Badi advance

 Life has changed me in ways I never saw coming. I used to be the kind of person who cared too much—about people, dreams, and making something meaningful out of life. But somewhere along the way, I lost that part of myself. Maybe it was the heartbreak, maybe it was the constant disappointment, or maybe it was just life showing me how cruel it could be. Whatever it was, it broke me down and rebuilt me into someone who doesn’t give a damn about anything anymore. I’ve become heartless and nonchalant, drifting through life without a purpose or a care in the world. Nothing excites me, nothing scares me, and nothing hurts me anymore. I’ve stopped investing my emotions into things and people because I’ve learned the hard way that it never ends well. I just don’t feel the need to give a fuck about anyone or anything now. I’ve lost interest in everything that once mattered, and the only constants that keep me grounded are the cold comfort of a Bro Code beer, the bitter hit of a smoke, and a plate of biryani to drown out the emptiness. These are the only things that make me feel remotely alive, and I’ve come to accept that.

One of the biggest cracks in my life is my relationship with my father. We’re two people from completely different dimensions—his world rooted in tradition and practicality, mine lost in chaos and broken dreams. We don’t see eye to eye on anything, and our differences have grown so deep that we can’t even stand to face each other anymore. It’s like living with a stranger under the same roof—no conversations, no connection, just a suffocating silence that hangs heavy between us. He’s always been the kind to push his expectations onto me, wanting me to fit into his idea of success and stability. But I’m not wired that way. I’ve got fire in my veins, dreams that don’t fit into his box, and a desire to live life on my own terms. I know he’s disappointed in me—probably even resents me for not living up to his standards—but I’ve stopped trying to prove myself to him. I’m tired of the fights, the judgments, and the never-ending sense of failure. I’ve learned to keep my distance because it’s easier than dealing with the hurt of never being enough for him.

Maybe that’s why I’ve become this way—cold, indifferent, and detached. I’ve built walls so high that nothing can break through, and I keep myself numb with beer, smoke, and biryani because they’re the only things that never judge, never question, and never leave. I’m just existing at this point, floating through the mess of my life without bothering to fix it. It’s easier this way—no expectations, no disappointments, no pain. Just me, my vices, and the silence that keeps me company.