Search 

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.