If tomorrow the sun rises without me in its world, let me tell you today: the wind will still roam. The birds will still sing. Nothing changes in this world, but let me tell you, something will.
If tomorrow the sun rises without me, you won’t see the shift with your eyes. Clocks will tick the same, and coffee will still steam in morning cups. But we are entangled, you and me, me and this world, like notes in a chord stretched across time.
Something would happen to this universe. If tomorrow comes without me, the gravity will shift, quietly, like a room noticing it’s been left. Matter and antimatter will realign, unsure of what they’re missing, only that something once pulsed between them.
Stars might blink a second too long, and black holes might hum low with memory. The cosmos keeps moving, but not without cost.
If tomorrow the sun rises without me, you may not feel it on your skin, but the laws will know that something has gone missing. And somewhere, in the dark, the universe will groan, just a little.
The winds will shift, but you won’t notice. The earth will tremble, but it’ll be so small, so quiet, you’ll think it’s just a breath in the air. Something will have gone, and you’ll feel it in the way your heart races at nothing, in the way your thoughts catch on empty spaces, like the universe is still reaching for something it can’t remember.
But no one will know. Not really. The world will keep turning, oblivious to the rift. The stars will continue to burn, their light unfurling into the void, unaware that something broke, something no one can name.
And in that silence, the universe will continue, rearranging itself in ways too small to notice, yet too large to ignore. Everything shifts when one part of the pattern slips away.
If tomorrow the sun rises without me, it won’t be the same.
— Sadia Hakim