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Warning: There are dangers that lie in the darkness we cannot see, and there are dangers right in front of us that we choose not to see. This is one such danger. Proceed at your own risk. Continue? No Yes ✓ Proceeding… Step 1: Inspect your House The sofa cover is a bit scrunched up, but it’s okay— your three-year-old toddler was playing with her toys there. The kitchen is wiped clean. You smile; after all, your househelp is finally doing her work the way she’s supposed to. Yes, check the fridge. No onions? No worries, you can make something else for dinner tonight. Perhaps go out for a family dinner? The chai is about to spill out of the pot when you hurriedly switch off the gas. Good save. The chai isn’t sweet. In fact, it’s terrible. You reach out for the assortments, hoping for a good evening—only to find everything empty. Your child is wailing, and you’ve just spilled your bitter tea. She’s hungry for baby formula, and you have none. You can’t ask your husband for help because he’s at work. What do you do? Step 2: Get dressed The mirror stares back at a maroon burqa and a tired face. You’re already sweating and you haven’t even moved yet. It’s 37 degrees outside, and you’re wearing three layers. Not sufficient—your mother’s voice lingers as you touch the niqaab on your desk. Your child spills water on herself. You wipe her face, the burqa absorbing it all: water, sweat, your patience. You stare at the mirror, lipstick in your hand. Should I? Should I not? The questions cloud your thoughts as you tie the strings at the back of your head. Your breath fogs up your glasses, but it doesn’t really matter; you’ll have to cover them anyway. It’s important you do. Your child is still playing with her toys. Step 3: Equip Yourself Weapons. Pepper spray. The drawer sticks when you pull it open. You have to tug—it’s decades old, after all. Inside: old receipts, a dead torch, mismatched batteries, the spray—small, pink, absurdly gentle-looking for what it promises. Expired. The label peeling. You test the cap with your thumb. It resists, then clicks. It might work. It might not. You clip it onto your keys. Metal against metal. The sound feels louder than it is. Perhaps it’s reassuring you. Perhaps it’ll be your safety net. Or perhaps you’re paranoid and it’s nothing but a false solution. Your hand curls around it instinctively, knuckles whitening, as if your body remembers lessons your mind was never formally taught. Step 4: Are you sure? Look at yourself. You’re tired. You’ve been looking after your child the entire day, and the thought of going out is just—no. You could always ask him, right? He’d get the baby formula, the groceries, whatever you need when he gets back. He might get the wrong one, sure, but he’d get it. If he comes back today, that is. Mama , she mumbles, hunger creeping into her voice. You’re scared. It’s okay. Everyone is. But sooner or later, we all have to step out, don’t we? Walk the streets. Walk among shades. You’ll have to cross the threshold. You’re scared, but it doesn’t matter—you’re a mother after all. You can’t let your baby girl starve. What do you do? Step 5: Step Out You take a step, then another. The sunlight stabs you right where it should. The street is loud, crowded, indifferent. You hold your bag closer and keep walking—not because you’re brave or ready, but because you don’t really have a choice. The spray inside is your only defence, and your child awaits you. You focus on where you’re going, on what you need to get, letting everything else blur into the background. Fear is there, of course, but so is responsibility, and one of them has to win. There’s a man walking behind you—fifteen minutes now. Same route, or is he following you? You want to believe people aren’t inherently evil; that’s what you’ve always been taught. Your skin is too aware when bodies brush past, every instinct sharpened into alertness. The shop is in sight now, glowing like a promise you’re not sure will keep. The man behind you hasn’t changed his pace. Neither have you. You think of all the times you were told to be careful, to be quiet, to be grateful nothing happened. You think of how survival was always mistaken for safety. Your hand tightens around the spray, your child waits, the street keeps moving, and for a moment the world holds its breath with you—because this is how it always begins, and no one knows how it ends. So, what do you do? Process complete! May a streak of light find its way into your darkness. May the masks fall off the clowns in the light. May the odds be in your favour.

