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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═════╡

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.

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?

To: goddessofcreation@myth.in Cc: cosmos@noreligion.com Subject: Was It Worth This? Dear Thesis, I'm sick of this world. I'm sick of the humans that reside in it. I'm sick of all the negativity in here. But I cannot complain. I'm the one who made them this way. I'm the one who wanted them to be flawed, to be imperfect. Because if they were perfect, would they be human? But then again, I could not create a perfect being even if I wished to. I'm not perfect myself. Then how can I create perfection? I can only strive for it. And I hate it. I hate all the hatred they’ve spread. The discriminations based on the amount of melanin in your skin, the fate that they did not choose, their sins they did not commit but have to salvage for. The burning lines between people and insecure people. The boundary between personal spaces and individuality and creativity and nature and earth and even heaven. Humans have ruined it all. They’ve gone in the complete opposite direction of which they’re supposed to embark. They harass, they kill, they rape their own. They’re more predatory than the predators we created. All of this because they’ve the ability to communicate. The ability to speak to each other. But then again, isn't that with all different creatures we made, Thesis?  We made them. And we cannot stop them. For they’re their own doom, even the fates don’t have enough yarn for this in their room. I’ve always wondered, my sweet meraki, if we were to start another age like this. To end humans and let other species prevail. Those great reptiles that humans call Dinosaurs went through the same cycle. They killed their own, but not on will. They kill to survive. So do all our other creations. Except humans. They kill for entertainment. They kill to assert dominance in domains they shouldn't be in. They speak in situations they shouldn't even be in. They have opinions about bodies that aren’t theirs, land that isn’t theirs. Recently, I learnt that humans are fighting against themselves. They’ve created continents, which are separated by the oceans. They’ve created countries, their own languages, their own cultures. They even have religions to worship different forms of me. It all seems beautiful to hear, doesn’t it? I felt the same when the messenger informed me of all this. But they have so much anger. So much anger about things they don’t even comprehend. They hate each other because of their country? It’s baffling, because out of all their divisions on this planet, this one doesn’t even make sense. Hate due to language? Language is just a medium. The birds we created and the fishes we made— they don’t even have words. Yet they seem to understand each other. And the topic that baffles me the most, religion. They call it faith. Faith in who? In us. In me. They’ve spun different stories about their existence and mine, and the truth is, it’s not wrong. They believe there is a ‘God’ above who will grant all their wishes and punish all the sins. How will they ever know that I am nothing but everything at the same time? I am a fragment of their imaginations. I am them. I am the cosmos. For I created them, and they created me.  So I let it be. All of it. Everyone brings their own doom. We brought ours when we ended the Cretaceous period. If there is one thing that nobody— and absolutely nobody can escape from, its karma. They call me God, but I too am helpless when it comes to karma. My greatest meraki, Thesis, I am so very tired. To be punished and rewarded for things humans do. I just hope, sincerely sincerely hope, that one day, humans, our birds, our fishes, the earth and the sky and the heaven— all of it gets back to the cosmos. For it began there, and will meet its end over there. PS: I hope the Vedas and the Olympians are visiting for Christmas break? I’d love to share all the tales Muhammad told me. Charting sidera in aeternum, Cosmos

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.

