Hi I\'m GiyyDeee that my pen name. I’ve never thought of myself as someone extraordinary. I don’t walk into a room and turn heads. I’m not the loudest voice in the crowd, nor the most dazzling smile. I’m just… me. A simple girl with a pen in her hand and a world in her head. If you ever saw me in public, you probably wouldn’t remember me. I’m the one quietly observing from a corner eating street foods or sipping a milk tea too slowly and staring out the park as if something invisible waits for me. But while the world sees stillness, inside me, there’s a riot of stories, emotions, voices, and dreams constantly whispering, shouting, weaving together. That’s what writing does to me it brings my quietness to life. I discovered the magic of writing when I was in my high school days (grade 8 ). While most kids were running around outside, I was curled up in my room with a notebook, scribbling made up conversations between imaginary friends. I wasn’t escaping anything tragic or painful I just liked the way writing made me feel. It started with stories, simple ones. A simple girl admiring her crush from a far hoping he would notice her. A wallet that could produce a lot of money. And me who forgot how to dream. They weren’t perfect, not even close. But they were mine. They gave me a space where I could be brave, be wild, be someone else or maybe, more truthfully, be more of myself. Over time, my writing became more than just make-believe. It became a friend. It listened when I felt misunderstood. It let me cry on the page when I couldn’t say the words out loud. Whenever the world felt too loud, too fast, too confusing writing slowed everything down. It reminded me that I had control, even if it was only over a blank page. Some people think writers use stories to hide. And yes, sometimes I do write to escape don’t we all need that sometimes? But more than an escape, writing is my way of expressing what I can’t always say out loud. I may seem quiet, reserved, even shy. But give me a pen or a keyboard, and suddenly I have so much to say. Writing lets me explore the deepest parts of myself without fear of being judged. I can write about my hopes, my insecurities, my daydreams, my doubts. I can pour out everything I keep inside and make something beautiful—or at least something real. And the best part? Sometimes, when I share my writing, someone else reads it and says, “That’s exactly how I feel, too.” That moment of connection, of knowing that my words made someone feel less alone, makes everything worth it. My life isn’t flashy. I wake up, go through the motions, study or work depending on the season, help around the house, talk to a few friends, scroll endlessly like everyone else. A walk to the store becomes a potential love story. A stranger’s expression becomes a plot twist. The sky’s changing colors inspire a whole mood. To me, life is full of writing prompts just w