O my beloved human, will you moon-gaze with me? Will you stargaze with my soul? Will you talk about Rigel, about Sirius, about Capella, about Europa, about Alpha Tauri?
O my beloved human, will you experience otherworldly experiences with me? Will you search with me for the alien code theory in terms of spirits? Will you go mad with me over this absolutely perfect world, built on perfect rules and regulations, to the levels of antimatter?
O my beloved, will you try infusing and extracting teas from my favorite daisies, lavenders, and hibiscus plants from our garden? Will you taste my food when I am creating new recipes? Will you create your own in a ‘sit and watch me do that’ competition of things made in love, in life?
I think you can be a failed star and still protect the whole solar system, still help life thrive, still maintain that balance that ultimately affects the presence of every single thing in existence.
I wonder how this applies to humans who think of themselves as failures—why they do not understand that it’s okay if they cannot be the sun. It’s okay if they are the failed star. It’s okay if they cannot transition from a planet to a star, no matter how big, how beautiful, how amassed they are, or how much effort and struggle they put in.
They are designed to be that planet. They are designed to be the failed stars. Everyone has their own purpose, and they do not have to find it; they have to remember it. It is ingrained in their bones—the purpose.
And then there are brown dwarfs, often called failed stars, which never gather enough mass to sustain nuclear fusion like the sun. They are neither destined to become stars nor decreed to be planets. Yet, they are not useless. They radiate heat, influence the orbits of celestial bodies, and exist as vital pieces in the cosmic puzzle.
They are not mistakes; they are simply what they were meant to be—intermediate, not stars yet not planets either, occupying a space that still matters.
Perhaps humans, too, misunderstand failure. We chase transformation, thinking we must become something else to matter. But maybe purpose is not about becoming; it is about remembering. Even if we are not the sun, even if we are the failed stars, we still hold gravity, still radiate warmth, still shape the lives around us in ways unseen.
It’s okay to be the failed star among planets in a star system, whether it’s solar or another. It’s okay to be a dwarf planet as well. It’s okay to be Jupiter. It’s okay to be Eris. It’s okay to be Haumea.
It’s okay to be anything other than the sun and earth for someone’s existence. The sun isn’t the only force that helps life exist. And the earth is not the only place where life exists.
It’s okay to simply exist—because just existing matters for the universe to exist.
Venus—standing alone and distant near the horizon—doesn’t belong to the day or night. She is there—seen, admired, yet untouched. Maybe that’s how some souls are—glowing on the edges, never part of a whole, yet never losing their light.
Some shine not because they are placed among others, but because they exist on their own. People admire her from a distance, but who truly sees her? Who stops to wonder what it means to be this radiant and yet so untouchable? Some lights are meant to guide, some are meant to blind, and some—some are meant to stand alone, shining regardless.
But deep down, they know their worlds are incomplete without her.
In my native language, we call Venus “Zohra,” an Arabic word for beauty and radiance.And how beautiful is it that, for centuries, poets and lovers have been addressing their beloved ones and wives as “Zohra Jabee’n” to symbolize and showcase their admiration or as a way of affectionate teasing in love?
Zohra Jabee’n (زہرہ جبین) is a phrase in Urdu that means “one with a face or forehead like Venus’s,” which means someone with a face as radiant, glowing, beyond beautiful, and different from others as Venus.
Even in love letters, they have been addressing and calling their loved ones “Ay Meri Zohra Jabeen,” which means “Oh, my radiant-faced one” or “Oh, my beloved with a face as radiant as Venus.“
Isn’t it the superlative degree of love and beauty in any language?
And in Urdu, we also call Zohra “Ishq ki Devi”—the Goddess of Love—a symbol of beauty, passion, and longing. Love, like Venus, doesn’t always descend into open arms and doesn’t always belong to the hands that reach for it.
Sometimes, it stays suspended—close enough to see, yet forever untouched. Maybe love is nothing but a quiet burn in stolen glances, in the weight of words never said. Some loves are written in the sky—too far to hold, too bright to be forgotten.
