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21st January, 2025 Amsterdam, Netherlands “Hey! Walk slowly, I can’t keep up with you otherwise,” Agatha huffed as she put her hands on her knees. Her legs wobbled in the cold weather, despite wearing 3 layers of leggings and dark-blue jeans, and 2 layers of shirt and a white jumper. It was just 2.5°C, which she should’ve been used to, considering she spent her entire twenty four years of life over here. “Not my fault that you don’t have any stamina,” Aart scoffed and stopped to gaze at his best friend. Her dark blonde hair was a mess, and her blue eyes were droopy. The cars in the background and the fountain next to them made it seem like a scene straight from a movie. “You look like a helpless puppy,” he said as he pulled her up. There was something about her that kept him on his toes but never annoyed enough. Perhaps it was her humour that made the lamest joke laugh worthy. Perhaps, it was her smile that was worth a thousand motivational speeches. Or perhaps it was just her very existence– No. Aart stopped thinking. He cannot think. Not of Agatha, not in this manner at least. They’d been friends since middle school when he accidentally fell down on her desk once during a class fight.  “Well… you like animals, don’t you?” She looked at him, and smiled. Agatha had always adored their friendship. She couldn’t help but think if things were to change. She had been contemplating a lot of her life decisions these days. When she broke up with her cheating boyfriend, Aart was there to comfort her. When her mom passed away, it was in his arms she spent her day crying. Agatha liked him. And it was killing  her. "You’re the only animal that I like,” he said, unbothered. Kill me already, he thought. Could he have made this anymore obvious? She would drift away, and leave him, and it’d kill him because how little  he knew about existing without her. “And you’re the only animal I like too. Real-real types,” Agatha mumbled. She didn’t want him to leave her, but she couldn’t lie to herself, or him. Aart had either lost his hearing or his mind. He stared at her, his breath hitching. “Wait… what?” Agatha swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud the city felt, how fast her heart was beating. She could take it back. Laugh it off. Pretend she didn’t mean it. But she was tired of pretending. She met his gaze, steady this time. “In all versions of reality, I’d want it to be you.” ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 28th April, 1905 London, England "Parliament Debates Women’s Suffrage!" A newspaper boy handed the gazette to Viscount Arthur and took ten shillings from him. He glanced at the piece of paper, and the image printed on it caught his eye. His gaze fell directly on one face. The image was black and white, but he could perfectly make out her features. Dark blonde hair and blue eyes—nothing uncommon, he thought. But something about her made her stand out from the huge crowd. Perhaps it was the way her hands curled in protest, or the way her face held so much emotion, so much fire concealed within. Just as he was about to put down the gazette, something—someone—bumped hard into his back. “My lord, you should watch where you're standing. This is a public platform,” the lady was just about to fall when Arthur wrapped his arms around her waist. “What are you—?” She stammered and gaped at his face. “Viscount? I apologise—” She quickly pulled herself away and stood up, gathering the basket she had dropped. “My bread... no...” she mumbled, glancing at him in frustration. Arthur looked at the cemented pavement, where two loaves of bread now lay in ruin. “I apologise, I shall compensate you for this loss, Lady...” He stopped, waiting for her to take the hint. “Agatha,” she said sharply, folding her arms across her chest. “And how did you deduce that I am a lady, and not a commoner, My Lord?” There was an undeniable edge to her voice, the kind of defiance that caught him off guard. “Because…” he stepped forward, and then two more, until he was only a breath away. He whispered, “No commoner would dare to ask a noble for compensation.” “You’re very intelligent, Viscount,” she smiled, a spark in her eyes. Then, she extended her basket toward him. “So… my compensation?” Arthur took her basket, but before he could speak, he looked at her with an intensity he hadn’t expected, a connection he couldn’t explain. The same feeling from the gazette. The recognition. The strange pull. He offered her his hand, and thought to himself that perhaps in all versions of reality, he’d kill just to meet her again, for the very first time.  ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 2nd October, 1385 Lorraine, France The crow’s wings beat like a dying heart as it dragged its prize across the frosted grass—a crust of black bread, stolen from the executioner’s block. The village square smelled of charred thyme and old guilt. Sir Arthur de Valois knelt in the ashes of the witch from last week, his sword leaning against the bloodstained wood. He was just a knight, sworn to protect and to kill, whenever and whoever. But what difference did it make? He had no one to call his own. Except maybe one lively dame who didn’t belong to anyone. Least of all him. “This one’s different,” the bishop’s breath curled in the cold. “She speaks in tongues. Guard her ‘til dawn, then cleanse the land with fire.” Clutched in his fist was the dirty blonde hair of a beaten lady, her eyes dull, like they didn’t have the strength to shine anymore. She wore nothing but scraps, barely any clothes at all. Aart’s vow of silence almost cracked when they dragged her in. “You—,” he inhaled sharply, the mist biting at his lungs. The witch sat chained in the charred chapel, her fingers playing with belladonna petals hidden in her sleeve. Moonlight sliced through the shattered stained glass, breaking her face into pieces—blue eyes, a smirk, the scar on her lip. “Do you dream of me, Mon Silence ?” Agathe of the Hollow tilted her head, the chains rattling. “I dream of you. Always in armor. Always too late.” She smiled bitterly, like that was the only weapon left to her. She looked at him through the bars, his head low, brown eyes fixed on her, empty. He had