Who taught the stars to arrive without sound? Who buried whole oceans beneath common ground? What road do we take after hearts start to break? And who gathers the pieces no hands can remake? What becomes of a wound when it learns not to fight? Who told grief to linger long after goodnight?
I read somewhere that if someone lived on a planet fifty million light-years away, and looked at Earth through a powerful enough telescope, they wouldn't see us. They wouldn't see cities, or airplanes, or the glow of phone screens in dark bedrooms.
They would see dinosaurs. After all, light takes time to travel. Every time we look into space, we are looking into the past. The universe is so vast that even now, somewhere, the light from an ordinary afternoon on Earth is still making its way across the dark.
I think about that often. Somewhere in the universe, there is a distance so great that my father's light has not arrived there yet.
I think about a random Tuesday. My father is sitting near a window. A cup of tea, cooling beside him. Sunlight caught in the strands of his hair. He is asking whether I've eaten. Maybe he is pretending not to worry. Maybe he is laughing at something that wasn't even very funny.
The light from that moment lifted quietly from the room and began travelling. Past the moon. Past the planets. Past names I cannot pronounce. Still travelling. Even now.
And if there is a world far enough away, someone looking toward Earth today would see that afternoon. It won’t be as a memory or as longing. But simply as the present. My father, alive, inside a moment I thought I had lost. Completely unaware that I would miss him this much.
What a strange thing grief can be! Here, it teaches me how to live without him. And somewhere beyond the reach of counting, the universe is still watching him finish his tea.
I used to carry storms in my ribs. Whole monsoons. Questions crashing against bone with nowhere to land.
You stepped into the rain as someone who knew its name, like you had stood in torrents before and chosen to remain.
No one had ever stood that close without reaching for a roof. But you lean in as if my restlessness is a pattern, as though every tremor in me is something worth learning by heart.
And suddenly, I am not a disaster. I am a coastline.
The water isn’t cold anymore. It rests against my skin like it has known this shore before.
You look at me the way the sea studies its own depth. Without measuring its extent, but simply letting it be.
Your voice holds a quiet honesty when you say I’m capable, just like the tide meets sand; in a way that it had always known where to land.
Tonight, I am not afraid of going under. Because if I sink, it won’t be from breaking. It will be the tide turning inside, teaching this wayward body how to float.
And for the first time, falling feels less like losing and more like becoming water.
A sky had been living in my chest, It barely remembered how to rest. It rained every night, Drowned hope out of sight, Now gardens break through from my mess.
We began as two names on a glowing screen, two strangers talking bright and keen. A tossed hello, a laugh that stayed, a small, silly fate we made.
I don’t know which line bent time our way, which joke, which smile, which thing you’d say; somewhere between “how was your day?” my careful heart went slightly astray.
I called you Mr. Stardust, before I fully knew, how well that single word fits on you, that quiet gleam inside your gaze, the hush you bring to noisy days.
When we met, at last, with months behind, with all that talking pre-designed. Without any choreographed cue or staged surprise, only quiet recognition in your eyes. With the tender, sure shock of something true; I already felt at home in you.
We never drew a starting line, no magnificent “this is the moment” sign; love simply entered, still and sure, unhurried, certain, meant to endure. By the time we named it, it had grown, as if it had always known.
We are steady, you and I, through most days, calm in our circles, warm in our ways, two happy people holding the world… with responsible hands, paying the bills, making the plans. But when it’s just us, the script comes loose, we turn into chaos on a soft excuse.
We ‘twin’ in thoughts, mid-sentence grins, private punchlines, ridiculous spins, two rational adults, allegedly sane, who still dance in the kitchen without refrain. It’s messy, unfiltered, and oddly precise, like living in laughter seasoned with spice.
In all we’ve built, here’s what stays; I love how we shape our days, how we keep becoming, year by year, both more ourselves and more sincere.
If I could go back to that first tiny light, that simple message on an ordinary night, I’d choose you now as I did then, again, again, and yet again.
From my heart to yours, then, now, and more, you are the life I was looking for.
I’ve spent years walking past faces in a blur, nodding at shadows, never asking who they were. Some hid storms under smiles they loaned to the day, some held small heartbreaks tucked safely away. And one slow moment let the truth come through, I wasn’t blind to people, simply blind to what they carried too.
A dandelion cracked through the stone, No garden, no gardener, grown alone. It didn’t wait for spring, just did its small thing. That’s hope, finding home on its own.
Some days I’m a panda, it’s true, Snack, nap, then scroll for a view or two. My deadlines all roar, While I’m munching for more, And promise tomorrow will do.
When life kicks hard and never asks, Art hands out helmets and silly masks. And when bills pile up like angry mail, We doodle wings and possibly learn to sail. If life’s a soup we did not choose, Let art be the breadstick we dip and use.
Accidental Epiphanies 