So.

It's been a while.

Thought I'd pop back in and say hi to whoever still exists on this hellsite. Hello, to all my old friends. I love you all, and you're amazing.

A little writing update: I've started, like, four new books. Don't judge me.

Nothing too massive has happened in my life. I got my driver's permit. Bought tickets to MCR's reunion tour. Got the new Hunger Games book.

Anyways, just wanted to say hi to y'all! If anyone wants to talk, my DMs are always open <3

Love all of you!

-Twain

Amidst the scenic backdrop of Paris, ahead of the Spring/Summer 2023 Haute Couture show, we had the pleasure of talking to Elie Saab Jr, CEO of the Elie Saab Group, about the brand's remarkable evolution and journey. Since 2019 and prior to Covid, Saab Jr. began the process of transforming the company into a sustainable luxury brand and an independent company.

After successfully navigating through global challenges and challenges in the market, 2022 was a record-breaking year for the brand and justified their methodical plan. One of the most significant faces of the brand's evolution has been optimizing the brand's retail footprint. By 2022, Elie Saab opened in five new markets, raising the overall count of active markets to ten. They intend to open five additional boutiques in selected US and European markets by 2024.

On the alternative side of the fashion brand the opened Elie Saab Maison and it has grown over 35% since its inception (during the pandemic in Milan). This emphasizes the evolution of a luxury lifestyle brand. Elie Saab is under the visionary leadership and commitment to implementing a strategy for the brand that is based on its rich history while providing forward-thinking that ensures its highly coveted legacy, the modern luxury equivalent.

Early Life and Education

Born:October 8, 1996

Birthplace:Bhopal, Madhya Pradesh

Avnish Ahirwar completed his schooling and higher education in Bhopal. He earned a Master’s degree in Military Science from Barkatullah University.

School Education

School Name:Govt. Nutan Subhash H.S. School, T.T. Nagar, Bhopal

Verified Source: Click Here

College Education

College Name:Govt. Adarsh Motilal Vigyan Mahavidyalaya (Govt. MVM College), Bhopal

University:Barkatullah University, Bhopal

Degree:M.Sc. in Military Science

Verified Sources: Source 1| Source 2| Source 3

Other Educational Institutions

Centre for Research and Industrial Staff Performance (CRISP), Bhopal

Verified Source: Click Here

AISECT (AISECT Online)

_Between pages and an empty space_

It's somewhere in the depths of night

Where my mind is wavering the fight

I'm a romance writer

A darn good fighter

Not wanting to give in

To this so called thing

Love! Ha! A little cynical I know

But really does the words on the pages not show

The way the ink bleeds into the page

The way it's all a maze

Somewhere between the clouds and the cold hard floor

Somewhere between not living without your love and not wanting a single ounce of pain no more

Somewhere lost between the fantasy of church bells

And how outta love you fell

Its reality I tell myself

Its right there on every bookshelf

How two people fall in love, on page one

And as the pages turned, into chapters, here I am left alone.

Your loving arms, something I used to know

Clutching to our photo frame

Here and now

Whispering your name

The salt water rolling down my cheeks, without a single trace

I'm left with our memories, a broken heart and in my bed there's an empty space.

- Denesca van Eck

- 25 March 2025

Girl Named Toxic - DJ Lee - Toxic Dream Album

Toxicity, girl wants a piece of me

Manipulation, she be pushing my patience

Seductive and shy, never plays nice

Had to look twice, girl got me stressing

Don't be messing around, she'll have you on the ground

Don't know what she really up to

Whats the truth or, dare you mess with her?

You know you're getting burned. Her business is none of your concern

She be using ya, not really into ya, abusing the system and accusing ya

Toxic to the max and I can't relax. I need snack to get me through the day but shortie don't play no games

The sky, I swear, was bluer then,Or perhaps that’s how I choose to remember—Those were days when trains were always late,And dreams often missed their stop.

We spoke in promises, never in plans,Etched our hopes in chalk along quiet streets,And laughed as though the worldWere made entirely of summer evenings.

Our hearts, unburdened,Knew love without disclaimers,And sorrow came unnamed,Gentle in its arrival.

We lived between the chime of bellsAnd the hush of cafés,Where aspirations steamedFrom mugs held too long, too tightly.