I bloomed in a prairie grassland, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. The weather has always been kind to me— the sun warm enough to help me grow, and the rain soft enough to let me rest. I like facing the sun whenever I can. I’m not sure if it’s because I like the hearth, or simply because I was made like this by the creator. The grassland I live in is, unfortunately, inhabited by humans as well. So it’s no joke when I say that I’ve seen pretty strange things, despite my short lifespan. Even when I was beneath the soil, I could hear the hums of a woman waiting for her offspring. I spent my days listening to her speak to herself. Sometimes, she would narrate stories of when she was a young girl— about how she dreamed of going to a big city to become an actress. Some days, she’d talk about the joy of working at the farm, living with nature. But more often than not, she’d weep. She’d weep over the almost, and she’d weep over the road not taken. But at the end of the day, when she was done laughing and crying, she’d touch her stomach and whisper, “I hope to tell you all of this again, when you can understand me.” Perhaps because I’m part of nature, I’ve always possessed something called wild instincts. I could sense the soul of the child ever since I could make sense of the world around me. The little one’s soul— so golden in colour— put the sun to shame. But alas, there are things people pay for beauty. For a soul so bright, it was utterly weak for the darkness of the world. The child was brave, and as bravely as it fought, when it finally came into this world, it screamed. It wailed and cried for nights and days. The mother, despite her fatigue, loved her little one nonetheless. Until one day, the little one coughed— and then some more— and then spewed a little red from its mouth. I believe it was something similar to our plasma. Something humans call… blood? I was now a mature flower, in full bloom, and I could hear the child giggling as it played with the windcatchers over its crib. The mother spent her days beside that same crib, her hair dishevelled, her legs folded and numb. By the time the child was brought outside again, I was already nearing the end of what I had been made for. Flowers like me do not live long. We are allowed our season, and then we return what we borrowed. I had faced the sun enough times to know when it was time to stop. The child was quieter now. Its golden soul no longer burned the way it once had— it grew only dull by day. The mother laid the child down not far from me, careful in the way people are when they already know the outcome. She brushed the grass aside, smoothed the soil, and left us alone together. The child looked at me. I am certain of it. There is a way living things recognize each other when both are close to leaving. Its breathing slowed, matching the still air of the grassland. When it stopped altogether, the sun had begun its descent— warm still, but no longer insisting. I tried to face it one last time. Habit, perhaps. Or instinct. But my stem could no longer hold, and my petals— once wide and obedient— gave in. I bent toward the earth, toward the child, toward rest. There was no pain in it. Only contentment. By the next morning, there was little difference between us. Just soil, returning to itself. A hundred days for me. Far fewer for the child. Yet somehow, it felt even. I bloomed in a prairie grassland, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. The weather had been kind to me. The sun had been warm. The rain had let me rest. And when it was time to return to the ground, I did not do it alone.

The wind often whispers to me. At the beginning, I thought it was nothing. Eventually, it started caressing me even on days where there were no signs of wind. And then it started speaking to me. Softly, faintly– It would graze my face like the hand of a concerned mother. It would direct me to paths I didn't know existed by gushing me towards it. And strangely, I listened. Maybe because it was the only constant I had. Unlike walls that changed colour, or ceilings that sloped and straightened with every new address, the wind never needed introductions. It didn’t ask for proof of identity. It knew me. Even when I didn't. People often talk about home like it’s a person, or a place. They speak of warmth, childhood rooms, creaking doors that sing them to sleep. But I have never had that kind of luxury. My doors have always closed softly, politely—like strangers parting ways. My windows opened to unfamiliar skies, and my floors never remembered the shape of my feet long enough to miss them. I’ve always imagined myself to be like a suitcase. To be filled with emotions, locked in, and taken away from one place to another. A vessel that carries stories it didn’t choose, but must hold anyway. People unzip me, put their expectations inside, and close me again without asking if I have space left. I never get to stay long enough for dust to gather on me, never get to belong to a single corner. Sometimes I wonder if this is why the wind speaks to me. It doesn’t belong either, yet it belongs everywhere. It slips through cracks and keyholes, it rests on trees it has no roots in, it brushes past faces that never recognise it twice. But unlike me, the wind doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it has learned the art of existing without owning. I, on the other hand, ache for ownership. Not of property, not of walls or land, but of a place that remembers me. A door that sighs with relief when I walk through it. A window that has memorised the way I push it open. A floor that knows the weight of my footsteps as if they were a familiar song. Until then, I’ll continue carrying myself like luggage— sturdy on the outside, scattered within. I have a house, many many houses, but no home. But maybe... a home isn’t something you stumble upon. Maybe it’s something you build slowly, out of people and moments and fragments you refuse to let go of. Maybe it’s in the laugh of a friend that lingers after they’ve left, or in the pages of a book that always smells the same no matter where you open it. Maybe home is not a door or a window, but the feeling of being remembered. And if no place has remembered me yet, then perhaps I’ll be the one to remember myself. I’ll be the keeper of my own belonging, the anchor I’ve been waiting for. Because if the wind can exist everywhere and still be whole, then maybe I can, too.

