1. The Night-Blooming Hour

there are flowers which shun the daylight sight.
They wait instead
to make the world unstrain its voice.

At midnight,
when even the traffic leaves the spleen behind,
the smell of them starts its tender rebellion-
invisible, unstoppable.

You would miss it
in case you thought that beauty had to be viewed.
to be believed.

Tonight I walked home slowly
just to witness it --
white petals opening
like careful secrets.

No applause greeted them.
No crowd gathered.

Still, they bloomed
with the confidence
of things that understand
it is not dependent upon their aim
on witnesses.

I wondered then
that there are how many life-histories like this!
quietly,
and when all are asleep.

Perhaps we are more faithful
to ourselves in the dark,
less afraid of becoming
who we were meant to be.

And the perfumed night was filled with,
and for a moment
the whole breathing earth
felt tender.


2. City of Sleepless Windows

From my balcony
the city glittered --
not with celebration,
but with persistence.

So many lit windows
at a time when should have been yielded.

Behind one,
some one wrapped up tomorrow troubles
into neat stacks.

Behind another,
a child, a child barred with dreams.

Somewhere,
two people were ending a love
they had rehearsed saving.

Archaivists are insomniacs
We catalogue regrets,
play back and complete dialogues,
polish old grief
until it shines again.

Yet there is companionship
in this shared wakefulness --
a silent agreement
among strangers
that rest will come later.

Near dawn,
one by one,
the windows dimmed.

Not defeat --
just the body remembering
it belongs to morning.

I stayed a while longer,
watching the darkness thin,
reflecting what a wonderful thing it is.
that all the anxious nights should end in,

the world still chooses
to begin again.

Abraham Aondoana is a writer, poet and novelist. He is a recipient of Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop 2026. Follow Aondoana’s work on Instagram.

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“I didn’t know a lotus could bloom outside this time of year.”

The garden is small, but well-kept: clusters of peonies; wisterias growing off vines; bushes of hydrangeas in lilac, periwinkle, and pink. And there, in a small pond, a lotus in full bloom at the dwindling end of winter. There isn’t a hint of ice on the surface of the water despite puffs of foggy breath swirling together between the two women standing under starlight.

The owner of the garden smiles, even and polite. She’s tall and willowy, with pin-straight hair that brushes against the backs of her knees; a conspicuous figure amongst the gently curving grasses and leaves. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

The village is small. It always has been—even after the narrow, dirt roads were paved; even after horses were traded in for metal boxes; even after the villagers decided they preferred staring at an image of a flower on a screen the size of their palm over feeling the softness of a petal under their fingertips. Even if the villagers have little interest in herbs and bouquets now, the gardener knows every face that resides in this village.

The outsider’s mouth—full, like a blooming rose—quirks up into a smile. “I was just passing by.”

“I don’t get many visitors these days.” Especially not this late into the evening, especially not from someone out of town.

“Could I have a tour?” The visitor steps closer, cold dirt crunching under her shoes. “My name is Nitya.”

It doesn’t take long to walk through the serpentine path, but the gardener stops to point out each flower with care: tulips, marigolds, and daisies. And her care shines through; not a single flower wilts under her watch. Each one of them is in perfect bloom, even if the flower is months away from when it should be thriving. No two flowers are the same, delineated by a label with a single letter and a year. The latest addition—a burgundy dahlia—was brought in twelve years ago.

Minutes pass by as though clock hands have been caught in sap. Nitya’s movements are slow too, like a fawn taking her first steps into the vast world before her. Maybe this is her first time in a garden like this; the world has changed so much, after all. Maybe she lives in one of those towns where the buildings reach towards the clouds and artificial lights glitter brighter than the stars.

But Nitya’s hands are gentle when they brush over the rounded leaves of a money plant. And in turn, the stems almost seem to surge towards her touch, as if asking for more.

The moon finally peeks out from behind a cloud when Nitya leaves. But before she can take the last two steps over the threshold, she turns back, loose curls fluttering around her heart-shaped face. “I didn’t catch your name.”

When the owner of the garden smiles this time, it’s a slow rearrangement of sharp features settling into something softer. “Pallavi.”

“Where did you find all these flowers?” If Nitya was beautiful under the gentle light of the moon, then she’s radiant under the warmth of the sun. “I’ve seen photos of many of these, but some I’ve never heard of at all.”

