“They look like stars on the ground,” she said. “Neural poetry—I love the way her brain works”, I thought to myself.

Scanning through my notes, it’s remarkable how much I’ve poured out about her. It’s clear – I find joy in writing about her, a departure from my usual self-centric musings.

Wrapping up work for the day, I find myself basking in the sun as I write this. The sun has been a paradox in my life, a source of both profound love and hate. I cherish it for the peace it brings, yet at times, it ignites a desire to live for some more time, a desire that I try to avoid.

Stars. I see them in the daylight, too. When she grazes her hand on my neck randomly. When she gets close to the metaphorical shut-down button. And occasionally when she bites me too hard, catching me off guard. 

I call her my moon. And if there’s a slight chance I can be a celestial body, I would like to be her Sun. I would make all her problems disappear in my radiant light. To the point she forgets that she exists. I’ll be her Sun.

Yet, when I set in the evening, I hope there’s room for her Sitaara to nestle in beside her. Quietly, I’d sit near my moon, finding joy in witnessing her glow. Through all her phases, I’ll adapt. And when she fades away, I’d whisper, “with you,” and vanish alongside her.

If I were to plot my love-struck mind for her on a canvas, it would resemble stars on the ground.

With you, my moon. I’ll set with you. Sitaara.