Warning:  Once you hold a moment, you cannot  let go of it. No matter what the circumstances are, or how high the stakes are. Proceed with caution.  Continue to proceed? Yes   ✓        No Proceeding… Step 1:  Open Your Eyes Look around you. See the sand underneath your feet? Feels soft? Good. Walk towards the sea. Look at the flamingo pink sky. The Sun is smiling at you. It knows what you’re doing. It knows it all. The water touches your feet and sends up a shiver up your spine. You turn around. You look at her. Brown hair, and hazelnut eyes. Her white sundress moves along the wind. She smiles at you. You smile back. Step 2:  Take A Deep Breath You pick up the seashell, left by your feet. Even though it’s covered in sand, you can see it—white, with faint veins of gray curling like smoke. You turn it in your palm. It’s chipped at the edge, a little imperfect, but still beautiful. You hold it to your ear. No, not to hear the sea—everyone lies about that. You’re listening for something else. Something only this moment can tell you. Step 3:  Step Forward Move against the currents, and the wind. Move against the time when you approach her. You hold out your hand. Show her the little seashell. She wonders if its for her. You say it is. She keeps it in her pocket. Music plays in a nearby cafe, and you offer her your arm. She whispers she doesn’t need it but takes it anyway. She swirls, and twirls. You match her grace. You put your arms around her waist, and pull her towards yourself. Step 4: Don’t Fear She looks at you in question, with an answer in disguise. The wind plays with the hem of her dress. Your hand finds hers, slowly, like it’s been waiting. You both lean in at the same time. No rush. No need. When you kiss her, it feels quiet. Like the world has paused—not to watch, but to let you be. The fear slips away, unnoticed. All of it. The what-ifs, the almosts, the sharp edges. It doesn’t matter now. You’re here. With her. And she kissed you back. Step 5:  Close Your Eyes Feel the air on your skin. Feel the water and the sand. Feel the touch of her on your lips. And the scent of her hair. It’s not just the physical, though. It’s everything in between—how her heartbeat matches yours, how time doesn’t seem to matter when you’re with her.  And when you’re done feeling it all, wake up.  The world will rush in, and the noise will come back. But for now, you’ve held it. You’ve kept it safe in the space between your breaths. You’ll carry this memory with you. Every time the world feels too loud, you’ll come back to this quiet, this stillness. Process Complete! Congratulations!  Now, you can never forget this moment. No matter what the circumstances are, or how high the stakes are.

My mother asked why I sleep so much, and I didn’t know how to explain that dreams are the only doors you still remember to knock on. She wondered if I was depressed, If my life was the reason And I didn’t know how to explain That you come in like a storm,  and tear my city apart. She often thought I was daydreaming, Like a child watching the T.V. in a red cape, And I didn’t know how to explain that I’d been meaning– That I was waiting for you at the threshold. Even when you are late. And when I didn’t answer back, Which I never did, She simply sighed and closed the doors, And let me drift to you again– Once, and for all.