Every goodbye felt temporary,Every friendship, a forever,And each kissA tiny rebellion against the ticking clock.

But like rain slipping from forgotten rooftops,Those moments faded—Not vanished,Only softened by time’s patient hands.

That was youth.Not merely the brightness of age,But the ache of becoming—The quiet pain of growing into ourselves.

Enjoy ^_^

••I was afraid to raise my head up… a fear I didn’t know why… but it went away when I saw the sky… to find myself falling up.••••The space was so tight it felt suffocating, as if it were upside down … Pain spread through her body like fire and smoke filling the air. Her vision was blurry, yet she could still make out the figure of a man in front of her, soaked in blood, motionless, showing no signs of life. And the body of a woman, seemingly young, her features obscured by wounds … The pristine white of her dress nowstained a dark crimson color   The blaring of sirens and honking of cars grew louder, intensifying her headache and dizziness, as if she were trapped in a whirlwind. Darkness began closing in from all sides, and those piercing eyes appeared, staring at her. Hands reached out—strangling her, restraining her already bound body. She could feel breaths, whispers like hissing at her ears:«It’s your fault.»«You’re a murderer.»«You should have died instead.»«Cursed witch.»The grip on her neck tightened, suffocating her, her lungs desperate for air as she thrashed in a futile attempt to escape.She gasped awake, filling her lungs with air, drenched in sweat, leaving damp imprints on the bedsheet.It took her a few minutes to catch her breath and grasp what was happening around her.«A dream… no, a nightmare.»She turned her gaze toward the clock.4:30 AM.Really? She had only slept for half an hour!Yes, Eileen’s old and unwelcome friend had returned—insomnia—bringing along its usual gift: nightmares.Since she met Arthur, her nightmares had lessened. She had even managed to sleep for a few hours sometimes.But as Arthur once said, he would be away for a while…It had been three days, maybe more, since their last meeting.And there was still about a week left until their agreed-upon reunion.Arthur had completely vanished, to the point where Eileen started doubting his existence—was he just an illusion? A figment of her imagination?If it weren’t for the kite she had found yesterday, which she believed he had sent either late at night or before dawn, and for his scarf still hanging by the door…Dragging herself to the bathroom, she decided that even though the sun had yet to rise, it was better to get up than to drown in bed and thoughts that led nowhere.For in the absence of the sun, all thoughts turn dark and bleak.Stepping out of the bathroom, she was met with her reflection in the mirror.She had long planned to get rid of it or give it to some random person… Her own image was not something she wanted to see.Perhaps she was simply blind to the truth—that she was beautiful.Exquisitely so, though hidden behind a veil of exhaustion and shadows of sleepless nights.She resembled a weary angel, yet all she could focus on were the dark circles beneath her eyes, the pallor of her skin reminiscent of a vampire’s, and the noticeable frailty of her figure.She finally turned away from her reflection, shifting her attention to the window, where she noticed the paper airplane  resting nearby.A slight smile appeared on her lips and her features softened with relief. She read the words written on it, then carefully folded it, placing it alongside its sisters in the glass box—a habit she had picked up ever since the first kite landed on her floor… and in her heart.After changing her clothes, she put on her coat and scarf—actually, Arthur’s scarf—choosing it over her own.Why?Perhaps because she wanted to feel Arthur’s presence around her after his disappearance?Or maybe because it was warmer?Or maybe… because she missed the owner of that scarf?Who knew… No one, not even Eileen.Or perhaps she did know… but preferred to ignore the feelings that had been stirring within her lately.Feelings for someone who lived next door, whom she knew nothing about, who had suddenly entered her life and changed thousands of things—without even doing anything.The moment she stepped outside, the cold wind kissed her face, prompting her to shove her hands into her pockets and bury her face and nose into the scarf.With her usual