The Other Home
Some days, the silence in my apartment feels louder than the city itself.
I wake up to the soft hum of the AC and the distant buzz of traffic outside my 12th-floor window. Everything is in its place — spotless counter, skin serums lined like soldiers. My phone lights up with calendar invites before I even get out of bed.
Dubai is beautiful or is it just my only option to think it is. It’s fast, shiny, and always moving. Like me, I never stop searching, moving one place to another.. never settled.
After work, I took the long way home in crazy heat, hoping the skyline might distract me. But even the neon glow of towers felt hollow tonight. I ordered food I didn’t really want and sat by the window, staring out. Wondering if the lucky version of me is cuddling tonight while I am lonely with the “freedom” and “options”..
I crave intimacy so much it scares me. Someone knowing me when I’m not performing. Someone who sees me when I’m quiet. Someone who doesn’t ask what I do, but asks how I feel — and stays for the answer. I feel like being pure soul is a curse here. People surprise to see how that person stays nice, pure, natural and kind.. They like the fake, the selfish, the toxic.. They think deserve it while I started to belive I am not fitting this society 100%..
Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I’m her. That the kids are asleep upstairs. That the man I love is sitting beside me, reading. That the only light in the room is from a fireplace, not my phone screen. And then I open my eyes and remember — I’m here. Alone. In this curated life that I built and can’t breathe inside.
But I see her. And even though we may never meet, I hope she’s happy. I hope she feels loved. Because if she is, then maybe… some part of me is, too.
The Quiet Noise Between Universes
Sometimes, around 3:17 a.m., the silence in my apartment hums.
Not with traffic or humming appliances,
but with the low, aching frequency of other versions of me.They bleed through the walls of this universe —
like ghosts brushing against the veil of my skin.
I don’t hear their voices.
I feel them.
Like a dream you wake up from, gasping, but can’t remember why.There’s one version of me — let’s call her M.
She lives in a small town near a forest.
She paints on weekends,
laughs over candlelit dinners with her husband who always puts his hand on the small of her back —
like he’s reminding her she’s safe, she’s seen, she’s his.
They have two kids who sneak into bed on stormy nights.
Her house smells like cinnamon and pine.And when I cry for no reason on a sunny Tuesday,
I think it’s her.
Maybe she lost a baby.
Maybe he forgot her birthday this year.
Or maybe — and this hurts more —
maybe she’s just happy, and I felt the absence of it.Then there’s another me.
She lives in a neon-lit future where cities float above the clouds,
and love is forbidden — classified as a dangerous emotional contagion.
But still, she risks everything for a guy with silver eyes
and a voice like wind chimes in zero gravity.
They meet in secret on derelict satellites,
where time doesn’t move, and no one can trace a heartbeat.
Sometimes I wake up choking on air like I’ve just kissed someone in a place that doesn’t exist.When my chest feels heavy, when loneliness curls under my ribs like smoke —
I think it’s them, bleeding into me.But here’s the strangest thing.
They feel me too.
The one who chose freedom.
The one who never settled.
The one who still believes in miracles at train stations and kisses before earthquakes.
The one who hasn’t given up — even when it would be easier.Maybe they feel me and cry,
just like I do for them.And maybe that’s what makes us whole —
not the love we’ve found,
but the love we still believe is waiting for us
across time, across stars, across infinite versions of who we almost were.So tonight, when I cry quietly into my pillow,
I whisper to them:“I see you. I miss you. I’m trying for both of us.”
A Soul with No Borders, A Heart with No Anchor
There are souls born with compass needles for hearts. They point not North, but elsewhere—always elsewhere. These are the wanderlusted and the wild-hearted, the ones who collect cities instead of jewelry, and memories instead of milestones. Their minds are canvases smeared with stardust, their spirits stitched with maps. They are born to move, to marvel, to seek—but never to stay.
Yet in this endless motion, there is a quiet ache.
For while the world is wide and wonder is everywhere, belonging is not. No city whispers welcome home, no lover speaks in the same language of layered thoughts and kaleidoscopic dreams. The creative soul sees too much, feels too deeply, and suffers silently. Love often slips through their fingers like sand— never enough to build something real.
The people around them? Too often made of cardboard smiles and empty talk. Parties with shallow laughter, conversations without color. The vibrant soul becomes a moon among streetlights—bright, but not belonging.
Sylvia Plath once wrote,
“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.”
And for many of us, that desire is connection.
Even in solitude, we crave someone who sees the constellations in our chaos.
But most are too busy to look up.So we go on.
Packing light.
Leaving fragments of ourselves in cafés and train stations,
filling journals instead of hearts,
and learning, over time, that perhaps the journey was always the home.And though the loneliness bites,
the sky still sings.
And that’s enough—for now.
The Echoes of Earth: How 2025 Prepared Us for a Loveless Life on the Moon
By 2095, we had finally done it.
We packed our bags—not with clothes or love letters—but with algorithms, protein pills, and portable solitude. We moved to the Moon, to Mars, to floating cities in the vacuum. A quiet exodus. We didn’t flee Earth because of war, not exactly. It was weariness. Exhaustion from a planet we drained dry and hearts we never truly filled.Back in 2025, we thought we were living fast.
Swiping right for love, ordering dopamine by the calorie from apps, laughing at memes more than people. We thought we were rebels—burning time like fuel, gulping our meals, ghosting our ghosts, and calling it freedom. But it wasn’t freedom. It was training.
A bootcamp for becoming a species of spacemen with empty chests and glowing screens.
Dating in the Dust
Romance died long before the oxygen got thin.
By 2025, “connection” meant pixels flickering on midnight screens, and intimacy was filtered through emojis. We stopped looking into eyes and started analyzing bios. We stopped courting and started collecting.
Now, in 2095, on Moonbase Elara or Dome 6 on Mars, dating apps still exist—but not for connection. They exist to remind us what we lost.
“Match found,” the screen says. But we don’t feel a flutter. Only the faint hiss of recycled air.We live in pairs—engineered for balance, not love.
You get a compatibility report with your oxygen allowance.
We don’t fall in love anymore.
We fall in line.
Eating Without Taste, Living Without Pause
Fast food in 2025?
Try nutrient paste in a tube.
We once laughed at ourselves, eating at desks, skipping meals, turning dinner into “content.” We thought it was modern. Cute.
But it was just a dress rehearsal for tube-fed Tuesdays and lab-grown Sundays on Mars. Now, every meal is a task. Calories calculated. Cravings suppressed.Time is thinner out here.
You don’t “live” in space. You operate.
Morning checklists. Hydration monitors. Vitamin injections.
We don’t eat for joy. We eat for fuel.
The same way we love.
Loneliness: Our Inheritance
The great irony: we dreamed of the stars to escape our pain, only to find it waiting there with a space helmet on.
We thought tech would make us immortal.
Instead, it made us irrelevant to each other.
We look at Earth now through telescopes and cry—not for the forests, but for the chaos of a crowded bar, the warmth of accidental touches, the noise of real human mess.Out here, every person is a perfect machine.
Strong. Efficient. Silent.But no one asks you how your heart feels on a Tuesday.
No one misses you when you leave the dome.
We mastered survival. But we forgot how to live.
Conclusion: The Future That Was Always Coming
In 2095, we roam among planets.
But not among people.
We left Earth as individuals who had already stopped talking, stopped touching, stopped feeling.
We were ready for this life.
Too ready.Earth didn’t send astronauts.
It sent ghosts.And somewhere, deep in the Martian dust or beneath lunar domes, we wonder if connection was the only thing we truly needed to survive.