This book began in silence.
Not in the silence of peace, but in the silence of women whose stories were never asked, only endured.

They stirred rotis with bruised wrists. They stitched clothes while stitching together broken selves. They wept alone while the world praised their patience. I watched them — in villages, in cities, behind veils, in kitchens, on buses, in courtrooms, in masjids — and I knew: love had lived inside their wounds far longer than any man had stood beside them.

Love That Lives in Wounds is not about pity.
It is about the persistence of tenderness in the face of abandonment.
It is about the power of women who were denied choices, but still chose to love — fiercely, quietly, dangerously.

These stories are fiction. And yet, they are real.
Drawn from whispers, shadows, diaries, stifled sobs, forbidden verses, and the haunted softness in a woman's eyes after midnight.

If these stories touch you, let them change you.

If they hurt, let them heal something buried.

And if you recognize yourself in these pages — know that your wound is not invisible, nor is it without meaning.