I read it somewhere that fireflies speak in flashes of light. Each, perfectly timed. The male glows every five seconds, and the female waits 2.5 seconds to reply.
Made me wonder. Isn’t love—the whole maddening thing—also just a matter of timing?
We forget, it’s not always about feeling the same, but feeling it at the same time. What if you blink too early, or too late, and miss the one meant for your glow?
Like that friend who loved you as if spring, tapping on your window, just after you left to chase the monsoon. Or the one who showed up, the day you stopped waiting.
Sometimes, it’s not that love disappeared. It arrived. But it knocked at the wrong hour.
Maybe you both were ready to bloom, just not in the same season. Like you both were under the same sky, but living in different timelines.
The truth is, love may have spoken your language, but not your timing.
And that’s, not miscommunication, that’s misalignment.
Because sometimes, love is almost like fireflies. It carries the spark, but misses the moment. It knows how to shine, but not when to.
You are younger, but every time, you ended up teaching me something bigger; showing me how to see the world differently. Softer, slower, with more breaths than answers.
We grew up inside stories. Books, films, shows, fading credits, a thousand lifetimes we lived without leaving the room. Because somehow, the worlds we imagined, the universes we stepped into, they only made sense when we lived them together.
What was the point of a twist if I couldn’t watch your face change? What good was a poem or a story if we didn’t both underline the same line? It wasn’t the fiction that mattered. It was the fact that we believed in it together.
It was our thing. Still is. Even in silence.
You were the first person I ever wanted to protect without knowing how. And maybe that’s how I first learned to love completely, without measuring what came back.
I have fallen more times than I can count, but not once did you stand there saying ‘I told you so.’ You just sat beside the bruise until it forgot it was hurt. Never with advice, but with a comic timing so perfect, even the pain had to laugh.
When we fight, you walk away silently, without a word. And something freezes behind my eyes, as if saying a word would break you, and staying silent might break me.
I pretend it doesn’t hurt. You pretend not to notice. We’ve always been good at pretending.
Still, when everything feels like it’s falling apart, you appear in the doorway and ask, “Didi, chai banayegi kya?” Like love can still be boiled back into a cup.
Our childhood dreams may have grown old, but I still see bits of them in your eyes, shining faintly in your laughter, and lighting up my memories in the gentlest way.
And your laugh, that full, reckless kind, it makes the world easier. Please don’t let the noise or the weight of our losses, steal that child in you.
So do not change. Do not conform. Stay that boy who speaks without speaking, who stitches silences like a thread finding its needle, who knows how to forgive like the morning that arrives; tender, certain, even if the night before wasn’t kind.
I’ve left the door unlocked, but not open. Just in case yourpaws remember the way back.
Because hope, hope still lives here. Quietly. Like dust on your old leash. Like sunlight falling on the empty spot by the door where you used to wait; tail curled, eyes wide, wearing joy like a crown.
I still reach for the sound of you; your paws, your sighs, the soft panting that once played background music to our everyday.
But the house is still. Too still. And grief? Grief is a ghost that keeps licking my hands like it remembers how you used to.
You looked like a storm, but you felt like a warm fire in winter. A lion who bowed to love. Fierce in form, but never once did you raise your voice at the world.
Not even when it was cruel. Not even, when it took you from me.
They say dogs love unconditionally, but you... you redefined the word. You made it feel like home after a long, brutal day, like safety in a storm.
Now I come home, and my arms forget there’s nothing left to reach for anymore.
The absence of your welcome is the loudest thing in the room.
Some say time will soften the edges. But what do they know? They didn’t lose the best part of themselves in the shape of a dog with eyes like forgiveness and a heart too big for this world.
And I… I ache with the knowing that the door will stay unlocked forever, but never again swing open to the joy of your face.
I’ve left the door unlocked, because some part of me still hopes, that maybe the universe will get it wrong, and maybe you’ll find your way back just once more.
Until then, know this: You were, you are, and you always will be loved without measure, missed like breath, remembered in everything.
And when I cross whatever threshold comes after this life, I hope the first thing I see is the tail wagging like time never passed. And the light in your eyes calling me home to a place without endings.
If you forget me, then let it be thorough. Let it be like pulling petals off the last flower I ever gifted you. Not a single one spared to press between your pages.
Forget how my voice once sounded like home on days when you couldn't find one. Forget the soft chair of my attention, how you sank into it like it has always been yours.
If you forget me, let it be a total eclipse, dark enough that even the stars we named after each other are swallowed without a trace.
Forget that I didn’t flinch when you handed me the trembling map of your trauma and asked me to still love you.
Forget the poems I folded like secret letters and left on your pillow. Forget the metaphor that compared your laughter to spring arriving early, and the simile that said, you felt like a prayer answered in silence.
Because love, real love…isn't a song on shuffle. You don't get to skip to the chorus and pretend the verses never happened.
So if you must forget me, do it with conviction. Let the memory of us be a house that burned down and not a postcard you revisit when the weather inside your chest turns stormy.
And I…I’ll unlearn the language that once sounded like your name, wipe clean the margins where I scribbled you into meaning.
I’ll forget you, like waves, forget the names of the shores they once kissed.
I won’t just forget you. I’ll forget the version of me that ever thought you were worth writing for. And I’ll forget the softness of every poem I ever wrote!
April, with its polite sky and blooming lies, returns each year like a guest I never invite, but always prepare for…
It walks in like it owns the place. It hangs its coat next to my sorrow, makes itself at home and whispers, "Remember?"
I do. I remember everything.
How love was the only language you ever needed! You didn’t say it much, but you brewed it, poured it into cups of tea that somehow made the world feel less heavy.