a cup of wine in his hand, cheap as it was, maybe to drown the sorrow—or erase whatever fleeting feelings had the audacity to rise in him. When he didn’t respond, she spat in his wine. He drank it anyway. At the darkest hour, she laughed quietly when he slipped her extra bread—treason wrapped in kindness. His gauntlet caught her wrist as she reached for it, leaving a raw red line. “Burn me,” she whispered, pressing his own dagger to her throat. His grip trembled. “But in the next life, meet me sooner.” The villagers’ torches bled into the horizon, their murmurs like a rising tide. Agathe stood bound to the pyre, her bare feet crushing the belladonna petals she’d let fall like a trail of dark stars. Aart’s sword trembled in his grip—too heavy, too familiar. The bishop thrust a lit brand into his hand. "Cleanse her." Agatha’s voice rasped, yet carried like a prophecy: "In all versions of reality, you hesitate." And he did. He dropped the torch. The crowd roared. The bishop screamed. Agatha’s chains clattered to the dirt as Aart hauled her onto his horse—but not before she snatched the burning brand from the pyre. "This time," she hissed, holding the flame between them, "we burn together." And as the village dissolved into smoke behind them, two things remained in the ashes in Agathe’s herbal pouch—a blackened wooden puppy, and a newspaper scrap—‘Suffragette Arrested’—the ink unsinged, the date impossible: 1905 Agatha whispered as they rode into the forest, "Next time, don’t wait until I’m about to die to choose me." And for the first time in a long while, Aart said, “Even if I don’t say it…you know  in all versions of reality, I’d choose you.” ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 18th October, 2156 Neo-Tokyo, Japan  Rain slashed against the broken windows of the abandoned data hub, mixing with neon lights to splash Agatha’s face in liquid electricity. She sat cross-legged, surrounded by stolen neural drives, her fingers flying over a holographic keyboard that splintered light up her arms. A cable ran from her temple to a makeshift mainframe, the screen flashing warnings in angry crimson. Then the door exploded inward. Aart-7 stepped through, pulse rifle raised, his visor scanning the room in sharp, jagged sweeps. Water dripped from the edges of his armored coat. “Subject AGT,” his voice modulator flattened the words into something cold. “You’re coming with me.” She didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even look up. “Took you three weeks this time.” Her fingers never stopped typing. “I’m almost disappointed.” A smirk curled at her lips—the same damn smirk he’d seen in the glitches of his unauthorized memories. “What’s wrong, hunter? Can’t decide if you should shoot me or kiss me?” His grip tightened around the rifle. The Regime’s orders buzzed through his neural implant: Eliminate the Ghost. But the glitches kept coming—snippets of her laughing by a fountain, her hands dusted in flour, the smell of burning thyme. His rifle’s charge whined higher. The visor flickered—an error displaying her stats, overlaid with impossible data: [Subject ID: Agatha // 24yo // Status: Deceased - 2025AD] “Malfunctioning,” he muttered, stepping over broken server parts. A wooden figurine caught his eye—a dog with only one ear. His finger twitched on the trigger. Agatha stood, slowly, the cables from her neural ports swaying like she wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.” She tapped her temple. “They wiped you clean, but the memories are still here. In both of us.” She turned, revealing fresh burn marks along her jawline from last week’s neural raid. “We need to stop meeting like this, mon silence .” Her voice sent a jolt through him, triggering another glitch—fragments of a chapel, chains, her spitting in his wine. His rifle dipped, trembling slightly in his hands. Beneath the conditioning, a voice that sounded like his but wasn’t, whispered, ‘You’ve been here before.’ Outside, the sirens started. Agatha tore the neural cable from her temple in one smooth motion, blood dripping down her cheekbone in a perfect tear. “They’re coming to wipe us both this time.” She nodded toward the mainframe. “I found all of it. 1385. 1905. 2025. Every time they…” The building shuddered as the first Regime dropship landed on the roof. She stepped closer, boots crunching over broken glass. The rifle shook in his hands as she pressed her forehead to the barrel. “Choose,” she whispered. “Again.” Somewhere deep beneath the conditioning, he remembered, Her by the fountain. The ruined bread. The wooden puppy, left unburnt. “In all versions of reality,” she murmured, “you hesitate.” The first explosion rocked the building. ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆ 54 BCE Gaul The river ran red at dawn. Aart stood knee-deep in the cold water, his sword arm trembling. Around him, the last of the druid warriors lay scattered in the reeds, their blue war paint mixing with blood. The air tasted of wet earth and burning oak. He didn’t see her at first. Not until she emerged from the smoke of the sacred grove, her bare feet leaving dark imprints in the damp soil. Agatha. Not a warrior. Not a priestess. Just a girl— his girl —with dirty blonde hair and a scar on her lip, the same one he’d seen in dreams he hadn’t realized he’d been having. In her hands, she held a wooden dog. Its left ear was missing. “You’re late,” she said, though they’d never met. Her Latin was flawless. “I’ve been waiting forever.” Aart’s sword tip dipped toward the ground, his grip faltering. Somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the armor, the discipline, the years of war, something cracked open. “Who are you?” His voice came out foreign, strange to him. She smiled then, and it was like watching the sun rise after a lifetime of darkness. “Yours,” she said, simple, inevitable. “In every version of reality.” The wooden dog was warm when she pressed it into his palm. The carving was crude but unmistakable—the same shape he’d whittled as a boy, before the legions, before the killing. Then—before he could stop her—she stepped forward onto his blade. The blade slid between her ribs with terrible ease. Aart felt the exact moment the iron found her heart. The shock traveled up his arm, vibrating through his bones like the aftershock of a temple bell. Agatha's mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ but what came out wasn't a scream. It was laughter. The wooden dog in his other hand flared blue—not the dull glow of firelight, but the vicious, unnatural hue of lightning trapped in glass. The same blue that would one day pulse in Neo-Tokyo's neural ports. At their feet, the river carried an impossible thing: scrap of paper from 1905 riding the current like a leaf.  