Picture this: a dark, starry night at my observatory, where I’m whipping up some gourmet ramen, vibing to my tunes, when—BAM BAM BAM—someone’s hammering on my door like they’re auditioning for a horror flick. My
The eve before my physics final, I sauntered back to the observatory, my starry sanctuary, under a drizzle that cloaked the night in a mischievous fog. The air was thick, the vibe was damp, and
I saw a dozen fresh roses, beautifully made into a bouquet. Twelve signs of love and promise, just while I was on my way. I saw a dozen fresh roses today. They were surely meant