slow, unchanging steps, and eyes embracing the sky, she wandered aimlessly before sunrise.She used to never lift her gaze from the ground while walking—at any time, in any place.But now, ever since the first time she gazed at the sky with Arthur… she had fallen in love with that vast expanse.She had grown to adore its star-studded blackness, its blue streaked with white clouds, and the fiery hues of sunset.She cherished its stars, its moon, its sun.She found solace only in contemplating them.And there, on the bridge overlooking the vast sea, she watched the sun rise, casting golden rays that reminded her of someone.She could almost see Arthur’s silhouette watching it with her.«I see you everywhere… What have you done to be so deeply etched in my mind? We barely know each other… And yet, feeling all of this while we’re practically strangers—it’s unsettling…»Arthur had appeared suddenly at the start of December.And now, the month was nearing its end.Yet, he had become an integral part of Eileen’s routine.That in itself was a cause for concern… and fear.What if Eileen grew too attached to him?And in the end, he left—because she had never truly mattered to him in the first place.What if his actions were nothing more than pity for a depressed girl?Or perhaps he just wanted some company during his stay—nothing more.Eileen doubted her place in Arthur’s life… Not just in his, but in everyone’s.She had always been replaceable.She had never been anyone’s number one.That planted within her a perpetual fear of abandonment.And in an attempt to avoid pain, she had become even more withdrawn than before.Then, problems began piling up, one after the other—shaking her confidence, isolating her, fueling self-blame, overthinking, and insomnia…All shaping her into the person she was now.She still believed she didn’t deserve love.That she was a curse to everyone around her.Memories, old events—still shackled to her.For nightmares are merely echoes of memories and experiences we failed to overcome, unable to cast them into the farthest corners of our minds.And so, they return to haunt us… until we face them.---A sudden gust of cold wind snapped her out of her thoughts.Noticing that the sun had already risen, she realized it was time to head to work.ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩAnd so, the days passed for Eileen, as if she had fallen back into her endless loop.The dark thoughts in her mind never ceased—they spoke day and night, at all times, in all places, driving her to the brink of madness.A heavy week crawled by, and the awaited day finally arrived.She dressed well—or at least, she tried to look presentable.Standing beneath the streetlight where she always met Arthur, she counted the minutes and seconds.«He’s late… What if he doesn’t come?»Doubt gnawed at her once more.Why would Arthur leave his friends and family just to wander around with her?With his bright personality and handsome face, she was sure he was quite popular.Meanwhile, Eileen… Well, she didn’t want to start another self-loathing spiral.But honestly, spending time with her would be a waste. She wasn’t fun, nor a great conversationalist, nor did she possess a remarkable personality or beauty…She shut her eyes tightly, covering her ears, as a cacophony of intrusive thoughts and noise swelled in her head.Then—A hand rested on her shoulder.She slowly opened her eyes, looking up to meet his worried blue gaze.«Eileen, is something wrong? Are you okay?»He offered his hand to help her up, and she grasped it.«I’m fine… I just got tired of standing, so I sat down for a bit.»«Good. I’m really sorry for being late… I’ll make it up to you with a meal—my treat.»And as always, in Arthur’s presence, all those thoughts and voices fell silent, granting her a few minutes of peace.She smiled faintly and nodded.As usual, he intertwined their fingers and tucked their hands into his pocket.They exchanged a few glances before walking on, each holding countless questions but they kept it to themselves. —choosing instead to savor the moment.And for a fleeting second, Eileen felt guilty for the dark thoughts she had about Arthur earlier.They continued their walk, silence accompanying them, under the glow of the moon and stars…Hoping for a beautiful night.And a beautiful start to the new year.So what caused Arthur's disappearance? Where will things lead them? And where will their relationship end?