Agatha's fingers found his wrist, her grip stronger than dying had any right to be. Blood bubbled at the corner of her mouth as she leaned in, whispering five words that would outlast empires: "Do not hesitate this time" As her vision darkened, Agatha smiled. This was the plan all along, Let the river take my body. Let the oak leaf carry my promise. Let him spend two thousand years putting me back together. Then her weight left him. The river took her body with the indifference of something that had done this before.  Aart's scream ripped through the dawn—"AGATHA!"—a name no legionnaire had taught him, a name that tasted like flour and burning thyme. Somewhere downstream, the wooden dog washed ashore. Its left ear was missing.The current pulled her under. Somewhere beyond time, a crow picked up its bread crust and flew toward a city that wouldn't exist for centuries. The cycle had begun. Again.  ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

its finals season, so hiatus till march end. see you guys in april. xoxo, shatakshi

“I wish you were dead,” is something I grew up hearing. Don’t feel sorry— I’m used to it. I suppose I was four the first time I heard it. It was my princess-themed birthday party when Dad forgot to bring my cake, and my mother was furious. One thing led to another, and my dad ended up with a heavy blow to his head. That was also the day my mother told him, “I wish you were dead.” Or perhaps it was when I was five years old, in a garden, playing house with my friends, while my parents, who were supposed to supervise me, out of nowhere started arguing. Dad said it was Mom’s fault that I was becoming like this. One thing led to another, and my mother ended up with bruises on her neck. That was also the day my father told her, “I wish you were dead.” Or was it when my grandparents, who were supposed to love everyone unconditionally, were at each other’s throats because of someone’s infidelity from decades ago? One thing led to another, and ever since then, they’ve been estranged. That was the day my grandfather and my grandmother screamed at each other, “I wish you were dead.” Whenever it was—it was like a thunderstrike to the ocean. The currents still carry the weight of those words. Tonight, my father came home late. He laid on the old brown sofa with springs sprung up on the side. He let the faint glow of the television envelope him as he consumed his third beer bottle of the day. He reeked of liquor. He fell asleep after his third sip, and then I had to clean up after him. I always do. My mother sat on the floor, rolling chappatis on the pan. Her black hair, streaked with grey, was damp with sweat. Her eyes had a little too much kohl around them. The kitchen walls had water seepage all over. She smiled, as if to reassure herself and not me. I pretend not to notice when she mixes a few drops of rat poison into one of the doughs. Life wasn’t always like this. We didn’t always live in a slum-like house. I suppose it started when my father’s company plummeted, when he was labeled a whistleblower. Or maybe it was when we spent more time at the district high court than in our own home. The lawyers drained all our resources. They drained all our money. And if that wasn’t enough, the country’s judicial system labeled my father guilty. Which not only buried us in an endless debt, but also drained my mother’s last remaining affection for him. My mother kneads the dough like she’s done it a thousand times before. Her hands press deep. Pushing, folding. Pushing, folding. The poison is already in there. She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t blink. She just keeps going, like it’s routine. The air is heavy. The ceiling fan whines above us, stirring heat that sticks to my skin. The TV glows in the living room, throwing broken light over my father’s body. He’s slumped back, head tilted, throat bared to the dimness. His chest rises. Falls. Rises. Falls. Alive. Still. I should tell her to stop. I should scream, throw the dough out, spill the secret onto the floor and watch it soak into the cracks of this dying house. But I don’t. Because the truth is—deep down, in the place I never let myself look too long— I don’t know if I want to. I watch her fingers press into the dough, rolling, shaping. It shouldn’t feel this normal. It shouldn’t feel like just another night, like just another meal. But it does. In the living room, my father shifts. His breath stirs, thick with sleep, with liquor. The bottle beside him wobbles, almost tipping over before settling back down. My eyes snap to his face. His mouth is slightly open. His brow twitches, like he’s dreaming. I wonder if he dreams of the life he’s burned down. If he dreams of us. I wonder if he even cares. My mother hums under her breath. The sound grates at me, like nails dragging against a wall. I wonder if she even knows she’s doing it. I wonder if she ever hums when she’s happy. I don’t remember the last time I saw her happy. A lump forms in my throat, thick, choking. I don’t swallow it down. I just stand there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the life I’ve been born into. The life I’ve been forced to carry. My mother tears off a piece of dough and starts rolling it between her palms. This is it. This is the moment. I could stop her. I could throw the entire plate to the ground. I could shake my father awake and tell him, you don’t get to die like this. I could do so many things. But I don’t. Because I don’t know who I’m saving anymore. And I don’t know if they deserve it. Somewhere in the house, the television flickers. A low murmur from the screen—someone laughing, soft and distant. The sound barely reaches us. I watch my mother press the dough into the pan. And I wait.