The Feminine Forces of Halloween Imagine a dark hat with a long body, its peak so crooked that it is coiled up, with a purple ribbon at its rim, a head with long dark hair and pale white skin wearing it. The wearer’s eyes glisten with echoes of power. She is the one with a smile so silent that you cannot imagine the screams caused by it. Now, isn’t that how we normally describe witches? Cruel, malicious beings, waiting to feast on our terrors. This is the way that the stories we read, the series we watch, and the plays we act depict witches. But what if I told you we’ve been doing it all wrong? What if the dark-hatted lady simply wears black because it’s her favourite colour, not to symbolise evil? What if the pale skinned entity is simply that way just because she inherited those genes? What if her smiles are so silent because she’s an introvert and does not know how to express her emotions? Let us take a dive into the humane part of witches, and feminism in halloween. To start off easy, let’s talk about Halloween. Wikipedia says... a lot of things which I am unable to write here. But to keep it simple, Halloween is the day when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is the weakest. It was believed that on this day, the souls of the dead returned to their homes, so people dressed in costumes and lit bonfires to ward off spirits. Halloween marks the end of the Celtic year, which is also called the ‘Witches’ New Year.’ This also gives us a faint connection to why we associate witches with Halloween. Through the centuries, numerous young women have been trying to use magic and crystal balls and all sorts of things to find out about their future life, husbands (or wives!), destiny and what not. In the 21st century, we’d say “she’s just a girl ၄၃” and brush it off, but unfortunately, they weren’t born during this generation. Countless women were burnt, killed, and tortured for allegedly being witches.  A witch  by definition is a woman who is said to have magical powers. The media tends to portray them as evil, green skinned hags, when in reality, she’s just a girl.  The Forgotten Wisdom Of Witches In their earliest descriptions, witches weren’t the villains, rather really really smart women who knew about herbs, spirituality, herbs, or midwives who carried the secret of earth. In a world where science and medicine were rudimentary, these women bridged the gap between the natural and the mystical. Their understanding of plants, remedies, and the cycles of nature made them indispensable, yet also feared.   When you see a smart woman who knows her stuff, you already know she’s going to be independent. These women didn’t rely on men to navigate the world; they had their own skills and power. In a society where a woman’s worth was tied to her obedience, their existence itself was dangerous.  And guess who didn’t like women becoming girlbosses? Hint hint  Men!  And thus began the end of the beginning.  Witchcraft and Liberation of Women Through the centuries, witches have also been associated with rebellion. Witchcraft wasn’t just about casting spells; it was about challenging the rules. The witch trials of the past were often political acts disguised as spiritual purges. Women who spoke too loudly, acted too boldly, or simply existed in the wrong place at the wrong time became targets. And yet, the witch persisted. She became a symbol—not of evil, but of resistance. Every whispered incantation was an act of defiance, every potion brewed a reminder of a woman’s power to create and control. In this light, witches are not the villains of history, but unsung heroines. The Era Of Modern Witches Fast forward to today, and witches are no longer confined to cauldrons and curses. Modern witchcraft, or "witch culture," has evolved into a movement. Tarot readings, moon rituals, and crystals have become tools for self-care and empowerment. The modern witch is less about casting spells and more about reclaiming agency. She’s not just a character in a story; she’s a metaphor for resilience, independence, and strength. Even pop culture has begun to rewrite the narrative. From Wanda Maximoff to Sabrina Spellman, witches are no longer one-dimensional villains. They are complex, relatable, and powerful—flawed but fierce. And as William Congreve said, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.  Feminism In Halloween Halloween is often seen as a celebration of fear, but it is also a celebration of the feminine. Its symbols—witches, black cats, even the moon—are steeped in feminine energy. They remind us of the power that lies in intuition, mystery, and transformation. So, when you see a witch this Halloween, look beyond the hat and broomstick. See her for what she truly is: a symbol of strength, wisdom, and rebellion. Because even the ghosts of Halloween whisper of feminism, and even the witches remind us of the power of being "just a girl."

