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Light is the antidote for darkness, which expounded why spotlights terrified Mari. 

Light, the obliterator of darkness, was a presence, tangible and capable of casting shadows. Shadows were, after all, a presence in the absence of darkness.

Mari swallowed hard. 

Her trembling ceased to cease. Gauri, the PR Head was telling something to her. Though Mari saw Gauri's lips moving through a foggy vision, no sound was audible to her.

Her head underwater, Mari pondered if the nature of reality could be altered through wishful thinking or inking, whichever would work. This, after having spent two hours denying the nature of reality itself. 

Her head pounded. Hands frozen deep in the continental shelves of the Antarctica, Mari's fragile body began to shake again.

"Deep breaths, Mari", a voice broke through the haze, "Deep breaths. It's okay. You're safe."

A mute whimper broke out of Mari and she buried her head in Gauri's stomach. Gauri ran a hand through the dark tresses of Mari, pity shining crystal clear in her hazel eyes. Pity was the last thing Mari longed for, much less from Gauri. 

Mari took pride in being made of metal. 

The woman was known amongst the community of writers not to have shed tears upon her own grandma's demise, regardless of having loved her to pieces. She had, instead, been a source of strength for her own mum during that time.

Mari had walls high enough to keep everyone out. It wasn't easy to let people in after all that she had endured in her life. It was a rule to avoid trusting people, especially men. All rules had exceptions, however, and he was hers.

He had been hers.

A writer popular for rebelling against the status quo, he had a niche of followers who craved or rather, voraciously desired the magic he was capable of spinning with words. Aarav's most enticing works were void of structure or thematic obedience. His works, Mari had come to recognise, were a reflection of the nature of the man himself. "Free and wild", the Boooke Prize had described his latest collection of poetry, "as the thunder in the middle of a storm."

Thunder he had been. Once upon a time, peace too. 

Mari meditated on the ease with which he had charmed his way into her life, "accidentally " spilling his drink on her sequined gown at the ball held for authors and artists. He had profoundly apologised, offering to pay reparations for the damage caused to her gown.

She had laughed it off, and the duo had spent the evening together. Wine had flowed in excess, a kiss exchanged and frantic hands had painted a picture for the star-covered inky sky to blush at.

The evening had stretched to make space for months followed by an year of oblivious exultation. 

At least for Mari, Aarav's "Em", it had been. 

The morning had started as it usually did. Mari had received a call from Aarav, who had feigned feeling under the weather. 

"It's not that simple", he had told her once during their dinner together, "Listen, if you have something to confess, do so. I'd like to talk it out with you."

Mari recalled feeling haywire from the wine and lost at the question but she had thanked him for the offer and politely turned it down.

"I really liked you, you know", he'd said that evening, "I thought- really thought you were different from them. I had thought-nevermind."

It was during moments such as those that Mari found herself at the short end of the stick, caught  in a jigsaw puzzle or labyrinth of diction she had zero clue to decipher accurately and asking for clarity from Aarav had been in vain because he'd always get upset and say that she knew what she had done.

"You need to stop playing dumb, Mari", he'd told her one night, "I really want you to confess and let this whole thing burn down."

Fire was, as it turned out, enticing, luring the victims in with the warmth it radiated. Whether the victim was the one burning or the one setting the fire ablaze was debatable.

The last she had seen him was he walking out of her life, her journal, unbeknownst to Mari, in his bag. Social media platforms had soon broadcasted his demise. Aarav had been, in cold blood, injected with excessive morphine in his sleep. 

The whereabouts of the unidentified culprits were shrouded in mist. The rival artists had milked the scandal for all it was worth, calling the discovery of her journal as "creme de la creme." Everybody suddenly had an opinion about Mari's past, ranging from disgust to terror.

While it had been made crystal clear that the murder had been an act curated out of a misunderstanding, Mari's publicly opinionated about past never quite recovered. Her public persona stood forever altered, many of the publishers backing out of contracts with her.

It was time to make her first public appearance in the structure of an interview since her scandal. Having grieving for months, Mari had a weary look in her eyes that rivaled the wear and tear she felt deep down to her spirit, if she had any left. 

"Chin up, Mari", Gauri's mellifluous voice entered her ears, "It's time to go on stage. Any moment now the countdown shall begin."

"I-I'm not ready for it!", Mari began to cry, tears streaming down her rose-tainted cheeks. "Please ask them to cancel it?"

Gauri shot a stern look at Mari. "Don't you do this now, Mari. We have to clear up your image or whatever is left of it. "

Mari exhaled, wiping her tears away. For a forlorn moment, she wondered how it would feel to be a pocket-sized girl, dangling her feet while sitting on the desk her mum used to write poetry every morning while sipping coffee.

"Away from the chaos and turmoil", she told herself, "away from the expectations and burdens" of existence in a persona she did not resonate with any longer. Only, the past never quite died, exiting the door to return in another form. It was, she realised,  a ghost that was come alive, not haunting her but choosing to embody her instead. 

Thirty minutes later, Mari was broadcasted on a superhit episode of the "Friday Nights with Kiara", sporting her winning smile, tactfully handling the questions tossed her way.

Outside the studio, Gauri felt a shiver go down her spine at the realization that the journal had shot Mari to a level of fame none of her artistic endeavours ever could. When she had received custody of Mari's journal, she had torn away the last entry to preserve the sanctity of a microcosmic world unknown to the macrocosmic world.