“I think the stars are flirting with each other. Look! That one is giggling,” Adele smiles as she rests her head on the soft grass. The chilly air is about to slice her cheek when Silas shifts his windbreaker onto her. "The sky is alive tonight," she thinks, eyes tracing constellations. "A million tiny heartbeats scattered across the dark, winking secrets at the dreamers below. If I listen closely, maybe I’ll hear them hum." "They're massive spheres of burning gas," Silas replies without looking up. "Love is an illusion. Physics governs all." Numbers. Equations. Known laws. That’s what the sky is. Nuclear fusion at the core, gravitational collapse counteracted by radiation pressure. Hydrogen to helium, a process running on timelines too vast for human sentiment. Stars don’t flirt. They burn, they expand, they die. A predictable cycle, nothing more. Adele hums, thoughtful. "And yet, you're warming me up. Would physics explain that, or should I just call it affection ?" Silas scoffs, but he doesn’t take the jacket back. "It’s thermoregulation." Efficiency. Heat transfer. Her body temperature had likely dropped below its optimal range, triggering an instinctive response in him. It was simple cause and effect . Newton’s third law , he thought. She turns her head toward him, eyes glinting. "Of course. And here I thought you might be capable of sentiment ." He finally looks at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Sentiment clouds logic." "And logic kills poetry." Poetry. A non-essential abstraction. Human brains grasping for meaning where there is none, layering metaphors over cold, hard science. He doesn’t need poetry—he needs facts. Observable reality. Poetry won’t save a failing experiment. It won’t alter the laws of motion. It won’t change what is. Silas exhales through his nose, half-exasperated. "Poetry is just words strung together in aesthetically pleasing ways. It doesn’t change reality." Adele gasps, clutching her chest like he’s personally insulted her ancestors. "You take that back!" "I won’t." "You will." "Why?" He’s amused now. "Because one day, Silas, you’re going to feel something so big, so unquantifiable, that even your precious logic won’t be able to contain it. And when that happens—when words are all you have—you’ll pray for poetry." A beat. The wind rustles the grass around them. The sky stretches on, vast and untouched. Silas says nothing. Because he knows—if he were to respond, if he were to disprove her, he’d have to tell her something uncomfortably close to the truth: That even in physics, there are forces he still doesn’t understand. "That even in physics, there is uncertainty." He swallows. "Doubtful," he murmurs. But he doesn’t sound quite so sure. Adele grins, victorious. "We’ll see." And the stars keep flirting, even if he refuses to admit it. And he is still gazing at her, even if he refuses to admit it. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ The silence stretches between them, settling like dew on the grass. Adele doesn't mind silence—not when it thrums with possibility. Silas, on the other hand, sees it as a variable to solve. A gap in conversation is just a question without an answer. And he hates unanswered questions. “Alright,” she says, shifting onto her elbows. “If the universe is so tragically unromantic, then why do people fall in love?” He huffs. “Biological imperative.” “That’s your answer for everything.” “Because it’s correct.” Adele shakes her head, a slow smile spreading. “Incorrect.” Silas quirks an eyebrow. “Are you really challenging evolutionary psychology?” “No, I’m challenging you.” She leans in slightly, like she’s on the verge of revealing a great cosmic secret. “People don’t love because they have to, Silas. They love because sometimes, the universe gets it wrong—and they find someone they weren’t supposed to find.” He doesn’t reply immediately. Because that should be illogical. That should be wrong. But something about it—about her—makes his brain short-circuit just enough that he doesn’t have an immediate rebuttal. And Adele sees it. Feels it. “Did I just make the great Silas Calloway speechless?” Silas blinks. Recovers. Scoffs. “Hardly.” Adele hums, amused. "Mmm. If you say so." She tilts her head back, watching the stars again. But his gaze stays right there, lingering for a fraction too long before he shakes his head and looks away. It’s fine. Because physics governs all. Right? ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ Adele exhales, stretching her arms above her head. "You know," she muses, eyes half-lidded, "for someone so obsessed with logic, you sure spend a lot of time arguing with me about feelings." Silas scoffs. "I'm not arguing. I'm correcting your flawed perception of reality." She grins. There it is. That little flicker of defensiveness, like he knows he’s losing ground but refuses to admit it. "So what, then? If love is just biology, if the universe is just numbers, if stars don’t flirt—what do you believe in, Silas?" His first instinct is to say science. Because science is fact. Because science does not waver under the weight of a gaze like hers. But for some reason, he doesn't say it. Instead, he turns his head slightly, watching the way the wind lifts strands of her hair, the way starlight dusts over her cheekbones. There is a reason humans assign meaning to things. A reason the brain registers warmth in someone's presence, a reason the chest tightens when looking too long at someone who feels like gravity. Maybe the universe isn't always wrong. But that thought? That’s dangerous. So he forces himself to look away, to press his palms against the damp grass and focus on the earth beneath him. Grounding. Logical. Safe. "I believe," he says finally, voice steady, "that the human brain is wired to seek patterns. And you, Adele, are very good at making chaos look poetic." Adele doesn't reply right away. Just studies him, lips curving at the edges like she knows something he doesn’t. "Maybe," she murmurs. "Or maybe you’re just scared of the answer." The wind moves between them. Silas doesn’t respond. Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know the answer. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ The wind moves between them, quiet, carrying the distant hum of crickets, the soft rustle of leaves. Adele watches him, waiting, patient in a way that unsettles him. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he exhales, glancing back up at the sky. "You want something poetic?" he murmurs. "Fine. If the stars are flirting, then… maybe I am too." Adele blinks. Then bursts out laughing. Silas groans immediately, shoving a hand over his face. "Forget I said that. That was objectively terrible ." "Oh, no, no, no, that was perfect," Adele gasps between giggles. "Silas Calloway, are you—" she wipes her eyes, "flirting with me?" He groans again, tilting his head back against the grass. "I take it back. Love isn’t an illusion. It’s just humiliation with extra steps." Adele grins, nudging his shoulder with hers. "Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, Shakespeare." And above them, the stars keep winking. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

I cannot choose between empathy and regulations, no—I don't understand labels on relations. I care for a rabbit as I would for a tiger, and for everyone else—for they see me as a provider. I dream of the world resting in my hand, Like a mother comforting her child in a distant land. I’m not great at arguments, that’s true, But I’d never leave a life or a lament in view. My dad wanted to be everything, A lawyer, a writer, a musician, and king. But life doesn’t wait for those with big dreams, So he chose one path, or so it seems. Now here I stand, decades apart, Chasing the same thunder, with a restless heart. I don’t know if I choose or if it’s just fate, Living a life he couldn’t, a life I create. He wanted to build something bigger than him, Change the world, make it not so grim. Maybe that’s why I can’t stand still, Why my hands itch for things too big to fulfill. He wrote poems, tucked in notebooks so old, Planned a future that he couldn’t hold. I write too, though my pages are wide, Trying to finish what he left aside. He learned machines, the language of metal, I learned words, to solve and to settle. Different tongues, but the hunger the same, To carve our names and make them flame. I carry his contradictions, a heavy crown, Half logic, half feeling, I wear them down. Maybe I can have it all, take the leap, Maybe I don’t have to choose, maybe I’ll keep. Because after all, when the dust has flown, I am my father’s daughter, in my heart, I’ve grown.

I met god in an alleyway, and he asked for a cigarette, He hushed me down when I passed it– as though we’ve a secret. The alley was dark, and the footpath wet, When I asked him if we had ever met. He smiled faintly, not lifting up his hat, He said you're not the first one to ask me that. Amusement danced on his fingertips, as he lit the cig, And then he bent down to grab a broken twig. He bore his eyes onto it when he rubbed it against the wall, Specks of fire emerged as he stood tall. I met god in an alleyway, and he asked for a cigarette, We’re both sitting on the pavement as he gazes into an amulet. The amulet is a brilliant blue with specks of green, The making of it- is no less than a dream. He questioned if this looked familiar to me, "I wondered if this is what Earth could be," God sighed, a sound old as the sea. "Not quite,"  he murmured, spinning the amulet slow, "This is what it was, before they let it go." I met god in an alleyway, and he asked for a cigarette, The cigarette burned low, like an ancient flame, Its smoke curling like memories, never the same. "I don’t get many believers these days," He said, his voice lost in a foggy haze. "Just people who search for someone to blame," His words dropped heavy, without any shame. I met god in an alleyway, and he asked for a cigarette, I watched him, his face a portrait of sorrow, Like a god with no faith in tomorrow. "And what are you looking for?"  I asked, His silence spoke more than words ever tasked. "Something worth saving,"  he muttered, resigned, Like hope had long since slipped from his mind. I met god in an alleyway, and he asked for a cigarette, We sat there, still, not a word to break, Both of us lost, with no choice but to wait. His eyes, they carried a galaxy’s pain, Fading and hollow, too deep to explain. I met god in an alleyway, and he asked for a cigarette, Finally, he flicked the cigarette’s end, Its ashes scattering like prayers to send. He stood with a groan, his bones heavy with age, The weight of eternity set in his gaze. "I’ll be back tomorrow,"  he said with a sigh, But his voice carried no hope, just goodbye. I met god in an alleyway, and he asked for a cigarette, And then he vanished, a shadow in the night, Leaving me alone with the fading light. And I stayed, with questions too vast to ask, Wondering if even gods ever grow tired of their task.