There are currently over 8 billion people on this planet as I write this very sentence. Out of these people, some will proudly call themselves ‘cool’ millennials, others will belong to the middle-aged Generation X, and there are even a few unlucky ones in the iPad generation, also known as “Generation Alpha.” But among all these groups, there’s one that stands out—a generation that’s a little funny, a little reckless, and filled with a whole new wave of ideas. We call them Generation Z, famously or infamously known as Gen Z. There’s a lot I could say about being Gen Z, but for the sake of both our sanities, let’s focus on one thing: Gen Z’s knack for creating slang out of thin air. It’s almost as if Gen Z pulls these phrases out of a magical hat. I remember, one day  in the middle of 2023, I was browsing through Instagram Reels when I suddenly started getting bombarded with all the reels that went “My roman empire is…”, “...is literally my roman empire”. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t confused for a week, trying to understand what new phrase the internet had brought to existence. Being ‘Roman Empire’ means being something that is embedded in someone’s thoughts. Something they can keep on thinking and talking and imagining for hours and not grow out of it. The human brain is a very interesting organ. It houses our mind, which furnishes millions and millions of thoughts. There are only a few things that pass through our brain and stay. Consider it your lucky day, because today– you get to hear about one of mine. It was a random day in the month of May earlier this year, when I came across this  ‘Webtoon’ or ‘Manhwa’, known as ‘Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint’ or simply ORV. I remember reading it religiously on my iPad like a maniac. Since the summer vacations were going on, I had nothing better to do, dawn to dusk. I completed whatever was uploaded in the span of just 3 days. Since it is an ongoing manhwa, the story was far from complete, the characters weren’t fully absorbed in my brain’s threshold and I kept wanting for more and more. Upon going on reddit and quora and god knows what not, I learned that ORV was a completed ‘Light Novel’. So as any sane person would not  react, I headed deep into the 551 chapters of ORV. The characters, the storyline, the world building, the dialogues, the themes, everything about it bound me to it. But what really has kept me glued to it, is the idea it is based on. That idea is what I’d call my ‘Roman Empire’. The idea of how stories never die. How stories help you survive. How stories are who  you are. When you think about it, you’ll start seeing a picture that has been photo-framed and nailed into my brain. Words never die. Stories– they never die. I’ve been a reader for as long as I can remember. I don’t exactly remember ‘How’ or ‘When’ I started reading. I always liked going to the library as a young girl. My first proper novel was at the age of ten if memory serves me right. It was “Life Is What You Make It” by Preeti Shenoy. An abandoned book in a huge stash pile of my father’s books. Reading has always been relaxing for me. I’ve never really understood how some people find reading boring or annoying. For me, it’s always been my escape, my way of making sense of the world. Reading has a unique magic that brings comfort, even when everything else feels chaotic In ORV, our story’s protagonist or the ‘reader’ is Kim Dokja (Dokja means reader in Korean). He was an introverted office worker whose hobby was to read. On the day of the final of his favourite web novel “3 Ways To Survive An Apocalypse”, the novel became a reality. And since he was the sole reader of the story… he was the only person who knew how the story went. I deeply resonated with Dokja, you know? Reading made him feel at ease. Helped him survive. Literally. Reading does the same for me. Helps me survive. It makes me feel less alone. Reading makes me feel like my friends are still with me, like I’m never truly alone. It awakens emotions I thought I had long forgotten. It makes me smile. Moreover, it makes me get up each day to start a new story.  But there is one more thing I have. That our dear Kim Dokja doesn’t have. I am a reader, yes. But I am also a writer. I can create characters and stories and personalities and worlds people can only dream of. I can bring your wildest dreams and your silent secrets and your worst nightmares on a silver palate and present it as if it were made of stuff that stars are made of. For some people, a book is just a medium in which pages are fastened together with the alphabet arranged in different combinations on it. For some, it is a hobby, a pastime, a way of entertainment. For the others, it is their livelihood, to read and to write. It is fascinating, isn't it? To be someone’s bread and better and be something people do after earning their bread and butter. We are all made up of stories—you, me, your mother, my father, the cute girl next door, even the shy boy in your maths class.  All of us. Our stories make us who we are. They shape us, break us, mould us, into different forms. They decide the way we look at our surroundings, decide how others perceive us. Some of the tales we are made up of, are short lived but beautiful. Some tales are funny anecdotes you’d have written when you were 16, on a rooftop in the middle of night, talking about nonsensical topics with your group of friends. Some tales are tragic, some hopeful, some embarrassing. But at the end of the day, the stories make us who we are. And that, dear reader, is the thought that stays with me constantly. Or, as we Gen Z like to say, it’s my Roman Empire.

