And maybe, just maybe

 

So here you are again—scared of attachment, tired of attachment, maybe allergic to attachment. You call it fate, destiny, or just plain bad luck, but deep down you know the truth: you and attachment don’t get along. Every time you tried to hold it together, to wrap your fragile little “forever” in bubble wrap, life came with a hammer. Smash. Done.

You tried your best. Oh yes, the two of you tried. You stretched, twisted, bent yourself into all sorts of emotional yoga poses. Commitment, communication, compromise—your holy trinity. But the universe? It yawned, rolled its eyes, and whispered, “Cute. Let’s ruin this.” The more you tried, the worse it got, like pouring water on fire and ending up with a flood. Stars above, destiny below—congratulations, you lost to both.

And now, what’s left? A memory vault so beautifully cursed that it unlocks itself at midnight. You remember the laughter, the walks, the ridiculous little things that once felt infinite. They come back uninvited, sit on your chest, and instead of crying, you smile. Because it happened. Because it ended. Because what else can you do?

Meanwhile, outside your window, it’s Ganpati festival. The streets are full of colors, drums, people dancing like tomorrow doesn’t exist. And you? You’d rather not exist with tomorrow. Atonement sounds prettier, desolation feels cleaner. Nothing—absolutely nothing—beats a night where your phone is on silent, face down, ignored. No buzzing, no waiting, no “are you awake?” messages at 2 AM. Just you, your breath, and that rare kind of peace where even loneliness takes a day off.

Maybe that’s the trick. Maybe destiny doesn’t want you in this circus of commitments and notifications. Maybe it wants you to master the lost art of being alone. Away from mobile screens, away from social media, away from people who clap for you in daylight and forget your name at night. Maybe destiny wants you to admit what you’ve always known—solitude is not punishment; it’s freedom in disguise.

So you give up. Because what else does a tree, a human being, a fool in love do? You give up. Not bitter, not angry, not screaming at the sky. Just sarcastically nodding at the stars and saying, “Fine. You win. I’ll live your way now.”

And in that quiet surrender, you almost laugh. Because maybe losing to the universe is the only real victory left.

But here’s the part no one tells you: giving up doesn’t mean erasing. The memories don’t vanish like smoke. They live. They breathe. They tug at your sleeves when you least expect it—midnight, sunrise, while brushing your teeth, while waiting for your tea to boil. And they whisper: remember when you believed love was enough? And you smile, because you did. You believed with a kind of stubbornness only fools and lovers possess. And now, stripped of it, you find yourself lighter—like someone who carried the weight of oceans and suddenly realized they could drown, or swim, or just sit on the shore and watch.

The world outside will never understand. Festivals are louder, music is stronger, people are busier. Commitments are fashionable, couple posts are mandatory, and everyone is in a race to prove how together they are. But you? You’ve dropped out of the race. You don’t want the medal. You don’t even want to run anymore. Let them sprint. Let them trip. You’ll sit here in your silence, sipping your peace, smiling at your own rebellion.

Because isn’t it funny? In a world obsessed with connection, you find liberation in disconnection. In a crowd screaming joy, you find your rhythm in solitude. You have no expectations, no buzzing anxiety over a text that may or may not come, no battles to keep love alive against fate’s cruel jokes. Just yourself—and for once, that’s not a tragedy, it’s a miracle.

And maybe, just maybe, this is what destiny wanted all along. Not the fairytale ending, not the happily-ever-after, but the raw, stripped truth: you, learning to stand alone. You, learning that silence can be music. You, learning that sometimes the bravest thing is not to fight for what keeps breaking, but to put the pieces down and walk away.

Sure, people will call it giving up. They’ll shake their heads, they’ll pity you, they’ll wonder why you aren’t out there in the chaos. But what they won’t see is the quiet strength it takes to choose stillness over noise, detachment over drama, reality over fantasy. What they won’t understand is that peace isn’t found in someone’s arms—it’s found when you finally stop stretching your own arms into exhaustion.

And yes, you failed. You failed magnificently, gloriously, in full cinematic fashion against fate, against the universe, against every star chart and horoscope that once promised forever. But so what? Failure isn’t the end. Sometimes it’s the only door destiny leaves open.

So you keep the phone away. You let the festivals roar without you. You watch the night spread across your window like a black silk curtain. And you tell yourself—sarcastically, philosophically, resignedly—that maybe nothing is more beautiful than this: a peaceful night, no expectations, no attachments, just you and the quiet knowledge that you tried, you lost, and somehow, you survived.

And isn’t survival, after all, the

 sweetest sarcasm of them all?