The morning after I killed myself, my kin would find me free—for the first time in forever, from the weight of expectations and the burden of liabilities. My parents would weep a little, and then some more, and when there are no more tears left to cry,  they'll put week-old clothes out to dry. The morning after I killed myself, my bed would remain the same. The poetry that I never completed would now be cherished in everyone’s frame. They would exaggerate about how great I was, how tragic it is for my parents to go through this loss. The morning after I killed myself, my water bottle would be left untouched, to not erase my traces off it, just in case I decide to return. My wardrobe would be made properly, because my mom knows I’m messy,  and maybe she’ll love me now, finally. The morning after I killed myself, my whiteboard will remain, ink splashed all over— with plans never made. I lingered in my room, a little longer, Hoping for relief to finally get stronger. The morning after I killed myself, The sticky notes on my books– Not so sticky anymore,  they carry the words that never left me, In my heart, and in my home. And if only they see it, Maybe they’ll understand– why I felt so alone. The morning after I killed myself, I realized I hadn’t left. I was there, stitched into their grief, bound by the love I didn’t think I deserved. I thought I was free, but I wasn’t— not from them, not from myself. The morning after I killed myself, I saw my parents weep, not for the daughter they lost but for the daughter they didn’t see. I watched them piece together my absence, too late to mend what was broken in me. The morning after I killed myself, I waited for peace to come, but found only the weight of what could have been. If only I had stayed to see the sunrise, to fight through the ache and the heaviness, perhaps the morning after wouldn’t exist.

have you ever waited for a moment that would make sense in this senseless world? have you ever waited for a day where you would cut off  the tags on clothes that still stay? have you ever looked for places to stick the stickers you  saved for a ‘special occasion’? have you ever saved a song because it felt too perfect to play on an ordinary day? have you ever written a letter you never meant to send, just to feel the weight of words leave your hands? have you ever held onto a ticket stub from a train you swore would take you somewhere you could breathe again? have you ever kept a key to a door long forgotten, just in case you found it someday?

The dust mucks up over me as I wonder if someone will visit me today. The fading ink of the books whispers amongst themselves, wondering if someone will pick them up. It wasn’t always like this. I have hoarded hundreds of books upon my old wood, still strong all through these years. There was a time when the children were excited to visit the library, grateful to have access to the information. I would be dusted off daily, along with the books on me. I’ve seen generations grow older in this room. The little boy and girl who once argued over the same book—built a bond over it. I’ve seen lazy students work their breath off and then visit years later—as successful people. And of all the things I’ve seen, I can assure you—nothing beats the feeling of seeing the people you’ve known since childhood grow up. Out of all the faces I’ve come across, there was one I never forgot. Dorothea, the old librarian—who was once a young girl so full of life. I’ve seen this place snatch it out of her. It was in the early 1980s when she first came here. A girl, only a decade old. Her wistful brown eyes searched for a book like it was a treasure to be found. She scanned the entire library and then came toward me. “Hmm, is it here?” she murmured as she went over my first shelf. She stopped at the third shelf as she pulled a book out. Matilda, it read. Perchance, it was at that moment I realized I was going to see a lot more of her. Every weekend, Dorothea would visit at four in the evening. She would sit across the room, beside a window. More often than not, she would gaze at the sun for a minute before reading anything. I always thought she was a child who lacked focus. Never did it occur to me that it could’ve been a silent prayer. Years went by, and she turned sixteen. It had been five years since her mother passed away. She would now often spend her entire day at the library, scribbling over pages and tossing them into the bin, her brown hair always messed up. She was a reader, a lovely reader—who held the book as one would hold a child; even the creases of the pages were gentle. But she wasn’t a writer. Well, not until that dorky boy, anyway. People called it naivety, but I like to see it as passion. It was because he broke her heart, and she poured it all out on paper. Penned down her first poem. And then another. And another. And she wrote till the ink bled dry, the paper drowned. She wrote until she couldn’t anymore. That’s when the writer sleeping inside her woke up. Was I glad he broke her heart? No. But I was glad because it meant that one day, I would get to hold her books on my shelves. Unfortunately, that never happened. You see, women didn’t have much freedom back then. They didn’t have the privilege to have their own careers, and thus they were nothing but someone’s ‘wife.’ So, when Dorothea’s father got to know about her passion for writing, he supported her. He believed in his daughter and her aspirations. Her stepmother, however, did not believe in her. And thus, when her father passed away due to ‘inexplicable circumstances,’ Dorothea was married off to a man older than her father. Her fate had always been cruel. Perhaps that’s why it was kinder to her after the marriage. Her husband passed away soon after, and at the ripe age of twenty-two—she was a widow. She returned to the library and worked in the day. Wrote her stories in the night. And soon she was done. A book she could call her own, a story that was made of her soul. It was during the winter when she was twenty-five that she fell in love with a fellow writer. She shared with him her thoughts and her stories. She invited him into her mind and let him stay. The devil couldn’t reach her, so he sent her a man who not only ruined her but also stole from her. No sooner than he came, he left. He left her heartbroken, and he left with all of her. He took some of her soul—brighter than the sun, her smile, her determination. But most of all, he stole her life, her book. Her words. The same Dorothea who wrote because of heartbreak now contemplated her life as her words caused another. It’s been four decades since the burglary. Dorothea never wrote again. Her hands, once so sure as they scribbled words into existence, trembled with the weight of what was taken from her. She stayed here, in this library, for the rest of her days. Day after day, she dusted me off, tended to the books that whispered her name in their silence, and cared for a space that cared little for her in return. I remember the last time she sat by the window. It was a winter evening, the kind where the frost clings to the glass, and the world feels heavy. She had grown smaller, quieter, over the years—a mere shadow of the girl I once knew. She stared at the horizon until the sky turned from gold to gray, as if waiting for something. But nothing came. She closed her eyes, her head resting against the windowpane, and I knew. She was gone. They found her the next morning, still sitting there, her hands folded neatly in her lap. No one wept, no one lingered. The world moved on, as it always does. But I remained. And I remembered. I remembered the girl who once prayed by the window before opening her book. The girl who scribbled stories like her life depended on it. The woman who gave her soul to words, only for the world to steal them away. Her stories were never told. Her name never made it to the spines of the books I hold. But she is here. In the creak of my wood. In the dust that settles on my shelves. In the fading ink of books that whisper her name when no one’s listening. Dorothea never got her ending, but I will carry her story for as long as I stand.