Nitya returns to the garden again and again, each visit longer than the last. Sometimes Nitya wanders in silence as Pallavi watches. And sometimes, like today, she talks up a storm.

Pallavi traces her fingers over the ridges of the trunk of the tree they sit under: the only cherry blossom in her possession. “A visitor like you gifted this to me.”

“A visitor like me?” Nitya looks up at Pallavi through her long, long eyelashes.

A few petals flutter down between them from the branches above. “Years ago, back when the borders of this land were open.”

“And they gifted it to you personally?”

“I invited her to dinner, and she gave me this in return.” Pallavi’s eyes soften at the memory.

“An entire tree?” Nitya laughs, a chime in the wind. “But cherry blossoms don’t grow here, I know that much. And if this was from before the barriers—well, that would make you at least eighty years old.”

“Maybe I am.” Pallavi offers a wry smile. There isn’t a single wrinkle on her face. “Maybe I’ve been around for even longer.”

Time passes differently in this garden. Pallavi can’t recall exactly how long she’s been here, how many seasons have passed by. But she doesn’t forget a single visitor, no matter how fleeting their time may have been.

The trunk of the tree is thick. The bark is rough under Pallavi’s skin. When Nitya doesn’t reply, she draws her hand back. “Are you frightened?”

“Should I be?”

A fair question, but not one that’s often asked. Pallavi tilts her head back. She’s seen peace and war, she’s seen humans reach the furthest depths of the sea and heights beyond what should be possible. She’s seen societies curl back into themselves, shunning the world around them that they had worked so hard to amalgamate. But the sky is the same blue it’s always been since the first time she opened her eyes. “I believe fear is born from misunderstanding.”

Gentle fingers curl around Pallavi’s wrist, Nitya’s palm hot where Pallavi’s skin is cool. “I’m not afraid.”

It’s a rainy afternoon when Nitya reaches for her hand again, her skin warm and slick after refusing any sort of cover. Mud spatters across her feet with each step, soft soles unused to earth beneath them. Her fingers trail over a chrysanthemum. “You’re surrounded by reminders of your lovers, then.”

Droplets of rain cling to Pallavi’s eyelashes, momentarily blurring the image of Nitya when she blinks. But she refuses to miss a single second and fights to keep her eyes open. The woman before her no longer feels like a mere visitor. No—she looks like she belongs here, like she’s been a part of this little garden all along. “You aren’t jealous?”

“How could I be when they gave you company?” It isn’t the first time Nitya has brought up her concerns: It must be lonely to exist in this world for as long as you have. She worries, perhaps too much, about every being around her—from her elderly neighbors to her peers, as undeserving as they are; from the smallest dandelion to the undying woman who has tended to a humble garden for centuries. Nitya is kind, perhaps to a fault.

This chrysanthemum was planted seventy-six years ago: the sprout bursted through the soil long before Nitya’s soul touched the earth. “Then, do you want to know who this was from?”

The garden is an archive, a book bound with yellowed pages and petals carefully pressed within.

She tells Nitya about Sanjana, the priest’s daughter. Aisha, the governor’s wife. Chandni, the sister of the crown prince. She tells Nitya about Bhavana, the spinster. Farah, the maiden, promised to the merchant’s son in the next village over. Jyoti, who was like Nitya in some regard, brimming with possibilities, yet—in quieter moments, when shadows would envelop her face—listless.

“But they didn’t have to be all those things with you, did they?” Nitya wraps her arms around Pallavi’s waist, pulling her closer, raindrops dancing over her cheeks.

Back then, ensnared in the storm of politics, Aisha would call the garden an oasis and Chandi likened it to the grounds she’d gallivant as a child. Sanjana said it was a reprieve from witnessing her father’s dealings behind drawn curtains, where paper and coins were stronger than a sermon.

This whole town thinks there is something wrong with me, is what Bhavana said, mouth set in a grim line that came to soften with time.

I hope they find something wrong with me, is what Farah lamented, adamant on freeing herself from her impending marriage.

And Jyoti whispered before giving Pallavi a bluebell with drooping indigo petals: I wish I knew what was wrong with me.

“Here, they only had to be Sanjana, Aisha, and Chandni.” The back of Nitya’s hand brushes over a lily. It sways closer in return. “They didn’t have to be more than Bhavana, Farah, and Jyoti.”

