Luck, or fate?

Can anything still be given, when the edges are worn down to dust? When the insides feel rusted through and the outside no longer resembles anything that once meant softness or care. When the hands don’t feel like hands anymore, just extensions of movement, burned-out tools repeating forgotten gestures. There was warmth once, long ago. Something bright that lived in the chest, moved in the fingertips, opened wide for the world. But now it's all bone and echoes. Cold that doesn’t hurt anymore, just stays. Silence that doesn’t surprise. The heart keeps going, not with hope or longing, but with the dull inertia of things that haven’t figured out how to stop. There is no clean thing left. No untouched part to offer. Everything has been used up, scraped thin. Kindness, when it comes, feels like imitation. A performance done without audience, out of memory, not meaning. Still, the reaching happens, like a muscle twitching after death. Not because there’s belief in it, but because stopp...

The villa trip had been a whirlwind of laughter and activity, the kind that left me feeling light and full of energy. But now, as the bus rolled down the highway in the stillness of the night, the excitement of the day had drained away, and all I wanted was peace. The quiet hum of the road seemed to whisper through the bus, the faint sound of tires on asphalt lulling me into a calm haze. Outside the window, the darkness stretched endlessly, the dim glow of streetlights flickering past, each one a tiny moment of light lost to the vastness of the night. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, feeling the bus sway gently with the rhythm of the highway. One by one, the voices around me faded as everyone else succumbed to sleep, leaving me in a fragile, quiet world of my own. The hum of the engine was the only sound, lulling me further into drowsiness. My eyelids grew heavy, and before I could stop it, I drifted off. When I woke, it wasn’t the window that greeted me, but something soft...

The villa was tucked into the hills, its red-tiled roofs peeking through the embrace of pine trees. Our organization’s annual trip had been the talk of meetings for weeks, and now, here we were. Forty-odd students with backpacks, sneakers, and a shared excitement that crackled in the air.  The bus ride had been loud, filled with off-key singing, card games, and the occasional outburst of laughter. The morning was spent hiking winding trails, taking group photos at scenic overlooks, and filling the air with the sound of rustling leaves and breathless chatter. There was a kind of magic to it, being far from classrooms and routines, surrounded by people I only half-knew, yet feeling the thread of belonging pulling me closer.   By the time we reached the place, a sprawling structure with wide verandas and an open courtyard, the sun had climbed high, draping everything in gold. Lunch had been a boisterous affair, with shared dishes, clinking glasses, and an unspoken competitio...

          It’s strange, you know? How a year can pass, and yet, for all the time we’ve spent in the same rooms, sharing the same space, we remained so distant. I had seen you, of course. How could I not? You had this way of moving, a calmness about you that made everything feel a little quieter, a little more still. I could hear your laughter in the background, your voice mixing with the others, but we never really spoke. Not beyond the polite nods or the casual "hello"s. But that day, when you walked over to me, it was different. So different. The room was filled with the usual chatter, the same hum of voices weaving through the air, when I felt the soft tap on my shoulder. I turned, and there you were, holding a few papers in your hand, your smile easy and warm, like you hadn't just broken down the wall I hadn't even realized I was standing behind. “It’s funny,” you said, your voice cutting through the noise, “we’ve been in this group for a year, and we’v...