My stories always end with the big crunch – everything collapsing back into a single, silent point. A heat death is too lonely, and a rip feels careless. The evidence might say heat death, but my life says things always come back to the small, crowded centre.
Every evening, after cycling 8km away from college, the sea breeze and the smell of my village's paddy pulls me back home. The universe, for me, will do the same.
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