Pallavi dips her chin, her hair forming a curtain around their faces. “What makes you so sure of that?”

“When I’m with you, I only ever have to be me.”

Nitya stays for years.

She stays through sweltering summers and frigid winters. She stays through weeks of dry when most flowers would cry, and weeks of rain when most flowers would sing. And the flowers never changed, always perfectly in bloom.

But Nitya changes. It starts with a single hair turned gray in a head full of inky black. Then, a wrinkle between her brows, at first only visible when she frowns. And then, lines on either side of her mouth, a vestige of her laugh. She’d complain of a chill and her joints would ache if she sat on soil for too long to tend to the bush of roses she’d grown partial to.

“It’s lonely, you know, to live as long as I have.”

It’s late winter again. Nitya is cold, so she insisted on draping both of them with a shawl while they stare out at the garden, admiring how the moon paints every surface it can reach silver.

“I can only imagine.” Nitya keeps her voice low. She’s always quiet at night, not wanting to disturb the flowers. She would always say they’ve felt alive in a way that went beyond simple grasses, ferns, and shrubs. She claimed they breathed the way that she does, moved the way that she does. And at first, she paid it no mind. But then, her gaze would linger on the fluttering petals even when Pallavi insisted it was just a breeze passing by.

“What if you didn’t have to imagine?” An offer to her Nitya, who has always been so kind. What if I didn’t have to be alone?

“What do you mean?”

“What if you stayed here with me?” Pallavi smiles, century-seasoned to keep her voice even. “Just you and me, in our garden.”

“Stay with you…Forever?”

Pallavi cups Nitya’s cheek delicately, though every muscle fights to clutch her lover’s face instead, to hold onto this moment in time. Because each inhale is another second less that they have together.

She brushes her thumb next to the corner of Nitya’s eye where fine lines are starting to appear too. No, that wouldn’t do at all. “You wouldn’t age. You wouldn’t grow ill. You wouldn’t have to worry about a single thing. You could stay with me, just like this.”

“Just like this…?” Nitya tilts her head to the side, her words even slower than her movements, like they’ve been caught in sap.

Pallavi’s smile grows. She doesn’t have a heart anymore. Maybe she never had one to begin with, a hollow creature from the moment she opened her eyes and found a bright blue sky, everpresent yet just out of reach. If she did have a heart, would the even rhythm quicken? Would it skip a beat?

Nitya leans into her touch, her cheek softer than a poppy petal.

Yes—just like this, free from constraints of time and the world around them.

After all, only Pallavi could see her lovers when the rest of society cast them away. Only she treasured their beauty where everyone else found faults. Only she could provide peace in chaos, freedom in subjugation, happiness in a sorrow-filled world. Only she could grant eternity.

Wouldn’t Nitya love that? Why spend hours, days, years of her life here if she didn’t want to stay? Together in this garden. There’s no greater gift Pallavi could grant.

“Darling, close your eyes for me, won’t you?”

Pallavi doesn’t like her lovers seeing her like this, after all.

It’s rather unsightly: the way her jaw unhinges with a wet pop and a second, then third row of jagged teeth burst through her gums. Her dark eyes fade to pale, the warmth they once held hardening into something cold, sharper than the spikes of thistles and barberries.

Some of her lovers cry; perhaps the potential of longevity becoming a reality surprises them.

Some of her lovers scream; perhaps in shock that a beauty such as Pallavi could conceal a side like this.

Some of them lose control of their bodily senses, fluids leaking from between trembling legs.

Some of them think they’ll change their minds, and think it better to run. But Pallavi does not take the curation of her garden lightly. They rarely get far.

She tastes Nitya’s rose lips first.

It takes exactly seven days for a seed to form in the pit of Pallavi’s stomach.

She knows when she lurches out of bed, overcome with the urge to vomit. Sweat beads at her temples, and there’s a tiredness deep in her bones that weighs her down, begging her to stay in place—but she mustn’t. Over seven days, her stomach has swollen to three times its normal size, her skin stretching to accommodate. Another wave of nausea crashes into her. She’s ready now.

Even with staggered steps and ragged breaths, she carries herself up the flight of stairs with as much poise as she can muster. It’s unusually cold for a spring morning; winter doesn’t want to leave just yet. Crisp air seeps into the house through the cracks in the windows and gaps in the doors, but Pallavi doesn’t feel it.