I am all the things that he is, and I am even more. Must I always prove myself when he is even not? Dress like this, speak like that,  make sure someone’s ego does not fall flat. Curls of my hair, paints on my nails, and the dream takes a sail, oh this isn’t fair! Feminism, they say, what’s the need? Oh dear, it is until you pay heed! A veil of perfection,  to be the crème de la creme of the selection. Equality you need, equality you get,  but who will see to it— that our needs are met? I am all the things that he is, and I am even more. Then tell me why must I go through this all alone?

are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the hero who sacrificed his love for the world truly someone admiring? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, is the villain who saved the little puppy but burned the village, full of immorality? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the mother who steals food and clothes any better than someone committing robbery? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the girl who broke someone’s heart to keep others happy so depreciating? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the boy who tells white lies to protect his family truly deceiving? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the friend who drifts away in silence more guilty than one who betrays with speaking? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Is the stranger who walks past a cry for help any worse than the one ignoring? are people bad or they’re just people who sometimes do bad things, Or are we all just pages of stories, full of flaws yet deserving of meaning? Maybe good and bad are shadows we wear, shifting with time, For in every sinner lives a saint, and in every saint, a crime.

i love how my smile is so wide, like i'm in an amusement park and this is my favourite ride; i love how my mood lightens up, when you don’t know what to say and just mutter “sup”; i love how your touch sends shivers up my spine, like your heart and mine has the same design; i love how my hand fits in yours just right, it feels like my favourite jacket hugging my body tight; i love how your gaze grazes over mine, you make me feel like all the stars are in align; i love it when you trace the lines in my palm, ironic how the storm keeps the drizzle calm;  i love how you understand me without me even speaking, our own vernaculary—my heart is always seeking; i love how you just blabber gibberish with that stupid pen in your mouth, and god, how i wonder if i would ever say these to you aloud?

Knowledge is a privilege. Knowledge is power. Knowledge is revolution. Knowledge is rebellion. Knowledge is carnage. To render anyone powerless, you don't need to cut off their limbs or take their ability to write or torture their intestines out. All you need to do is snatch their source of knowledge. When you take their source of knowledge, they will not have information. They will not be literate. They will not have the ability to think. They will not have the ability to believe. Their ability to be their own person. And once that is gone, what are they left with? Education is a privilege. It builds you into an independent person who knows what's wrong and what's right. It arms you with the tools to navigate the world. To be educated is to be informed. To be educated is to be a better person. To be educated is to know how to choose for the worse and for the better. As Plato once said, “The penalty to declining to rule is to be ruled by someone inferior to yourself,” And how do people know how to rule? They learn. Through education. Knowledge. Because, knowing is everything.  Imagine a young bird. So full of life, and so so full of possibilities. It can soar high in the sky and fly across the plains and the hills and over the lakes and so much more. Now if you keep the flying bird in a cage, you’re taking away its freedom. And the bird knows it because they’ve experienced the highs in the great skies. But what if it had never known that freedom? On the other hand, imagine another young bird. You clipped away its wings from the moment it was born. Will it ever touch the sky? Will it ever know how to fly? Will it ever know what it is to fly? It won't. Similarly, when you’re educated you know your possibilities. You know your limits. You know how high you can soar and how you’re limitless. But when you’re uneducated, you’ve never been shown those skies. When you clip away your wings from the moment you're born, do you even in your slightest believe that you'll experience the world as you should? As it is your right? If you're not educated, will you even know what is a right? We as humans are all born with the same needs and necessities. We all have our aspirations and desires. We all have the innate feeling of being known, and remembered. And no matter how terrible of a person you’re, even once in your life you wish to do something for the benefit of your people. The world is your people. And how do you achieve things normally? By being informed. By knowing. By being educated.But, unfortunately, education today is no longer a right; it's a privilege. The same system our ancestors worked so hard to remove. It is everybody's birthright to have equal opportunities. You can change the world, only if you wish to. Some people don’t want you to know this. There are some people who don't advocate for education. This is why. Because when you know, you know. And when you know, you realize that knowledge is power. And to render anyone powerless, just snatch away their source of knowledge. -shatakshi

