A grain of sand inside my sandal and I suddenly remember how stars die into dust. That I’m walking on stardust and complaining. The ants know something we don’t. Their roads are invisible but they follow them like scripture. I can’t even follow my own thoughts without checking my phone. There’s a spider web in the corner of the balcony. Perfect geometry, unplanned architecture. I watch the wind tear it apart, and she begins again. No crying. Just silk. At 2am I hear an owl call once, and wait for the reply. It never comes. Not every message needs an answer to mean something. The moon was clipped tonight— a thumbnail, bitten. Still bright enough to light my notebook. Still enough to make me stop mid-sentence and stare. The universe doesn’t shout. It leaves thumbprints on fogged glass, patterns in tea leaves, coincidences too weird to be accidents. Sometimes I think the real truths aren’t hidden in telescopes but in the way my mother presses her fingers to my forehead when I can’t sleep. I don’t know how anything works. Not gravity. Not forgiveness. Not why mangoes taste sweeter when eaten standing up. But I know this: the smallest things keep choosing to exist. And that feels like enough.