The nursery is barren for the most part. It’s the most important and the least used room in this little house at the edge of the garden. Hand-crafted flower pots line the walls, no two like the other. Most were sculpted by Pallavi’s practiced hands, but a few were molded by Nitya, uneven and charming.

Pallavi settles on the hard floor in the center of the room. She’s used to it. She’s done this time and time again for hundreds of years. But it’s her least favorite part.

She lets her jaw fall open until her chin bumps against her swollen belly, copper hitting her tongue as rows of teeth emerge in her mouth. Alone in her home, she lifts a willowy hand and reaches into her mouth—past her teeth, knuckles rubbing against her palate. She doesn’t gag anymore when her hand plunges down her throat. Her esophagus pulses around her wrist, but it doesn’t resist the intrusion.

The inside of her stomach is hot, juices sloshing as she gropes around, searching, searching, searching, until—there. A seed, tiny and smooth between her fingers.

Tears spring to her eyes. All of Nitya’s love, her youth, preserved in this little seed, left behind for Pallavi to nurture until the end of time.

She retches and yanks her arm out, falling back onto the floor with the force of it. Goosebumps rise to her skin where cool air meets the mess of liquids on her arm.

“Oh, pretty darling.” Pallavi cradles the seed in her palm and brings it close to her chest. “I wonder what you’ll be.”

R. S. Thakur (they/them) is a queer South Asian-American writer based in New Jersey.

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R. S. Thakur

Read their Pressed Petals Short Story here, Crocus here.

R.S. Thakur (they/them) is a queer South Asian-American writer based in New Jersey.

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Abraham Aondoana

Read his Pressed Petals poetry collection, Midnight Flowers in Electric Cities, here.

Abraham Aondoana is a writer, poet and novelist. He is a recipient of Idembeka Creative Writing Workshop 2026. Follow his work on Instagram.

Aneeka

Read her Pressed Petals poem, ctrl, here.

Aneekah is a writer/performer looking for the truth. If you find it, do let her know.

Juanita Rey

Read her Pressed Petals poem, SUFFER IN MY SILENCE, here.

Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet, US resident. Her work has been published in Mixed Mag, The Mantle, The Lincoln Review, Lion and Lilac amongst others.

K. H. Shaan

Read their Pressed Petals short story, fragmentation, here.

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Pressed Petals grew from...The delicate moments we press into permanence…

Hi everyone! I hope this reaches you at the right time ✨🌙

I’m Nain, editor of Raat Ki Rani Magazine, and I am beyond excited to share Issue #1 Pressed Petals with you. Below are the rollout dates for the short stories, poetry, and short film.

For those who don’t know, Raat Ki Rani carries two meanings. The first is “Queen of the Night,” a nickname my parents gave me for my night-owl tendencies. The second is a night-blooming jasmine.

Its scent holds so many childhood memories for me, and a flower that blooms quietly in the dark feels like a fitting metaphor for this magazine…

Memory becomes our only souvenir

Pressed Petals grew from an interest in the things we choose to keep. The delicate moments we press into permanence. There’s something about a pressed flower. How it captures both the ending and the everlasting.

The things that proved beautiful even when no one was watching. A way of saying: this mattered. This was lovely. Let it stay. Memory becomes our only souvenir.

My best writing happens at night, but Raat Ki Rani is for everyone. Early birds, night owls, and siesta scribes alike are always welcome here.

Thank you endlessly to our writers, readers, and subscribers for supporting this passion project. This magazine exists because of you!

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Pressed Petals, Issue #1 Rollout

July, 6th - Crocus, A Short Story by R. S. Thakur

July 13th - Midnight Flowers in Electric Cities, a Poetry Collection by Abraham Aondoana

July, 20th - ctrl by Aneeka

July 27th - SUFFER IN MY SILENCE by Juanita Rey

August 3rd - fragmentation, a Short Story by K. H. Shaan

August 10th - Songs from our Room

Warmly,

Nain F. Ladak,

Founder & Editor, Raat Ki Rani Magazine

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Insiya Abbas

Read her Midnight Confessions Poetry Collection, Among the Hopeful Beggars here.

Insiya Abbas is a New Jersey–based writer, avid daydreamer and is currently completing her Master’s degree in Clinical and Counseling Psychology. Her poetry has been performed at local open mics and the New Jersey District Tournament for Speech and Debate. Abbas' work explores emotional truth and falsehoods and the intersection between identity, healing, and imagination. You can find her writing on Medium and Substack at bbas.

