Charvee Pandya

It was not the sort of place one expected to be altered by. A garden, yes, but familiar, arranged and tended, its paths obedient, its beauty almost rehearsed. Nothing in it suggested rupture, nothing there promised the undoing of the self. At its center, there was a fountain. It wasn't magnificent or even aspiring to be. It rose and fell with insistence. The water did not crash or proclaim; it returned to itself again and again, the same height each time, the same return. One could have...

There are ideas about love that feel older than we are. They arrive already formed, certain and heavy with history.

I have come to believe that Love rarely ends with a moment. More often, it thins out.