My name is Narjis. Since childhood, I have lived as though beneath a thin, translucent film — near enough to feel the pulse of the world, yet never quite able to breach it. I’ve grown into a mosaic of everyone who has crossed my orbit, carrying fragments of their gestures, their pauses, their quiet mercies within me. Perhaps that is what family means — not only those bound by blood, but the tender constellations of presence that teach us how to be.
Words became the only inheritance I understood. They followed me through uprooted cities and dim classrooms, through days that blurred into ache. Each one arrived like a small mercy, an offering through which I could translate what silence could not carry. Writing, for me, is both refuge and reckoning — the only way to make meaning of the distance between the world and myself.
At sixteen, I am still learning the language of return — to my own heart, to the people I love, to the quiet that hums beneath all noise. Every piece I write feels like a way back home.
Connect with me on Instagram @narjiswrit4s_