The first time I held my daughter, I knew we weren’t going to get along. Don’t get me wrong—she’s a very sweet child. She looks adorable, speaks adorably, and is kind to everyone. I don’t know why, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to like her, to care for her, to adore her… to love her. I must be a terrible mother. I’ve never once in my life looked at her with affection. I’ve never wanted to kiss her on her cheeks. I’ve never bothered with her education, either. She’s always been on her own. And honestly, as bad as this may sound, I genuinely don’t care about her. I thought it was normal at first—to be so detached from your kid. I mean, we’re not obliged to like our kids, right? In the animal kingdom, they chew up their young ones when there’s no food. Sometimes I wonder if I’m any different. Sometimes I wish I could chew her up. The sight of her fills me with dread. I never wanted to have her. I wish she was dead. But I can never say this aloud. So here I am, at her graduation. She’s an excellent kid. Straight A’s, great face. She’s the beacon of perfection. Yet I can’t seem to like her. In her speech, she thanked everyone—but me the most. She said I ‘motivated’ her to work this hard. After her speech, she came walking up to me, put her cap on my head, and said, “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Mom.” And then she left. That was the last day I ever saw my rapist’s daughter.

Before anyone says ‘I told you so,’ I want to clarify one thing. I did not, in any form, expect this to happen. And how could I? Unlike Janus, I cannot look into the future. Everything I know about are sweet things. Like flowers, ribbons, rainbows, puppies, and… and a lot of things. So I don’t know how to explain to Jupiter that the most amazing, gorgeous, flabbergasting  Goddess of Love might’ve innocently, unknowingly, accidentally , caused another  mortal to die. So much has happened that I don’t know where to start. It’s such a sad tale, a very tragic one, and brutally long. So my dear hopeless lover, go get yourself a nice cup of * ambrosia  or whatever is in the latest trends today, because we’re about to listen to the best story of your little life. If my memory serves me right, it was around six months ago– when I first saw her. She had brown hair and skin that shone golden underneath the Sun. Her brown eyes were one of a kind. I’ve seen and created all kinds of beauty there is to see, yet she still amazed me. Mars was busy that day, and I was really, really bored. So I made the stupidest decision there is— I took a human form and went out venturing in the mortal lands. I’ll not lie to you * liberi, you people have accomplished so much! Creating those little boxes to call each other around the globe? We usually get Arcus to do that, but it’s commendable really. Anyways, what was I saying? Yes, I took my human form. I must have looked decent enough in the blonde hair-blue eyed combo with the pink shrug, top, skirt combo (I saw it in a movie!) because when she saw me– I swear she couldn’t stop looking away. One thing led to another and there I was, sharing a mortal’s bed, again . But it didn’t feel wrong. I didn’t have my normal ‘God-complex’ or whatever they say when I was with her. She said her name was Ryla. And by the stars, if i could chart another constellation just for her, I would’ve. And if I could paint the skies in the colour of her lips and smell and touch, I would’ve. But I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t feel strong enough for her. Not because of the hold she had on me. Not because of the Moon and heaven and the Olympus. But simply because she was a magnificent and radiant being, and I? I was just a mere goddess. I feel so stupid, looking back at all of this. I should’ve noticed the signs. I should’ve noticed when her fingers trembled when it was intertwined with mine. I should’ve noticed the light fading out of the brown forest in her eyes. I should’ve noticed her soul getting weary. I should’ve noticed them