You were the warmest part of the room, even when you weren’t in it. Your smile didn't just lit it up, but it made it feel...safe. How you never took up space, instead just filled it with peace! Like everything aching could rest for a while.
And your humour? Your jokes…they were the classic dad kind. Silly. Predictable. The kind that made me sigh, then laugh anyway.
They don’t make people like you anymore. I don’t think they know how. You were proof enough that goodness can still be quiet.
If grief were a book, April would be the heaviest page. Folded in the corner. Tear-stained. Unreadable some days, unskippable on others.
Do you know...? I don’t drink tea anymore, not in a way I once did anyway. Not because I stopped liking it, but because no one makes it like you. Somehow, every cup now tastes like absence. Like a hug that stops halfway through because it remembers you're gone.
Tell me... Are you okay? Is the sky as soft as they say? Do you miss me the way I miss you...with the kind of ache that sits behind the eyes, burns behind the ribs, waits in the quiet like silence before a scream.
Do you watch me when I crumble in mid-conversations, because an old song slipped through the speaker, and reminded me of you?
Because here...every April, I lose you all over again. It's not like the first time; not like a sharp, sudden ending, but like a story I know by heart that still breaks me in the retelling.
If love had a voice, it would sound like her. Like the first spoonful of warm soup when my throat aches, like my name said softly after a day that broke me… just a little too much.
She is the ocean I learned to float in, the lighthouse I looked for when storms taught me how dark the world can get. She is the reason I believe that kindness is still a currency worth spending freely.
She is the quiet miracle who gave me everything, before I even knew how to ask!
She is the poet. And I? I am her poem, still learning to carry her rhythm in my bones.
When the world tried to turn us cold, she stayed soft. And that softness… God! that softness was never weakness. It was an armour. Armour made of soft hands that held back hurricanes.
Her eyes have always searched for beauty in the smallest things. But for me? She is the most beautiful thing in every room she walks into.
She is the strength in my knees when the world shakes. The pillar that held every version of me until I could stand on my own.
She is my anchor, my horizon, my first home. The reason the world doesn’t feel entirely unkind.
I don’t say it enough. But I love her. In every way I know how; in the choices I make, in the patience I try to carry, in all the ways I remember everything she taught me without even realizing.
Her name is the softest and the only prayer that I know. A quiet kind of magic that wraps around my soul and whispers, “You’re okay. You’ve always been okay!”
If love had a voice, it would sound like her. And it would be the most beautiful thing this world has ever heard.
If the universe asks me to explain love, I will hand it your name. I’ll be honest, I’ve never been great with definitions. But I know what love feels like, because I’ve been coming home to it every day since I met you.
They say the odds of finding someone who understands your silence, are slimmer than rain falling upward. But I met you and now, I question gravity.
You showed up like a well-timed metaphor in a sentence that didn’t know it needed saving. It was not too loud, not scripted, just about right.
Love, with you, feels like laughing in traffic because you said something stupid and perfect. Like knowing someone is in your corner; not just clapping when you win, but holding you steady when you don’t.
Like the way your presence turns a regular Thursday into something worth writing a poem about.
You don’t just turn up, you stay. You’re not here to fix me; you just make it easier to breathe, like stillness after a long day, or the first sip of tea when it’s raining outside.
You’ve seen me in the in-between; in the mess of my worst days, in the silence of doubt, and you’ve never once asked me to hurry.
You carry your past like a spine, not ashamed of the weight, but as something that’s taught you how to stand tall.
They don’t tell you this, but love isn’t always grand gestures. Sometimes it’s, switching off the lights because I forgot, pulling the blanket over me at 3 a.m., charging my phone when I’ve left it dying. It’s the way you don’t flinch when I fall apart; you just sit there, reserve space, and make sure I come back whole.
Love, with you, is quiet. Not because it’s small, but because it knows it doesn’t need to raise its voice to be heard. It’s a blissful #HappilyEverMiNe because I know, like poetry, we rhyme.
Love, with you, is a relaxing afternoon read, the kind where I lose track of time, curled up with something I don’t have to rush through. It’s the quiet conviction that I’m exactly where I want to be.
And when you laugh, it’s not music, but the moment before the music, the hush that tells you, something beautiful is about to happen.
So if the universe still insists on an answer, I will not recite dictionaries. I will invite it for coffee, point to the man who always gets the ratio right. And smile to let it see; the way you love without performance, the way you stand still in a world that spins too fast, the way my name sounds truer and different when you say it.
Memory is a room I can’t leave. The walls echo with your laughter, soft and familiar, but the silence that follows is deafening.
Life is moving forward, even without you. The world’s spinning, the calendar changes, the sun still rises, people laugh, take photos, toast champagne. Things are happening. I am living… but ain’t alive!
Every day, I miss you in a different way. Some days, in tears. Other days, in the way my hands tremble when I fold your favourite shirt that still smells like summer. Nothing is complete without you. And nothing ever will be. I am not the same, and I won’t ever be; not in the way that matters.
They say, grief dulls with time. That it softens, settles, fades, becomes a whisper… They’re wrong. It sharpens. It shapeshifts. It emerges in a song you used to hum, a joke you’d ruin on purpose, the emptiness of your seat at the dinner table.
Grief is a wound that never heals. It sinks, deeper. Until it becomes a part of you… Your breath, your blood, your bones.
You grow more guarded, more anxious, You hold your people closer, like they’re made of glass and you’re made of fear.
You live two lives. One is visible. You smile, you speak, you show up, You do the things. The other is hidden in the folds of your mind, where time still belongs to you, and laughter hasn’t turned to ghost. Where you exist, untouched by loss.
Memory is a room I can’t leave. I sit by the window, hoping that in my defiance, in my unwillingness to let go, you might forgive!
Accidental Epiphanies 