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.

— Sadia Hakim  // Astropoetica Series