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Aisha Ommaya

Read her Midnight Confessions Personal Essay, Feeling lost? Good, me too. here.

Aisha Ommaya hosts The Unemployment Diaries, a podcast exploring what happens “when the work isn’t working.” After nearly 15 years in corporate communications, she shifted her focus to chronicling stories of navigating change, reinvention, and the search for what comes next. Keep up with Ommaya on Substack.

R. Rizvi

Read her Midnight Confessions Poem, We Were Actors here.

R. Rizvi is an aspiring freelance writer and award-winning poet. She was a finalist in the New York Times 2017 Found Poetry contest and competed nationally in the 2018 Muslim Interscholastic Student Tournament for spoken word. When she is not writing, she can be found listening to jazz, reading, and making matcha.

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A Thousand Stories, And I’m Listening

People were drawn to our booth like moths to moonlight, their eyes lighting up with recognition.

“Raat Ki Rani…” I watched people pause as they read the name, their lips forming the syllables like a half-remembered lullaby. The night-blooming jasmine. That flower that saves its sweetest perfume for the darkness, when the world slows down and dreamers emerge.

It’s also the nickname my family gave me as a child, whispered with gentle exasperation as they found me awake long past bedtime, lost in my own universe.

“Where can I submit?” they’d ask eagerly, or “My sister would love this!”

Submit to Raat Ki Rani Magazine

In those moments, I felt the invisible threads connecting all of us Raat Ki Rani’s, story collectors, keepers of dreams.

Between Pages You’ll Find, Not a Bookmark, But a Flower

We gave away pressed flower stickers and Raat Ki Rani stickers that people could carry into their own stories.

There’s something deeply nostalgic about pressed flowers, isn’t there? Little pieces of time, preserved and beautiful, just like the stories we hold close.

Both designs have found their way into our Raat Ki Rani merch collection, waiting to be adopted.

The Universe Has a Sense of Humor

But the true magic of the day? Our tote bag giveaway.

We invited Rania Rizvi, one of our poets, to pull the first winner’s name. Her hand reached in, fate held its breath, and then…

Rania pulled out her own name!

The room dissolved into laughter and disbelief. The kind of moment that feels like the universe winking at you. I couldn’t help but think about how a tote, born from a poet’s vision, ended up in poets’ hands.

You’re Invited

If you haven’t yet wandered through the gardens of our Issue #0, I invite you to lose yourself in them

Submissions for Issue #1: Pressed Petals close 2/15. If you’ve ever pressed a moment between pages and hoped it would last, we want to hear from you.

Thank you to every soul who stopped by, paused, who asked questions, and who saw themselves reflected in this little corner of creation.

Submit to Raat Ki Rani Magazine

You reminded me why we do this.

Why we gather petals and press them between pages, why we stay up too late chasing the perfect words, why we dream at night.

Here’s to more gardens grown in the dark, more stories shared under stars, more beautiful coincidences that feel like fate. 🌸🌙

With all my heart,

Nain F. Ladak

Founder & Editor, Raat Ki Rani Magazine

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In my imagination
there is no key I know of
under your doormat,
no white sheets we hang together
on the dry line.  
The veil never meets my scalp,
vows fail to form at our lips; 
death need not do us part.

Instead, we are actors
performing what real lovers do:
hands grazing, eyes locked,
sitting shoulder to shoulder 
on the shaky wooden stools 
in a Manhattan sports bar. 
Tuesdays is our ritual: 
we rendez-vous  
on the green benches
in Washington Square Park. 
You, my confidante,
I, your vault.

But when the curtains close
and the lights come back on
we step out of our costumes
and go our separate ways.
All the world’s a stage 
and us, merely are the players.
 
After all, I do not know you—
your coffee order 
your mother’s name
the incident from childhood
that left a scar on your right eye; 
I do not feel you in the ways 
drunk poets write of 
and asylum goers describe.
In between us remains 
the infinite chasm 
(between likeness and love) 
drawn by a single thread line. 
 
But in my imagination,
every so often 
we veer off script 
and blur the lines.
All the world’s a stage
but when I step off
you remain on my mind.
After all, I know you—
the shift of your voice when you anger 
what makes you laugh, 
the ways you lie. 

