You were born on a day in late May, when the month was ending and a new month was rising. A Wednesday, the middle of the week, a day which is rumored to bring hearts in the world filled with woe. Poets, writers, souls pining for a love not met.

I was born on the first day of June. A Thursday, just one day after your Wednesday of woe. They say those born on Thursday have a long way to go. Travelers, wanderers, tired feet with blisters from the heat-soaked sand.

How absurd it is that even after being so many years apart, the days we were born on lie so close to each other? And even more absurd is that both of us embody the traveler and the poet, two archetypes that blend in one seamlessly.

Destined to be a poet and yet you travel miles to flesh out the numerous characters you embody. Destined to be a traveler and yet I carve my paths with the words that spill out of me. A poet and a traveler, interchangeable in our case.

Still how far apart can be two souls born in late May and early June? Apparently, only a few days apart, a week at most. But in our case, years and miles come in between.

Perhaps this is why I was born on a Thursday for those miles were written in my fate. And similarly, this could be why you were born on a Wednesday for the traveler who sought you would come years after you, resulting only in woe in all the time spent in waiting.

However, some way or other, something between us was connected, still is. Fate, destiny, or kismet... There are many words for this connection but I can't select one for I don't know yet what binds us to each other.

The more I look for the invisible strings that entangle us, the clearer I can see them. It almost makes me wonder if it's just a manifestation of my yearning or if the weavers of fate are actually pulling us closer only to suspend us in orbit, never truly reaching each other.

If it's the latter, then how cruel is this tapestry of destiny because we will still remain miles apart, even if we are connected, burying our woes in our hearts.

They say the most impactful stories are those that end in tragedy. So has the eternal writer of all mankind's fates chosen for us to live in this tragedy through every chapter of our life? Not just the end but from the prelude to the final curtain that draws over the stage, every word and every mile denotes a tragic pair.

Late May and early June... So close yet so far. A paradox, possibly like our souls and our naseeb that was written in the stars.

In my land, the starcrossed poets would say: Fitrat main na tha tumse milna, Ajab dushwar tha tumse bicharna. Naseeb main na thay tum humare, Phir bhi likha tha tere dar se guzarna.

These words may not reveal their essence if not translated so here I try my best to interpret them for you. It was not in my destiny to meet you, yet it was torture to part from you. You were not written in my stars, yet my fate was to pass by your door each day.

Just like a traveler who passes an inn but cannot stay either due to the haste of his travels or the lack of time, I pass the doors to your soul, knowing I will never be able to step in because the key to that intricate lock is still out of my reach.

I wonder if behind those doors and that heavy lock, you hear my footsteps too, hoping I would lift my hand and finally knock. Do you also wait for that distinct sound and yet hear it fade away as my feet cross the never-ending road that marks my fated miles? Does your heart churn in the woe it was born with, knowing the traveler who passes by will never once come inside?

Maybe, maybe not. Neither of us might know how the other truly feels. Perhaps this state of knowing and not knowing has become our destiny, with a million other paradoxes strung together to create a complex web of fate and coincidence.

Late May and early June. A Wednesday and a Thursday. A poet and a traveler. Or if reduced to the most primitive of our existences, a man and a woman. In every instance you have been one step ahead of me, leaving the imprints of your feet on these sands of time that I follow and yearn to capture in my heart and soul.

In every instance, you are too close yet too far, too familiar yet out of reach. And thus, we might continue to live our tragic play on the stage of this world and the next.

Perhaps your role on this stage might end before mine because in every instance, you're the one who leaves first and I, devoted as I am, follow shortly after, counting the miles that still stretch out between us.

If such an event comes to pass and we cease to exist, will it be as symbolic as a Wednesday in late May and a Thursday in early June? Or will it mirror the way we came into this world, inverting the fated days of our passing to reveal a Thursday in early May and a Wednesday in late June?

Who knows...?

None of us do.

Perhaps only time will tell.

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