Isn’t that the most beautiful kind of love?
— Sadia Hakim // Love, like Venus, doesn’t always descent into open arms, from Astropoetica Series
In another life, in another universe, I don’t cut my hair when I am going through the phases of self-obnoxiousness. I do it out of love. In another life, in another world, I have a house that I can call my own, a house that calls me its owner. I can place flowers on my table, I can paint walls dusty blue. The light through my window does not feel borrowed. The air in my lungs does not feel like debt.
In another life, in another dimension, I have no trust issues. People genuinely and platonically cherish people—for the color of their eyes and for the color of their souls. Promises are not made of sand. Love does not have conditions dressed as care. No one loves out of loneliness. No one stays out of fear.
In another life, I don’t die every day. I don’t shatter like pieces of glass hit against a wall. I don’t hold myself together with strength I had to beg for. I don’t watch the clock, counting losses instead of hours.
In another life, I don’t hurt myself, and I don’t betray my heart. My ribs are not a cage but an open door. My name is not a burden but a belonging.
In another life, I know love by its taste, by its touch, by its warmth, by its presence, by its aroma, by its pattern. I know love not just in poetry, not just in longing, not just in distance. I know love in the way the sun knows the morning, in the way the tide knows the shore.
In another life, tea doesn’t taste bitter, and food is never too salty. I brew my tea the way my heart desires—no adjustments, no compromises, no one’s preferences weighing on my hands. Every sip, every bite is made for me, untouched by the demands of others. In another life, I savor flavors as they are meant to be—mine.
In another life, I set my table like a quiet celebration, arranging my plate with care, placing flowers beside my meal, letting colors and aromas bloom as if I am my own honored guest. There is no one to scoff at the small joys, no one to call it wasteful, no one to make self-love feel like a crime. In another life, I dine without guilt, without explanation.
In another life, in another life, in another life, I can live my dreams. I can dance with plants. I can ride horses. I can run in daisy fields. I can walk on Proxima Centauri b, and live on Europa. I can travel through wormholes and call it a day, a life. I can build a home between galaxies. I can leave and return without losing myself. I can live without searching for a reason. I can exist without apologizing for it.
In another life, my solitude is mine to keep, not something to be bartered for forced smiles and shallow conversations. No one hands me company like a prescription, no one mistakes my quiet for loneliness. I do not live in borrowed spaces with inherited expectations.
In another life, I am alone, but never lonely. There is one heart, beating in sync with mine—genuine, steady, enough. No loud voices painting wounds into silence, no trauma threading itself into my skin, down to the marrow, no harsh words hanging in the air like unfinished storms—always there, always around, always ready to engulf. No explanations for every breath. Just existence. Just peace.
In another life, I am enough for someone. In another life, someone is enough for me.
In another life, we are enough — for ourselves and for each other.
Should we, Should we, Should we, Should, Should, We—
Die together?
Should we Melt into stars? Should we Become poems? Should we Break into constellations? Should we Fold into forever? Should we Let time blur our names?
Should we Tangle in the spaces between? Should we Be the hush before dawn?
Should we Forget where you end, where I begin? Should we Be nothing— And everything— All at once?
Should we Defy quantum physics? By going beyond bodies, By merging our souls?
Should we Challenge the laws of existence At an atomic level?
Should we Collapse into quantum entanglement, Where distance is an illusion And we are always one?
Should we Vanish into wavefunctions, Superposed between here and eternity?
Should we Fall past the event horizon, Let singularity stitch us together Beyond time itself?
Should we Rewrite reality With the gravity of our longing?
Should we Orbit around each other Like binary pulsars, Locked in a poetic dance That bends spacetime itself?
Should we Fuse like atomic nuclei, Burning bright with an energy No equation can contain?
Should we Transcend the uncertainty, Exist in every probability,
Every reality, every illusion— Every state of matter— Every multiversal form— Every metaphorical and metaphysical concept— Forever quantumly entangled?
