I'm not the kind of girl who turns heads when I walk into a room—at least not right away. Curvy. Chubby. Average in looks, as most would casually label me. I've heard it all, felt it all. The lingering stares, the sideways glances, the not-so-subtle advice about "doing something" about my weight.

But if you give me a moment—just one—I promise you'll see something far more radiant than a sculpted jawline or a waist that vanishes into jeans.
You'll see me.

I am sunshine. The kind that sneaks through stormy clouds, wraps around people like a warm shawl, and makes even the most sour face crack into a smile. I laugh easily—loud, full-bodied laughter that fills rooms and hearts. My grin is wide, my heart even wider. And yes, I'm clumsy as hell.

I trip over invisible lines. I knock over glasses, vases, sometimes entire trays of food. I've spilled coffee on my professor's desk, slipped on perfectly dry floors, and once managed to walk into a transparent glass door. Twice.

But somehow, people don't roll their eyes. They laugh with me. Because I own it.

I live in a beautiful chaos of a house, filled with voices, smells, and too much love. My dad is my biggest supporter and my loudest scolder. He'll pull me into a hug one second and lecture me the next, all with equal amounts of affection.
Then there's my elder brother—the so-called head of the family. He's all rules and responsibilities, firm voice and firmer opinions. His word is law, and he takes that throne seriously.

My bhabhi, though? She's my soft place. My bestest friend. The person I call when I ruin my eyeliner, or when I need to vent about life being unfair. She knows all my secrets. She keeps them, too.

And then... there's her. My younger sister. The little gremlin who mocks me, steals my tops, hides my makeup, and calls me "Motu" with an evil grin.
God help me, I want to scratch her face sometimes.
But say one wrong word about her, and I'll bite your head off.

I've just graduated college. The real world is here, staring me down. I'm job hunting, sending out resumes with fingers crossed and dreams in my chest. Big ones. Ones that make my heart skip when I think about them too long.

Also... I've started working out.
Because everyone—from aunties at weddings to strangers on Instagram—seems to think I need to be "healthier." That I need to change.
But here's the thing—I like me. Most days, anyway. I like my softness. My mess. My loud laugh and my belly jiggle and the way my arms hold warmth like a hug.

I may not be the world's idea of beauty.
But I am mine.

I bend. I wobble. I fall, sometimes hard. I get mocked, I get underestimated, I get told what I should be.

But I'm still here.
And I'm not done yet.

This isn't a story about what I look like......It's about who I am.

And darling—I am just getting started.

I swear my specs have a secret life of their own. One second they're on my face, and the next—they're hanging half off my ear like they're trying to run away from me.

"Tripti! For God's sake, adjust your glasses before they fall into the chutney!" my brother Rajan barks from the head of the table, looking horrified.

Too late.

Plop.

Everyone stares at the green coconut chutney with an odd silence. My specs sit there, smug, coated in coriander.

"Oops." I grin, plucking them out delicately. "Extra flavor?"

Bhabhi bursts out laughing from the kitchen. "Remind me never to sit next to you during breakfast again."

Papa, already halfway through his paper, just sighs into his tea. "Beta, please buy a chain for your spectacles or get them fitted. This is the third time this week."

"It's my signature style, Papa. Who needs perfect vision when I've got vibes?"

My little sister, Sneha, chimes in from the end of the table. "Yeah, you've got clumsy clown vibes, Didi."

I reach for a paratha to throw at her, but bhabhi smacks my hand playfully with a spatula. "No paratha violence at the table!"

The buttered paratha, now dangerously slippery, slips right off the plate and lands on the floor with a dramatic flop.

I blink at it. "It sacrificed itself."

Papa shakes his head like a man who's given up on understanding his own daughter. "Tripti, I pray for the future employer who hires you. And his insurance policy."

Bhabhi passes me another paratha. "She may break things," she says fondly, "but she fixes people."

And just like that, I melt a little.

Rajan clears his throat and glances at me. "Any updates on your job applications?"

My heart skips. "Two rejections. One no-response. And a scam call asking for my Aadhaar and Netflix password."

Sneha snorts. "Did you give it?"

"I gave your number."

Everyone laughs.

My specs—traitorous little things—begin sliding again. I push them up lazily with my pinky finger. I probably look like a half-blind baby owl. But honestly? Who cares.

This is my circus. My chaos. My people.

And I wouldn't trade them for all the perfect vision and stability in the world.

Evening , my best friend call and we decided to have a cup of tea. I reached the coffee shop on time.

"Tripti, please just for once—don't spill anything, break anything, or fall on someone," my best friend Riya mutters, hands on her hips as we enter the café.

"I make no promises," I reply solemnly, pushing my ever-sliding specs back up the bridge of my nose.

We step inside, and instantly I feel like I've walked into a Pinterest board. Warm wooden tables, jazz music, fairy lights... and a very attractive waiter who smiles at me.

I smile back.

Then I promptly trip over the doormat.

"Ma'am!" the poor guy gasps, rushing forward as I stumble awkwardly into the side of a chair, knocking over a perfectly innocent water jug on a nearby table.

Water. Everywhere.

"Wow," Riya whispers beside me. "A whole minute. That's a record."

The waiter hands me a napkin. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

"I'm fine. Just helping the floor stay hydrated," I say cheerfully, drenched specs dangling from one ear.

He blinks. Then laughs. "Let me clean this up for you."

I slide into a chair, grinning at Riya who just shakes her head, trying not to laugh. "One day, you'll fall into the arms of some hot guy and he'll fall in love with you out of pity," she teases.

"One can hope."

We order cold coffee and fries. I somehow manage to drop half a fry into my own lap and send the ketchup bottle flying with a single flick of my wrist. It lands with a splat on the next table.

Cue gasps. A toddler giggles. I offer a napkin. The ketchup victim accepts with a confused smile.

Meanwhile, my specs? Hanging diagonally off my face like they've given up.

"I should get contacts," I sigh, sipping my coffee.

"You'd poke your own eye out in five minutes," Riya deadpans.

"Fair."

We spend the next hour gossiping, giggling, planning careers we may never have, and dreaming of lives that might look very different from our current chaos.

As we get up to leave, I knock over my chair.

Of course.

"I'm like a living blooper reel," I mutter.

But as we walk out, I catch a glimpse of the waiter watching me—still smiling.

Maybe it wasn't all that bad.