The cosmos spent billions of years forging the iron in my veins and the calcium in my bones, inside the hearts of dying stars. I am a gallery of ancient remnants, assembled in the dark—dust that survived the death of suns only to become something capable of longing. It is a strange, breathtaking miracle. Against all odds, matter learned how to ache
But this ache is not a shadow; it is a beacon.
For eons, the universe was nothing but stone and fire, colliding blindly in the void. Yet now, look at me—made of those same indifferent elements, but carrying entire galaxies of warmth inside the silence of my chest. When I feel deeply, it is just the universe remembering its own gravity. It is the stardust in me pulling toward the light, reaching across the expanses of time because matter learned how to ache.
I learned to ache so that I could learn to love.
I was born from destruction, yes, but I was built to endure. Every beat of my heart is proof that the quiet dark did not win. The stars died so that I could look at the sky and see a promise, not an end. I am the ruins where hope took root, the ancient dust that finally woke up and chose tenderness.
And what a beautiful truth it is: that after billions of years of cold, unfeeling silence, matter learned how to ache—just to prove that I am alive enough to love.