A Deep-Dive Into Pseudo-feminism Imagine being discriminated against because of your gender. Most, if not all, women have experienced it at some point. Some rise above it, learning from their experiences and using them to empower not just themselves but others around them. But not everyone handles such situations gracefully, and honestly? That’s okay. People process pain differently.  Sometimes, though, the way they cope turns unhealthy. It becomes toxic. And that’s where the term misandry  sneaks in. “misandry /mɪˈsandri/ noun dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against men (i.e. the male sex)" Now before someone decides to call me a “pick-me,” let’s get one thing straight—I am a feminist. Feminism isn’t about putting one gender above another; it’s about leveling the playing field. Equal opportunities, equal respect, equal everything. It’s about merit, not anatomy. Feminism isn’t, and never has been, about hating men. But here’s the thing—human minds are wired to think their way is the only way. Some people, without even realizing it, fall into the trap of practicing pseudo-feminism. And sometimes, that pseudo-feminism takes the form of misandry. Let me make it simpler. Have you ever heard phrases like: “All men are trash.” “Men don’t know what real problems are.” “Why would a man need a safe space?” If you have, then congratulations—you’ve encountered misandry disguised as feminism.               ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡ Everyday Misandry in Action Dismissing Men’s Problems: Depression doesn’t check your chromosomes before settling in. Neither does abuse, nor the relentless societal pressure to “be a man” and “provide.” And yet, men speaking out about these things are often met with disbelief or mockery, as if their pain isn’t valid. But here’s the irony: dismissing their problems only reinforces the same toxic masculinity feminism is trying to dismantle. Objectification Goes Both Ways: Women have dealt with objectification forever, and we’ve fought hard to call it out. But let’s not pretend men don’t experience it too. You’ve seen the memes: “Under six feet? Undateable.” Or the casual jokes about men being “walking wallets” or “human ATMs.” It’s the same poison, just dressed up differently. When we objectify anyone, we strip away their humanity. The sad part? Some people laugh it off, thinking it’s harmless, but what they don’t realize is that it is the very stereotypes we’re all so desperate to break. Mocking Vulnerability: Vulnerability should be celebrated, right? But not if you’re a guy, apparently. A man crying over a heartbreak? “Weak.” He’s hesitant after facing rejection? “Can’t handle it, huh?” Society has drilled into men that showing emotion is a flaw, that being sensitive makes them less “manly.” Here’s where it gets twisted: we tell men to open up, to share their feelings, but the moment they do, they’re ridiculed. It’s hypocrisy at its finest, and it’s damaging to everyone involved. If we keep punishing men for being human, how do we expect them to embrace the very change we’re advocating for? Ignoring Male Victims of Abuse: Abuse is abuse, regardless of gender, but how often do you hear about male victims being taken seriously? Shelters, hotlines, and resources are mainly tailored to women—and that’s necessary, but men deserve support too.  When a man comes forward with a story of abuse, the reaction is often disbelief. “But you’re bigger than her,” or worse, “Why didn’t you fight back?” These responses not only invalidate their experiences but also force them to stay silent. ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡ Feminism Is For Everyone The thing about feminism is that it’s supposed to be inclusive. It’s about breaking down the patriarchy—not flipping it on its head and calling it progress. Patriarchy doesn’t just hurt women; it hurts men too. It forces them into these suffocating, narrow roles they didn’t ask for. And let’s be real, misandry doesn’t challenge that system—it just switches up who gets to suffer. So, what do we do instead? We focus on the real problem: the systems, the stereotypes, and the structures that hurt everyone. It’s not about pointing fingers or playing the blame game; it’s about creating a world that’s fair for all of us. Because that’s what equality is supposed to be, right? Fairness. ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡ Conclusion Feminism doesn’t need misandry to prove a point. It’s already powerful enough when practiced with empathy, fairness, and respect. So next time you’re tempted to repost that “men are trash” meme, maybe pause for a second. Think about what true feminism stands for. Let’s be better, for we can. ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

To: cosmos@noreligion.com From: thegirlonherphone@earth.in Subject: Just, Because. Dear Cosmos, I am terrified. I really am. And frankly, I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know how to fix everything or how to please everyone at the same time. Each time I look at this world, all I see are unhappy people pretending to smile so that their loved ones don’t get saddened. But here’s the thing, cosmos, their loved ones are doing the same thing. And so are their other loved ones. Which makes this all just a chain reaction of people pretending to be happy when in reality none of us is truly happy and it is scary. It is so very scary, Cosmos. Somedays I weep, and some days I relent. And some of these days I wonder. I wonder if this has been continuous in our history since forever. I wonder if our ancestors were happy. And I wonder if our successors will be.  