— Sadia Hakim // Astropoetica (quantum physics; romantic physics)
I once tried to break love down into an equation, to make sense of its logic—but love isn’t meant to be solved. The Equation of Love was my attempt before I realized some things are meant to be felt, not figured out.
Scientists—they forgot to derive the equation of love.
— Sadia Hakim
The Symbols of Love: A Scientific Metaphor
— Quantum Entanglement
In quantum mechanics, Einstein called it “spooky action at a distance”. Two particles, once connected, remain intertwined beyond space and time.
So is love — no matter the distance, the souls remain bound, responding to each other in ways unseen, untouchable, but undeniable.
— Gravitational Attraction
Newton’s law states that every mass pulls on another with an inescapable force. Love, too, is gravity — drawing hearts closer, keeping them in orbit. The stronger the connection, the harder it is to drift apart.
— Love as Superposition
A quantum state exists in many possibilities until observed. Love, too, exists in infinite versions — every universe, every timeline, every whispered what if.
— Time Dilation
Einstein taught us that gravity slows time near massive objects. Love, the heaviest force of all, does the same—when you are with the one you love, time stretches, moments linger, and the world seems to pause.
But when you look back, it feels like it all passed too quickly, slipping away like a dream.
— The Singularity of Love
A singularity — where physics collapses, where equations break.
Love is that impossible point where all logic dissolves, where distance ceases, where time bows, where two become one — infinitely, irreversibly, eternally.
The Equation of Love — poetic derivation
Scientists spend lifetimes solving equations, but they forget the one that truly matters — the equation of love.
Scientists forget to derive the equation of love.
— Sadia Hakim
So, let’s derive the equation of love.
1. Love is Quantum Entanglement
Two souls, like entangled particles, once connected, remain inseparable — no distance, no time can break them.
Love exists beyond space, beyond logic. Wherever you are, I am.
2. Love is Gravity
Like binary stars locked in orbit, pulled by an invisible force, we fall — closer, deeper, endlessly.
The smaller the distance, the stronger the force. Love is a gravity that no force can counteract.
3. Love is Superposition
It exists in every universe, every possibility, every state of matter. We are here. We are there. We are everywhere.
Even when unseen, love is never absent — just waiting to be observed.
4. Love is the Event Horizon
A singularity of emotions, pulling everything in, beyond which time stretches into eternity.
Love bends time, distorts reality. Inside its pull, past and future blur.
Final Equation: The Singularity of Love
As distance vanishes, love becomes infinite. As time stretches, love becomes eternal. It is the force that bends the universe, the constant that even science cannot define. And yet — we feel it.
A world big enough to fit fifty moons can’t even fit a single soul with dreams different from society’s.
— Sadia Hakim
A world big enough to fit fifty moons can’t even fit a single heart that truly sees.
Autonomy weighs more than fifty moons, self-awareness weighs more than fifty worlds, and a genuine soul weighs more than fifty universes. The world was never meant to carry this much weight.
This world can never bear pressure this intense.
You are a universe, honey, and worlds aren’t meant to bear universes—these are universes that bear the weight of different worlds inside them.
— Sadia Hakim // Cosmapoetica (Sciopoetica Ve Astropoetica) Series
We thought the stars would outlive us, but they, too, will burn out. Maybe that is the most human thing about them— they shine, they fall, they leave something behind.
So do we.
The most human thing about stars is that they die. The most human thing about stars is that they burn. The most human thing about stars is that they carry their own destruction within them.
The most human thing about stars is that they break apart, scattering pieces of themselves into the universe.
The most human thing about stars is that even in death, they create the very elements that give life a chance to exist.
— Sadia Hakim // Astropoetica
The most human thing about stars is that they burn.
— Sadia Hakim
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— Quantum Entanglement
— Gravitational Attraction
— Love as Superposition
— Time Dilation
— The Singularity of Love