In my imagination
I feel you in the ways 
electricity runs through 
fluorescents screens, 
and the neon signs 
flashing in a taxi cab, 
as if norepinephrine and ambien
were running through my veins
as if we never left the play
and kept pressing rewind.

But when I awaken 
from my foolish day dream 
I face reality’s sobering cruelness: 
Your blonde from a Good Home, 
awaits you in your living room 
adorned in a cotton summer dress.
She cooks like your mother
and reminds you of the seas. 
She loves you like a lover does 
She knows nothing of me.

As the curtains close once more
and we go about our separate days
I think of you as just a stranger; 
perhaps we were always better off that way.

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R. Rizvi is an aspiring freelance writer and award-winning poet. She was a finalist in the New York Times 2017 Found Poetry contest and competed nationally in the 2018 Muslim Interscholastic Student Tournament for spoken word. When she is not writing, she can be found listening to jazz, reading, and making matcha.

On learning to tell your story, from Winnie the Pooh to The Unemployment Diaries.

Not sure what to do with your life? Me neither. Author Robert Greene suggests your childhood “early fascinations” can point you toward the work or niche that might excite you today. The problem for me is that at first glance, mine seem all over the place.

The stories that shape us

First, around age six, I wanted to be a veterinarian. Being around animals all day felt like my chance at a real-life reenactment of Winnie the Pooh. I’d be Christopher Robin, living out my idyllic, forest-dwelling dreams. That is, until I learned that being a vet also meant giving Piglet shots, operating on Eeyore, and, worst of all, sending Pooh to that big honeypot in the sky. Not so idyllic after all.

Later, in fourth grade, my love for animals resurfaced when I discovered Shark Lady — the true story of fearless scientist Eugenie Clark, whose research on shark behavior dismantled the most image-damaging myths about their intelligence. Inspired by her dedication and bravery, I confidently announced to my father that I wanted to be a marine biologist when I grew up. I was a decent swimmer AND and big Free Willy fan. Solid 9-year-old logic.

Well, that is… until I made the mistake of watching Jaws. In one viewing, all of Dr. Clark’s positive PR for those misunderstood toothy fish was undone — courtesy of an animatronic shark, some red food coloring, and two ominous notes. Swim with great whites? Misunderstood or not, that was a hard pass.

I turned my attention to humans in my teens, spending hours writing poems and playing music. At the time, I didn’t see my Shakira obsession or the resulting urge to learn Spanish, play guitar, and dye my hair red as anything more than my current fixation. Side note: If you haven’t seen her MTV Unplugged set, run (don’t walk) to YouTube right now. Or, right after you’re done reading this article.

Looking back at these formative years, it was the stories that captivated me. Living in the forest with my talkative stuffed-animal friends. Becoming a courageous female scientist exploring the depths of the ocean. Stepping into an emotional landscape, experiencing hopes and dreams through music.

I didn’t realize it then, but stories became an anchor in my life.

The stories we tell ourselves

Ever since I can remember, I never felt a strong pull toward any one subject or career path. I always loved writing, and if old home videos are any indication, I was a bit of a chatterbox. The energy was pure “I will entertain you with my looping rendition of Incy Wincy Spider and you will enjoy it.

Words became the only common thread running through my otherwise seemingly unrelated academic and professional ventures. Even before I recognized it as such, I was using phrasing, cadence, tone, and context to change a mood, convey a message, or shift a perspective — whether it was convincing a teacher I deserved an extension on an assignment or mediating a disagreement between colleagues.

But there was still no eureka moment, no “this is it” realization of what I was meant to do with my life. And the older I got, the more that unsettled me.

That unsettled feeling was still with me during the pandemic when I caught up with an old friend. I’d just returned from grad school in the UK and was thinking about next steps. When he asked what I planned to do, I didn’t overthink my answer. “Not totally sure,” I said. “My new degree is in a slightly different field than my previous job, so I guess I’m still figuring it out.”

“Ha. You’re always figuring out what you want to do, aren’t you?” he replied.

The judgement was thinly veiled. He might as well have said: You’ve never known what you want so what are the chances you’ll figure it out now?

I left the conversation doubting not only my own indecisiveness but the friendship itself. I’d like to say I caught myself before spiraling, but the critical inner dialogue came rushing in. It went something like:

He’s right. I’m over 30 with an expensive graduate degree I’m still paying off. I should know what I want to do by now. My dad knew he wanted to be a doctor when he only was 8. Something must be wrong with me. I’m so behind.

