Were we etched in the marrow of stars, before breath knew its name, before silence learned to ache?

Did the wind rehearse your voice in the hollows of my ribs long before I knew how to listen?

You— a cipher carved in dusk, a vow the cosmos whispered into my unfinished sleep.

I— a witness stitched from longing, a lantern flickering in the corridor of your maybe.

We— not summoned, not sent, but remembered.

Not fate, but a ritual of recognition— the way moss knows stone, the way dusk knows the hush before the owl speaks.

So if we are predestined, let it be not by decree, but by the way your name makes my silence sing.