Thanks for reading.

♡With love ♡

In the heart of Central, hidden beneath the gilded eaves of The Landmark, there exists a place where time seems to fold upon itself. L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon, with its dark lacquered wood and crimson velvet, felt less like a restaurant and more like a quiet sanctuary. I remember it vividly: the hush of refined voices, the gleam of polished cutlery, the low murmur of French being exchanged between chefs behind the counter. It was sometime in 2009, and I was there with my father and my younger brother, Alex.

We had slipped away from the rest of the world for an afternoon—not for celebration, not even for any particular occasion, but simply to spend time together. It was a brief escape, a shared pause amid lives that were, even then, beginning to pull in different directions. My father had always been a man of precision and quiet dignity, and Alex, though still young, had inherited much of his calm. I was somewhere in between: old enough to appreciate, young enough to still observe from the edge.

The memory returns with the fragrance of freshly baked bread. The bread trolley was, and perhaps still is, the restaurant's most understated triumph. There was something almost ceremonial about the way it was wheeled to our table: a polished cart brimming with miniature baguettes, buttery brioches, crusty rolls, and flaky croissants, each one a story in its own right. We were told we could try as many as we wished. My brother's eyes lit up in that moment, and even my father, usually so composed, allowed himself a brief smile at the abundance.

We chose slowly, deliberately. I remember a tiny olive roll, warm to the touch, and a caramelised onion focaccia that left the faintest sweetness on the tongue. Butter was served in perfect curls on chilled silver. There was no pretence here, only perfection. I can still recall the way the bread broke in my fingers—a satisfying crackle that gave way to soft warmth. We didn’t speak much then, but we didn’t need to. These were the sorts of moments that sat quietly between us, unspoken but understood.

The meal itself felt like a masterclass in restraint. The amuse-bouche arrived in a glass, a layered symphony of sea urchin, lobster jelly, and cauliflower cream. It was the sort of dish that could have overwhelmed, but didn’t. A lesson in humility, as all good food should be. There is something deeply moving in a dish that is confident enough not to dazzle, but instead to invite.

My father chose the lamb, tender and blushing pink, with jus that shimmered like lacquer. I had the langoustine ravioli, delicately wrapped and bathing in a truffle sauce that whispered, never shouted. Alex, still a boy then, ordered a roast chicken, but it came reimagined—golden, deboned, and served with a medley of vegetables so precisely cut they could have been arranged with tweezers. He asked, without irony, if all vegetables in France were cut like this. We laughed quietly.

Between courses, we spoke little. Not out of distance, but reverence. The space called for a kind of hushed appreciation, the kind one usually reserves for cathedrals or libraries. Yet there was no stiffness, no hauteur. The waiters, dressed in black, moved with quiet efficiency, offering suggestions, never prescriptions. One of them noticed Alex’s fascination with the dessert trolley and promised he could choose anything he liked later.

He did. A dark chocolate tart, its surface as smooth as obsidian, paired with a scoop of vanilla ice cream flecked with real bean. My father took coffee; I lingered with a tea that smelt faintly of orchids. There was something soothing in the stillness of that moment, as if we were all instinctively aware of its finiteness.

As we left, stepping back into the fluorescence and noise of the mall, I recall feeling that we had experienced something that would remain with us—untouched by time, unchanged by repetition. It was not merely a dinner, but a gentle reminder that even in the most polished corners of the world, humility can be served on a silver plate.

And always, the bread. That bread.

It was, and perhaps still is, the finest I have ever tasted.

Looking back now, I realise that what made that afternoon endure was not only the craft of Robuchon or the flawless food, but the stillness it gave us. In a life often hurried and crowded with noise, that quiet harmony between us—father, sons, brothers—was rare. We were not marvelling at opulence, but simply grateful for a moment that asked nothing more of us than to be present. I often think of that day, not because of the accolades or acclaim, but because it felt, in its own way, timeless.

We returned many times in the years that followed—almost every visit to Hong Kong included at least one meal there, sometimes two. And each visit brought with it the same quiet ritual: the bread, the calm, the slow unfolding of time.

The last time I dined there was in 2018. I remember it clearly, not because it stood apart, but because it did not. It carried the same grace, the same quiet dignity. At the time, I didn’t think of it as a final visit—perhaps it isn’t. But for now, it remains the most recent chapter of a tradition quietly paused—and I still miss it.

When I think of Robuchon, I do not think of extravagance or spectacle. I think of my father’s careful nod as he tasted the lamb. I think of Alex’s quiet delight as he chose his dessert. I think of the stillness we shared. And yes, I think of the bread—always, the bread.

It has become a piece of memory, gently sealed by time. Not gone, but held.

In the heart of Central, hidden beneath the gilded eaves of The Landmark, there exists a place where time seems to fold upon itself. L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon, with its dark lacquered wood and crimson velvet, felt less like a restaurant and more like a quiet sanctuary. I remember it vividly: the hush of refined voices, the gleam of polished cutlery, the low murmur of French being exchanged between chefs behind the counter. It was sometime in 2009, and I was there with my father and my younger brother, Alex.

