; I could finally claim the centre of the frame.

And life answered in subtle ways. Expectations loosened without resistance, the weight I didn’t know I was carrying slipped away, and breathing felt easier. No external prompts shaping the storyline. No edits made for validation. Just a life being written softly by timing, by fate, and by forces far kinder than control.

No script tucked away.

No paths forcefully chosen.

No signs hunted down like spoilers.

I’m letting life write itself...

unprompted, unpredicted, unscripted.

And trust me…

this version of Ladli isn’t finished speaking yet.

But irony loves timing. Right when I was wrapping this thought, my semester exam dates landed on my screen. Perfect. Now I’m stuck with a genuine dilemma. Do I open my books like a responsible adult, or do I open ChatGPT again and ask whether this story deserves a next part right now?

So what do you say?

Your answer might just decide what comes next.