I was built with two planks, a kettle, and a dream. That was forty years ago. Since then, I’ve fed warmth to a thousand winters, and quiet to a million mouths. People think I’m just wood, rust, and steam. But if I had a rupee for every heartbreak, argument, or political debate I’ve overheard, I’d be a franchise by now. Honestly, the soap opera never ends around here—and the chai’s always better than the gossip. I’ve seen people age through the street. Children accompanying their parents during road trips– stealing a glance at the biscuits in the jar. College students discussing life with a glass in their hands and twenty rupees in their pockets. I’ve watched couples meeting for the first time over a cup of chai. I’ve seen them cry after their breakups, with chai in their hands. And of all the things I’ve observed, I can assure you—nothing beats the feeling of seeing people grow up. Countless faces have passed me by, but there was one that remained. Engraved on my seats, and in the traces of my steams, Kanan still stays everywhere.  It was the summer of ‘06, the central university engineering exam results were out, which meant one thing: new students, more business. Mithoon, the tea seller– and my creator, was elated. A slender figure with a red plaid shirt, skinny fitted jeans, square glasses and a small broken smile walked in with a bag twice his size.  “New to the college, kiddo?” Mithoon smiled and poured tea skillfully into six small glasses, “Oh? Yes!” His brown eyes shined with joy as he took one glass, “Let’s hope you survive. I’d like to see you more often,” Mithoon put more milk in the pot and began stirring with a rhythm only time could teach. Kanan chuckled, the kind of laugh that didn’t know how to be loud. He took a seat on the old wooden bench—my bench. That was the first time. He came every morning after that. Sometimes alone, sometimes with new friends, always with that same bag behind him, like he never really unpacked. He had a habit of talking with his hands, like the words weren’t enough unless his fingers danced with them. One day, he sat quietly. No friends, no suitcase. Just him and the glass of chai, turning cold between his palms. He didn’t speak that day. But I remember the way he looked at the steam—as if trying to read the future in it. “What happened, kiddo? You good?” Mithoon served him a tiny packet of Parle-G, and scrunched his eyes together, “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life…” Kanan murmured, his breathing heavy– as if taking in oxygen would cost him. Mithoon didn’t reply immediately. He just nodded, as if he’d heard the same sentence from a hundred mouths but still treated it like it was new. “You don’t have to.” He set the kettle down. “Not all answers come at once. Some pour slowly—like the first batch of chai in winter.” Kanan didn’t respond. Just stared into the cup, eyes rimmed red, like sleep had been rationed. That day, he left the biscuit packet untouched. And the next day, he didn’t come at all. I waited. Every morning. The bench remembered his weight. The glass missed the press of his thumb. Even the breeze felt quieter without his rambling stories and nervous laughter. Two weeks later, he returned. Same plaid shirt. But no backpack, no smile. “One chai,” he said. Mithoon raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask. He never did when someone looked like that. He just poured the chai and handed it over. He drank it slowly that day. Let the glass warm his hands before he let it warm anything else. Mithoon didn’t speak, just hummed an old tune as he cleaned up behind the counter. The kind of tune that made even silence feel like company. Kanan stayed longer than usual. Not talking, not thinking too hard—just being . Like he needed to sit somewhere familiar while life caught up to him. The next day, he came back with a sketchpad. No dramatic announcement, no newfound purpose—just a pad and a pencil, the way some people carry keys. He sat at the edge of the bench and began to draw. Not people, not scenes. Just shapes. Lines that made no sense unless you stared at them long enough.  He didn’t talk much that week. But he always finished his chai. Sometimes, he’d laugh under his breath when a squirrel tried to steal a biscuit. Sometimes, he’d hand over doodled napkins to little kids waiting with their parents. One had a stick figure with glasses and a red plaid shirt. The kid laughed like it was the best cartoon he’d ever seen.  By the end of the month, he’d scribbled his name on the underside of the bench. Not big, not bold. Just a tiny Kanan was here  etched where only the wood and I could read it. It started with sketches on tissue paper. Doodles on the edges of Mithoon’s newspaper. Abstract lines that turned into faces, chai glasses, the faded yellow of the stall’s walls. A squirrel wearing spectacles. A kettle with eyes and arms, mid-conversation with a biscuit packet. One evening, Mithoon leaned over and said, “You ever thought of doing this for real?” Kanan blinked. “Doing what?” “This.” Mithoon held up a crumpled napkin with a smiling tea glass drawn on it. “Bringing things to life.” Kanan chuckled. “You sound like you think this napkin’s going to talk.” “Maybe it already has.” Something about that stuck. And the next time Kanan came, he was looking up animation courses on his phone, between sips of chai. Weeks passed. His sketchpad filled up faster. He started bringing his laptop, staying late into the evening, editing short clips of drawings that moved. The kettle blinked. The bench yawned. Even Mithoon made a cameo—his moustache twitching every time he poured chai. By the end of that year, Kanan had built a tiny animation page online. He called it “Steam & Stories.”  His first video went viral: a short about a lonely tea stall that listened to everyone but never spoke—until one day, it did. It wasn’t instant success. But it was his. And he chased it the way you chase the last biscuit in a packet. Years passed, and the stall stayed the same—same wooden bench, same jar of Parle-Gs, same kettle whistling like clockwork. And then, one winter morning, he returned. Kanan—older now, stubble on his jaw, eyes still holding the same soft fire. He wore a navy hoodie, his animation studio’s logo embroidered on the back. And when Mithoon saw him, he didn’t say a word. He just opened his arms. Kanan stepped forward and hugged him—tight, warm, familiar. “You still make the best chai,” he whispered. “And you,” Mithoon said, smiling into his shoulder, “still talk with your hands.” They sat on the same bench after that. No need to fill the silence. The steam between them carried enough stories to last another forty years.