The stories we should tell ourselves

I wish I could tell my younger self that passion and purpose aren’t printed on your birth certificate in invisible ink that only some people can read. You can evolve, let go of what no longer serves you, and explore new paths.

What’s wrong with figuring things out as you go, anyways? Think about your favorite stories. Are they the ones with predictable plot lines? Do they have one-dimensional characters incapable of error?

I doubt it.

The best stories have twists and turns. They have complex, and often deeply flawed, characters with imperfect lives who make even less perfect decisions. They also have unexpected endings.

So why do we want to have life all figured out by [insert arbitrarily chosen cut-off age here]? Well, a couple reasons.

First, because it makes us feel safe. From a neuroscience perspective, the brain’s primary job is to keep us alive by maintaining homeostasis (i.e., maintaining our internal balance). Predictable decisions feel good because, evolutionarily, safety means survival.

And safety is great. I love seatbelts. I love knowing where my next meal is coming from. I love staying alive. But I don’t want to live a life wrapped in proverbial bubble wrap. At some point, we need to go beyond the neurochemistry of our survival instincts to optimize for growth, expansion, and ultimately — a good story.

Another reason we crave having it all figured out is that we often glorify conviction in a singular purpose. Movies like October Sky — where a young, small-town Homer Hickam dreams of becoming a rocket scientist after seeing Sputnik and eventually works for NASA — perfectly illustrate how inspiring that narrative can be.

But Good Will Hunting is equally, if not more, inspiring. It’s not about Matt Damon’s character having a lightbulb moment that sends him on a straight path from working as a janitor at MIT in South Boston to a life of dreams. It’s about the chaos of his relationships, emotional roadblocks, and his hesitation to take unknown paths with no guarantee of a happy ending. In fact, the movie isn’t about where he ends up at all. It’s about the very relatable decisions, mistakes, growth, and missed opportunities along the way.

So think of your favorite movie: the journey isn’t filler — it is the story. Without it, there’s nothing worth watching. Mine began in the Hundred Acre Wood, detoured through my parents’ living room for Thanksgiving plays, stopped in London twice for school, and stretched from Islamabad to New York for a career in communications.

I now recognize that communication (in various forms) has been the tool I’ve used to craft stories, including my own story. And that tool took time to perfect. In fact, I’m practicing. Right now. Mid-keystroke.

So maybe I was never lost at all. Maybe I was and still am exactly where I need to be — honing my craft and learning how to tell my story.

And maybe you’re not lost either. Maybe you’re just deep in the twists, detours, and surprises of your own unfolding narrative. So lean in, reflect on the chapters you’ve already written, and keep telling your story as it unfolds.

Trust me, it’s already a good one.

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Aisha Ommaya hosts The Unemployment Diaries, a podcast exploring what happens “when the work isn’t working.” After nearly 15 years in corporate communications, she shifted her focus to chronicling stories of navigating change, reinvention, and the search for what comes next. Keep up with Ommaya on Substack.

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This morning, we’re sharing the heart of our Spring issue.

The theme is Pressed Petals. Scroll for the moodboard (paid subscribers only)

Pressed Petals grew from an interest in the things we choose to keep. The delicate moments we press into permanence. There’s something about a pressed flower. How it captures both the ending and the everlasting.

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The things that proved beautiful even when no one was watching.

How it holds the softest colors, the most fragile blooms, the things too precious to let go. A way of saying: this mattered. This was lovely. Let it stay.

Memory becomes our only souvenir.

Below is the moodboard that guides the inspiration behind this issue.

The moodboard is a paid subscriber benefit. Your paid subscription directly supports our writers. 

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My confession: I couldn’t wait.

Issue #0 was never supposed to exist, but the sun was setting, the night was young, and I couldn’t wait to get started.

I’m Nain, editor of Raat Ki Rani Magazine, and I am beyond excited to share Issue #0 with you.

For those who don’t know, Raat Ki Rani carries two meanings. The first is “Queen of the Night,” a nickname my parents gave me for my night-owl tendencies. The second is a night-blooming jasmine.

Its scent holds so many childhood memories for me, and a flower that blooms quietly in the dark feels like a fitting metaphor for this magazine—and for this month’s theme, Midnight Confessions.

