We Keep Calling It Fate

We keep calling it fate

because “pattern” sounds uglier.

You like the almosts.

The nearlys.

The people who lean in

just enough

to leave you wondering

if you imagined the rest.

You say you want stability

but your pulse only quickens

at uncertainty.

I say I’m different.

I say I’m steady.

But I only show up

after chaos has warmed the seat.

We keep blaming timing.

Wrong city.

Wrong phase.

Wrong healing.

As if clocks are villains

and not our appetites.

You fall for potential.

I fall for intensity.

We both call it depth.

It isn’t depth.

It’s recognition.

Two nervous systems

mistaking familiarity

for destiny.

When you pull away,

I don’t chase.

Not because I’m evolved,

but because I’ve rehearsed

being left.

We keep calling it fate

because accountability

requires renovation.

And renovation

means tearing down the parts of us

that feel like home.

Maybe love isn’t rare.

Maybe self honesty is.