Before names,
before even light—
there was a weightless waiting.
Not peace. Not chaos.
Just the ache of becoming.

Then, something shifted.
A crack in the stillness,
so small it might’ve been a question.
And that was enough.

The universe poured out,
not in order,
not with a plan—
just the raw spilling
of what could no longer be held in.

Stars flared like sudden thoughts.
Planets stumbled into orbit.
Time unfolded,
confused but determined.
And we—
we came much later,
soft and breakable,
but hungry to know.

We gave the dark a name.
We mapped what we could,
believing in beginnings
because we feared ends.

But everything loops.
Even entropy,
even death.
Black holes don’t swallow—
they remember.
They wait.

One day,
the stretch will end.
Galaxies will slow their dance,
curl inward
like tired fingers
into a closing fist.

And when the last light folds in,
when silence returns,
not empty this time
but full of memory—
maybe it won’t be loss.

Maybe it will be return.
Maybe the universe
never left where it started.
Maybe we are the echo
of a breath
still being held.