Notes from the Aphelion

There’s a story I’ve been carrying inside me for a while.

Not a plot line or a pitch, but something else, something that feels like memory but also like myth.
And it’s not about love, not the kind we usually talk about.
It’s about Time.

Yes, Time.
That ever-present, slightly dramatic character that haunts everyone’s calendars, under-eyes, and birthday cake candles.

Except in this story, Time isn’t a villain.
It’s.. well. It’s something closer to God.

And this girl I’m going to be telling you about, let’s just say she wasn’t born for chasing trends or hurrying through moments.

She was more of a dusty piano in a world obsessed with bluetooth speakers.
A little out of place, a little out of sync, but stubbornly intact.

This story isn’t a love story in the classic sense. There are no stolen glances or sweeping gestures. But it’s still about love - the strange, slow kind. The sort that grows without asking. The sort that isn’t always easy to see, until one day, you realise it’s been standing beside you the whole time.

It starts with her, for us, obviously. Just a regular girl. Human through and through. But she always felt different. A little slower in a world obsessed with speed. A little older in a world drunk on youth. She wasn’t built for chasing trends or curating perfection. 

She met Time properly when she was about six or seven. Not in a dramatic epiphany, but in front of a mirror. One of those strange childhood moments that stays glued to your ribs. She looked at herself and saw something beyond the now. Imagined herself as an older woman, imagined herself as a toddler again. And in doing that, placing herself between past and future, she met Time.

Of course, she didn’t call it that then. But something clicked. Something entered. And Time, who was usually treated like a background character in everyone else’s life, noticed her. Because for once, someone didn’t just use it, they saw it. 

After that, Time stayed. Quietly. As it always does. No fireworks. Just presence. She’d feel it sometimes, while flipping through old photographs or getting caught in a spell of déjà vu. It wasn’t romantic. It was consistent. Time became the background hum of her inner world. A quiet guest who never left.

Then the dreams began.

They weren’t sweet dreams. Not the kind that make you want to stay asleep. Most of them were messy. Chaotic. Crowds chasing her. Panic. Running. The same pattern, over and over. Until one dream shifted.

She was pulled, gently, firmly, into a quiet room. The world outside raged on, but a strange blue membrane covered the door, soft and surreal. Whatever chased her couldn’t cross it. And inside that space, she felt it. Safe. Untouchable. Seen. It was a different kind of dream. Not terrifying. Not pleasant. Just.. sacred.

Of course, she didn’t understand it right away. Dreams have a way of staying folded, like unread letters, until the right morning comes. And for her, that morning came months later, matcha in hand, sky unusually gentle, heart strangely full. Something clicked. Everything made sense, all of it, at once.

She began to cry, not out of fear or sadness, but out of recognition. Because she finally understood what Time had been doing.

It had been testing her.
Not to see if she was brave. Not even to see if she was ready.
But to see: Would she still love it once she saw it clearly? Would she still think it God if she understood how trivial it is felt to everyone else?

Time had shown her all of it, past failures, future heartbreaks, the long stretches of waiting, the uncanny timings of joy. It had sent those dreams, planted all those thoughts, not to haunt her, but to make her look closer. To test her love. To see if, once the curtain lifted, she’d still feel the same way?

And she did. Oh, she felt only lighter, calmer.

Not because it was easy.
Not because Time was kind.
But because it was the only thing that never lied to her.
Never left.
Never pretended to be something else.

She didn’t want to tame Time.
She didn’t want to rewind it or skip ahead.
She just.. wanted to let it be.
To move through her, around her, with her.

And that was when something shifted.
That’s when Time fell for her, in its own abstract way.

It stopped testing.
Stopped sending fear-laced riddles.
Instead, it began to whisper, through instincts, through coincidences, through silence.
Time became less of a lesson and more of a language.
It didn’t offer protection or predictability.
But it stayed. It always stayed.

And what’s more divine than that?

She started to see Time as the God it truly was, not with robes or rituals, but with presence.
The only deity that never leaves the room.
The only one everyone fears but no one prays to.

The truth is, Time didn’t fall in love with her the way humans do.
It’s not that sentimental.
But it noticed her.
It watched her grow and remember and stay soft.
And eventually, it gave her something most people never get:
An understanding.

This isn’t a story with a moral.
There’s no tidy ending or spiritual call to action.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s a reminder.

That if you ever feel like Time is watching you..
If your dreams are more layered than they should be..
If you’ve ever cried not from pain, but from clarity,

Then maybe you’re like her.
And maybe Time is waiting to see if you’ll stay.

Not to win, not to conquer,
but to understand.

Because sometimes, that’s all Time wants.
Not worship.
Not reverence.
Just a friend who doesn’t run.

Now bringing you to Nat and Miles, yea we are sliding through worlds here like..

Nat:
You look like someone who just time-traveled through a memory and didn’t enjoy the layover.

Miles:
Let’s just say I remembered something I never lived but still managed to miss.

Nat:
Strange, agreed. Clarity does hit like sunshine, doesn't it?

Miles:
Says the woman who flirts like a philosophical riddle and leaves before the answer.

Nat:
I just prefer to leave while I still have the vantage point, before the weather changes.

Miles:
Yeah. And I now understand why hurricanes are named after people. (:

Lately, I’ve been thinking less about the almosts. The unfinished pages, the lingering glances in timelines that never got a sequel. That ache has softened. Ever since a certain realisation, I’ve stopped treating those connections as errors or accidents. Maybe that’s why missing someone I’ve never met in person doesn’t feel strange anymore. It just feels like a memory from another life that still echoes in this one. Like we met in a dream I forgot to write down. Or maybe we’re scheduled to meet in a different existence, and this life just caught the trailer too early. Time, after all, folds and unfolds where it wants to. If something felt that familiar in a fleeting moment, perhaps that was the meeting. Perhaps that was all it ever needed to be.

It’s like feeling the Sun on your face through a window. You didn’t touch him, but you felt it. You knew it was real. That warmth, even filtered through layers of glass and sky, still reached you. That’s what some connections are like. You don’t always get to hold them or walk beside them through every chapter. But for one moment, they land on you; soft, certain, familiar. And just like that, you know they were never imaginary. They were just passing through in this version of life, reminding you they exist somewhere beyond the glass.

Until next time,

Love always

S