After he left, I sat with my hands in my lap like I was waiting for someone to call my name. The door didn’t slam when you left. It just sighed, like it had been expecting it all along. Like it had watched too many arguments die in the hallway and knew this one wouldn't resurrect. You didn’t yell. You didn’t even look back. You just walked—past the windows that trembled in their frames like they might shatter under the weight of your absence. I’ve always wondered– what our last conversation would look like. Would it be fiery like always, or would it finally be a reasonable conversation between two people? Would you finally try to understand my worries, or would I finally admit that I’m not easy to deal with– that I’m hard to be with?  I sat on the floor, arms curled around my knees as the tears painted my face. The wood board croaked like a frog in agony, begging for you to come back. The house was cold, but you? Colder. After what felt like an eternity, I stood in front of the mirror. I didn’t recognize the girl staring back. She had your frown, your silence, your ability to make pain look neat. What I saw wasn’t myself, but fragments of you.  I washed my face in the basin, letting the tap run a little longer. The tap was jammed– perhaps it did not want to be closed. I let it be. I let the water flow down the basin. I let it flow out of the basin. I watched it flood my bathroom, and my floor, and when it didn’t matter anymore– I sighed, and wiped my eyes. The living room still smelled like you. Like cedar wood and aftershave and the ghost of arguments that hadn’t ended properly. I picked up your mug from the table. Cold coffee. A fingerprint smudged on the handle. I held it like it was an heirloom, like letting it go would mean accepting that you were really gone. The couch still had the dent from where you used to sit. I didn’t smooth it out. I didn’t touch the blanket either. I think some part of me wanted to keep the crime scene intact, as if someone might come investigate what went wrong. As if love was a case to be solved. My phone buzzed once. A notification. Not yours. And still, I opened it like it might be. I don’t know which is worse—hoping you’ll reach out, or knowing you won’t. Outside, the rain kept falling. Like the sky couldn’t hold back either. I turned off the lights one by one, leaving only the hallway lamp to flicker in the dark. The house was quiet now, too quiet, like it was holding its breath, afraid another goodbye might come knocking. I walked back to the living room, stepped around the puddle on the bathroom floor, and sat back down on the same spot I hadn’t left all evening. Maybe tomorrow, I’d clean the mess. Maybe tomorrow, I’d open the windows, let the silence escape. But for tonight, I just let it all be— The water, The cold, The reality of your absence. And the girl, still sitting by the door, waiting to hear her name.

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.  ⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