When everyone wishes to be happy, why is it that they try to deprive others of the same happiness? When everyone wishes to be at peace, why is it that they try to go and bring chaos in others’ lives just on the pretext of fun? Why, Cosmos? Why? And why is it that the humans that you created with love and tenderness are now rebelling against each other because they believe you love them more than the others? Is it so hard to just be kind and spread love? Is it really that difficult? To be just kind, loving, and caring? Every breath of air I take in, I feel the smell of someone’s tears in silence. And everytime I come across the wind I feel the hug of the mother who so desperately wished to hug her son goodbye one last time. Everytime the rain pours I can sense the sky cackling with laughter because the sun must’ve made a ‘dad’ joke. Every single time. When nature is made to make us feel loved, then why do we not reciprocate it? You know Cosmos, you’re nothing but a figment of my mind. I made you. For you are the universe, and you are everything that people believe in. But you’re also what I created. When people have so much power within themselves, to explore, to dream, to create– I wonder, my dear Cosmos. I wonder why we really need to hate. When all can be solved and resolved by love and understanding, I wonder where does hate and misunderstanding find their way in. But that’s just life. Isn’t it? Even the moon has two sides, Cosmos. And we? We’re just mere humans. Fate awaits till it flips our laughter. P.S. : I hope you find this somewhere, Cosmos. I really do. And when you do, I’d give stardust and nightblooms just to have your response. With love, Shatakshi donec iterum

I could see love in his eyes. Not the kind of love that speaks in words, but the quiet, unrelenting kind—the kind that’s carved into the creases of his frustrated forehead and the rough edges of his calloused hands. I felt it in the pause of his ragged breaths as he worked over me, shaping me, molding me, sculpting me into something new. And when he stepped back to admire his work, I knew he loved me. Not because I’m beautiful. Not because I’m special. He loved me because I am his. His creation. Clay smudged his crimson apron as he wiped his hands, his black curls damp with sweat, framing eyes that burned with exhaustion. He hadn't slept—he never did. Not when it came to me. Every time he stopped, I thought I might disappear, crumble back into the shapeless void I came from. So I should have been grateful. And I was. Until I wasn’t. Every morning, Alejandro returns to me with fresh clay in hand. It’s a ritual—he adds something new, reshaping me bit by bit. Last week, he sculpted biceps and triceps, running his hands over me like I was flesh. Then cheekbones, sharp enough to cast shadows. Then collarbones, delicate yet defined. His fingers move with a tenderness that borders on reverence. But yesterday, he gave me wings. They’re too big for me, stretching far past what I think I am. Each feather feels like a whisper of something I don’t understand. And as his hands smoothed them into place, I wondered—could I use them? Could I escape him? The thought sat in me, heavy, while he wiped his hands clean. Because if I left, I’d never see him again. But then again, would it matter? If all I’ve ever been is clay beneath his hands, what am I without them? The wings are beautiful, and they terrify me. Maybe that’s why he gave them to me. To make me wonder, to make me doubt. Alejandro doesn’t speak much, but his silence says enough. His eyes catch mine sometimes, and it feels like he knows. Knows I’m questioning him, knows I’m questioning this. Maybe tomorrow, he’ll give me something else—something I didn’t ask for, something I don’t want. Or maybe, tomorrow, I’ll stop being clay. Maybe I’ll move. Maybe I’ll fly. And maybe, for the first time, I’ll find out what it means to exist beyond him. ------------------------------------------- Alejandro’s love isn’t the kind you notice right away. It’s quiet, threading itself into the space between his hands and the clay, slipping into the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching. I don’t know when it began. Maybe the day he gave me eyes—those deep brown mirrors that seemed to hold his every unspoken thought. Or maybe it’s always been there, stitched into the way his fingers linger on my edges, reshaping, refining. Loving. He doesn’t sleep anymore. The crimson apron he always wears is stiff with dried clay, the fabric almost indistinguishable from the mess of his studio. His hands shake as they mold and carve, but he doesn’t stop. He never stops. “You’re almost perfect,” he whispers, his voice barely holding together. I want to tell him to stop. That I’m done. That I’m enough. But I can’t. Because I’m not real. And yet, there’s something inside me, something that feels close to real. Close enough to make me wonder. “Do you love me?” he asks one night, his voice quiet, but the question isn’t. I don’t answer. I can’t. He steps closer, his eyes scanning my face for something only he can see. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmurs. “I know you do.” His words settle over me, heavy and unrelenting. This is love to him—the creation of it, the control of it. He loves me because I’m his, because I exist only in the space his hands have carved out for me. But that’s not love. It's an obsession, and it terrifies me. He doesn’t notice the wings twitching on my back. Doesn’t notice the faint tremor in my hands as they begin to move. All he sees is the perfection he’s been chasing, the thing he thinks will finally make him whole. “You’re mine,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “You’ll always be mine.” The words echo in the quiet, and for a moment, I almost believe him. But then I look at my wings—too big, too heavy, too much—and I realize what he’s done. He’s given me a way out. I spread my wings. They’re clumsy, awkward, but they move, and that’s all I need. Alejandro’s eyes widen, his breath catching as he steps back. “You can’t leave,” he says, desperation lacing his voice. “You won’t survive out there. You need me.” But I don’t. The window shatters as I crash through it, the cold night air slicing through me. The wind catches my wings, and for a moment, I think I’m falling. But then I rise. And for the first time, I’m free.