We had slipped away from the rest of the world for an afternoon—not for celebration, not even for any particular occasion, but simply to spend time together. It was a brief escape, a shared pause amid lives that were, even then, beginning to pull in different directions. My father had always been a man of precision and quiet dignity, and Alex, though still young, had inherited much of his calm. I was somewhere in between: old enough to appreciate, young enough to still observe from the edge.

The memory returns with the fragrance of freshly baked bread. The bread trolley was, and perhaps still is, the restaurant's most understated triumph. There was something almost ceremonial about the way it was wheeled to our table: a polished cart brimming with miniature baguettes, buttery brioches, crusty rolls, and flaky croissants, each one a story in its own right. We were told we could try as many as we wished. My brother's eyes lit up in that moment, and even my father, usually so composed, allowed himself a brief smile at the abundance.

We chose slowly, deliberately. I remember a tiny olive roll, warm to the touch, and a caramelised onion focaccia that left the faintest sweetness on the tongue. Butter was served in perfect curls on chilled silver. There was no pretence here, only perfection. I can still recall the way the bread broke in my fingers—a satisfying crackle that gave way to soft warmth. We didn’t speak much then, but we didn’t need to. These were the sorts of moments that sat quietly between us, unspoken but understood.

The meal itself felt like a masterclass in restraint. The amuse-bouche arrived in a glass, a layered symphony of sea urchin, lobster jelly, and cauliflower cream. It was the sort of dish that could have overwhelmed, but didn’t. A lesson in humility, as all good food should be. There is something deeply moving in a dish that is confident enough not to dazzle, but instead to invite.

My father chose the lamb, tender and blushing pink, with jus that shimmered like lacquer. I had the langoustine ravioli, delicately wrapped and bathing in a truffle sauce that whispered, never shouted. Alex, still a boy then, ordered a roast chicken, but it came reimagined—golden, deboned, and served with a medley of vegetables so precisely cut they could have been arranged with tweezers. He asked, without irony, if all vegetables in France were cut like this. We laughed quietly.

Between courses, we spoke little. Not out of distance, but reverence. The space called for a kind of hushed appreciation, the kind one usually reserves for cathedrals or libraries. Yet there was no stiffness, no hauteur. The waiters, dressed in black, moved with quiet efficiency, offering suggestions, never prescriptions. One of them noticed Alex’s fascination with the dessert trolley and promised he could choose anything he liked later.

He did. A dark chocolate tart, its surface as smooth as obsidian, paired with a scoop of vanilla ice cream flecked with real bean. My father took coffee; I lingered with a tea that smelt faintly of orchids. There was something soothing in the stillness of that moment, as if we were all instinctively aware of its finiteness.

As we left, stepping back into the fluorescence and noise of the mall, I recall feeling that we had experienced something that would remain with us—untouched by time, unchanged by repetition. It was not merely a dinner, but a gentle reminder that even in the most polished corners of the world, humility can be served on a silver plate.

And always, the bread. That bread.

It was, and perhaps still is, the finest I have ever tasted.

Looking back now, I realise that what made that afternoon endure was not only the craft of Robuchon or the flawless food, but the stillness it gave us. In a life often hurried and crowded with noise, that quiet harmony between us—father, sons, brothers—was rare. We were not marvelling at opulence, but simply grateful for a moment that asked nothing more of us than to be present. I often think of that day, not because of the accolades or acclaim, but because it felt, in its own way, timeless.

We returned many times in the years that followed—almost every visit to Hong Kong included at least one meal there, sometimes two. And each visit brought with it the same quiet ritual: the bread, the calm, the slow unfolding of time.

The last time I dined there was in 2018. I remember it clearly, not because it stood apart, but because it did not. It carried the same grace, the same quiet dignity. At the time, I didn’t think of it as a final visit—perhaps it isn’t. But for now, it remains the most recent chapter of a tradition quietly paused—and I still miss it.

When I think of Robuchon, I do not think of extravagance or spectacle. I think of my father’s careful nod as he tasted the lamb. I think of Alex’s quiet delight as he chose his dessert. I think of the stillness we shared. And yes, I think of the bread—always, the bread.

It has become a piece of memory, gently sealed by time. Not gone, but held.

The jetty of Pulau Pangkor, it never changes.