Thank you endlessly to our writers, readers, and subscribers for supporting this passion project. This magazine exists because of you!

Our first collection of poems is written by Insiya Abbas.

1. no more apologies


set the table at midnight
 
sorry for burnt dinner

I wasn’t paying attention
was I?

caught between
Suns and 
Moons

sorry, 
              sorry

Twice 
because 
it’s not enough

wrong 
horse

scratching
                  the paint

she sees me so clearly

just a little 
                off center

sometimes 
but always 
true

Click to continue reading

Here’s what else is blooming in Issue #0:

1/14 Feeling lost? Good, me too: A personal essay by Aisha Ommaya

1/17 We Were Actors: A poem by R. Rizvi

Pieces bloom throughout the month. Start with what's here, and come back for what's to come 🌙✨

With love,
Nain F. Ladak
Editor, Raat Ki Rani Magazine

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1. no more apologies


set the table at midnight
 
sorry for burnt dinner

I wasn’t paying attention
was I?

caught between
Suns and 
Moons

sorry, 
              sorry

Twice 
because 
it’s not enough

wrong 
horse

scratching
                  the paint

she sees me so clearly

just a little 
                off center

sometimes 
but always 
true

there is no time
for anything else

                but so much time
to change and 
                change again

or 
                stand still.

I can’t always tell
if we should
stop. 
         or keep going

what I 
never 
always 
do is rest.

but we’re
frozen 

or at least I am.

fawn for love

farm from what’s
given to you

this dirt will thaw

and Mother will
                                 bloom again

trains of thought
                                 leave the station

too early
                  too late

I’ll see you in 
tomorrow 
today’s 
Sun

       
                           I love you,
                                                12:01



2. When The Hopeful Hypocrite Dreams of Today


my head hurts
                             and I’ve wasted
  		                                            another day
Time 
             I can’t crawl back to

my ship sails,
    	                   forward,
                     	                   through
but the anchor 
                              drags,

“do as I say”
                        I say
not as I do.

hopeful 
              hypocrite

promising 
Warmth
to the cold

as if I hadn’t 
                        stretched 
                                             these corners
a blanket
that wouldn’t 
grow to be
enough

“I know it is heavy”
                                        I say 
“I know how dark,
                                     how cold 
                                                       it can get.”

and it can always get
Colder

Fear grips at me
                               just as I witness its latching

get away from them!
			                   I say

But sometimes it’s not enough

this active healing
that takes place
                                  it’s a scary thing, don’t you understand?
Of course, I do.
 
                                  do you think apologies are enough?
Of course, I don’t.

even-toned placations

Little one, 
I wonder what it would be like to
                                                                meet you now
Worried and worried
Wondering if tomorrow would be easier

then easy comes
I promise it does

but first, we must sail
                                           through treacherous waters 
                                                                                                 of the beaten spirit

I will be our captain, 
help me sail for 
                              fortunately, 
         
                                                      my destiny is hope.



3. just wait for dawn


in the middle
                           of the night
I collect

My sticks
My stones

and the bark of the tree
that fell
                  no sound
                  no witness

except the bird that 
                                      fluttered away,

losing her children
in the heavy 
thump 

of her home

I walk
             and walk

with a nest 
in my arms

I gather,
sobbing, 
                  heaving 

the emptiness
inside of me

mourning for more than my pain

finally, 
Warmth
                  beside me

somehow,
in the dead of the night

I had forgotten

the sun would
                              rise again

We wouldn’t be 
                              alone anymore

lay down these burdens

I welcome the 
End 
        and the Beginning

Mother comes back
                                         tittering along
a quiet murmuring
                                    a soulful grievance

there is no consolation
except to ask

if you can let 
                          the light
	                  the warmth
                                                 touch your wings

knowing it never
                                 got to touch
                                                        your heartstrings

can we lay down
in the soil
                    and let
Mother 
take us back?

can we wait
                        for dawn?

can I wait 
                        with you?

I have all of the time 
                                       in the world.

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Insiya Abbas is a New Jersey–based writer, avid daydreamer and is currently completing her Master’s degree in Clinical and Counseling Psychology. Her poetry has been performed at local open mics and the New Jersey District Tournament for Speech and Debate. Abbas' work explores emotional truth and falsehoods and the intersection between identity, healing, and imagination. You can find her writing on Medium and Substack at @insiyabbas.

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