all. But I didn’t. How could I, when every moment with her felt like the first bloom of spring? I brushed it off thinking it was a mortal thing— that it too shall pass. And yet, in the quiet hours when she thought I wasn’t watching, I saw her look at me with emotions I wasn’t allowed to feel. Fear… and love. I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised when she asked me very mortal  things. Things like, “What would it take, Venus? For me to be yours—completely?,” I laughed, brushing it off as a fleeting thought. “You already are, my love.” But her eyes burned with something darker, something I hadn’t seen before. She wasn’t asking for affection; she was asking for power. A way to stand beside me, not beneath me. I tried to warn her. Oh, gods, I tried. But mortals, you see, have this stubbornness. A fire that burns them alive before they can even feel the heat. And I am a lot of things, but I’ve never been the water to someone thirsty. When it happened, it was like the Earth itself held its breath. I felt it—the rupture in the air, the weight of something ancient and unforgiving pressing down on us. She stood at the center of it all, her arms outstretched, her voice trembling with a prayer she should never have spoken. I called her name, over and over, running toward her, but the light around her grew too bright, too violent, until it swallowed her whole. By the time I reached her, it was over. She lay there, impossibly still, her lips curved in the faintest shadow of my name. I fell to my knees beside her, my hands shaking as I touched her face, her hair—still soft, still hers, even in death. I wanted to scream, to tear apart the heavens for taking her from me. But all I could do was hold her and whisper a thousand apologies into the cold, unyielding silence. My hands, the same ones that wove roses and bound lovers together, were stained with the remnants of her life. And for the first time in millennia, I understood the cruelty of my gift. Love does not heal. Love does not save. Love devours. So here I am, dear hopeless lover, sitting among the stars and cradling the weight of my own foolish heart. I will tell Jupiter. I will stand before the council of gods and confess my crime: that I loved too much, too deeply, too recklessly. And when they punish me—because they will—I will not fight back. But even then, even as I bear their judgment, I will hold this truth close: that I would do it all again, just to feel the light of her eyes one last time.  Little lover, you’re allowed to be mad at me. I promised you that this would be the best story of your life, but it didn’t end in the way you quite hoped. That’s the way of life, my * meraki,  even the gods don’t know how or where our fates will lead us. I hope you’re done with your cup of ambrosia or coffee or whatever, if you’d want, next time I promise to tell you a happier tale. But remember, even I wouldn’t know how the story would end, and I’m a literal goddess.   I adprehendet vos per somnia *ambrosia: or nectar, is supposedly the drink that gods used to intake *liberi: latin word for children *Meraki: greek word for creation * i adprehendet vos per somnia : I will find you in your dreams

It was a red chiffon kurti. A bright red chiffon kurti. A white embroidery bright red chiffon kurti. And it was 2 PM. I was walking through the streets just like any day. I greeted the tea seller and bought a samosa for myself. I was walking through the streets just like any day. The oddity walked towards me, but I didn’t think much of it. Not until he grabbed my wrist, Or snatched my bag. Not until he held my breath with his two hands. It was a red chiffon kurti. A bright red chiffon kurti. A white embroidery bright red chiffon kurti. And it was 2:30 PM. I laid in the soil, And felt my eyes water up. I waited for my soul to return to me, But all I could see, Were the torn up pieces of, My red chiffon kurti.

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.

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