#zenithdiaries

1. Stars remind us of Dream and Destiny.

2. Creation unfolds through Design and Destiny.

3. Existence stretches across Dimension and Destiny.

4. Every beginning carries Dawn and Destiny.

5. The soul sinks into Depth and Destiny.

6. Life reveals itself through Duality and Destiny.

7. Bloodlines remember Descent and Destiny.

8. Every journey begins with Departure and Destiny.

9. Every path asks for Direction and Destiny.

10. The heart burns with Desire and Destiny.

11. The mind trembles between Doubt and Destiny.

12. Every choice becomes Decision and Destiny.

13. Willpower shapes Determination and Destiny.

14. Truth appears through Discovery and Destiny.

15. Fate unveils through Divination and Destiny.

16. The faithful walk in Devotion and Destiny.

17. Illusions blur Deception and Destiny.

18. Broken hearts learn Despair and Destiny.

19. Some endings whisper Doom and Destiny.

20. Empires fall to Destruction and Destiny.

21. Hope survives through Deliverance and Destiny.

22. Time reduces all to Dust and Destiny.

– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*

Crossover Collection: *Zenith of Truths*

His love was a continuum.

Not something I could measure —

not by second, minute, or hour.

Being around him felt almost peculiar.

Like the way a single moment can open

into a whole day,

and a day into a year,

until suddenly you realize

you have crossed an era

without noticing where the beginning was.

Sometimes it was quiet, like twilight —

that soft pause between one hour and the next,

when the world seems to hold its breath

for a candlemark longer than it should.

And sometimes it arrived unexpectedly,

like the rare turning of a blue moon,

until whole weeks and months slipped past us

as easily as seconds.

With him, time never felt like something passing.

It felt like standing together

at the witching hour of a millennium,

watching moments gather into ages —

until even eternity

began to feel

close enough to touch.

– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*

Crossover Collection: *Zenith in Love*

There was a moment, short after reconciliation, when I said something casually that wasn’t casual at all.

“I got hurt more because I was attached to you. You were never attached to me.”

And he burst out.

“I wasn't attached to you?! How can you even say that?!”

It wasn’t anger.

It was hurt.

The kind of hurt that shoots out before pride can intercept it.

In that instant, I realized something.

I didn’t need an explanation of the past.

I didn’t need a timeline.

I didn’t need justification.

I only needed to know I hadn’t loved alone.

For a long time, I survived by believing the attachment was one-sided. It made the pain cleaner. Simpler.

It felt like the only logical explanation for the breakup.

If I was the only one attached, then at least the story was coherent.

But when he reacted like that — wounded, almost offended — something inside me recalibrated.

So he was attached.

And strangely… that was enough.

Most people want answers.

Why did you leave?

Why didn’t you fight?

Why didn’t you show it?

But my soul didn’t ask those questions.

Because once I knew the feeling had been real on both sides, the rest became noise.

Attachment doesn’t always look symmetrical.

It doesn’t always know its own shape.

It doesn’t always know how to behave.

But it exists.

And for me, knowing that it had existed was enough.

– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*

Sometimes, life hands us people or situations that drain us, demand too much, or just time their demands too early.

And in those moments, I’ve realized:

It’s time to vanish.

Not out of spite. Not out of anger.

But because nonsense has lost its audience.

Just like the Cheshire Cat — tail first, smile last — I slip away silently when things no longer balance.

I don’t argue, I don’t explain, and I don’t chase.

I simply disappear.

And yet… I leave a little trace behind.

Just enough to let others feel their own energy reflected back at them —

the weight of overextended reach without a response,

the echo of the space they tried to occupy without care.

For example, when a stranger mistakes proximity for permission to spill their struggles, the energy tilts.

It’s not trust; it’s premature dependence — and a signal for me to step back.

I don’t need to fix it, I don’t need to comment — I just fade, letting the reality of that boundary sink in.

It's not cruelty; it’s clarity.

It is self-respect in motion.

A gentle reminder that not every vibration needs me to absorb it.

Disappearing doesn’t mean I am lost.

It means I am present elsewhere — a place where my empathy is not violated.

Presence is precious. Attention is earned.

And when nonsense arrives, the most powerful response is often… a smile fading into silence.

– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*

He stood at my door and hurled words like weapons.

Liar. Betrayer. Backstabber. Homewrecker.

I remember pausing — not because I was stunned, but because I was suddenly very clear.

I looked at him and said:

“So that's what you’re calling me now?

You know the people who have known me throughout my life — and not just my family and friends, but classmates and colleagues alike — would deny firsthand that I could do such things to anyone.

Don't flatter yourself into believing these allegations hold any weight. They don’t.

And since you seem so fond of labels, allow me to return the favor — accurately. You are the most ungrateful, manipulative, selfish, and disloyal person I have ever encountered. Now those are facts. And unlike you, I can prove them.

Time to leave.”

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to.

Truths don’t require being yelled — they are loud when spoken with certainty.

– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*

I have destroyed myself, and I am happy with the destruction.

This was not an act of passion or despair, but a process carried out with awareness and consent.

I removed the parts of me that survived on postponement, negotiation, and the hope that endurance would be mistaken for worth.

I no longer recognize sacrifice as virtue when it is met with silence, delay, or ambiguity.

I stopped confusing tolerance with depth, and restraint with dignity.

The habit of staying out of obligation fell away.

What was destroyed was not innocence or softness, but patience without return.

What remains is not stronger, wiser, or purer — only quieter, less willing, and finally unwilling to continue as before.

I am not rebuilding — I am simply refusing to restore what proved unlivable.

If this reads like certainty, it is only because indecision has been exhausted.

The destruction is complete because it needed to be.

– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*

Crossover Collection: *Zenith at Edge*

There’s a terrifying little fact in the digital age: your keyboard remembers.

Not your passwords. Not your typos.

Worse. The truth.

Whenever I typed “I’m,” instead of finishing my thought with something normal — like “okay” or “busy” — it offered… well, let’s just say — a six-lettered word that even those who love it rarely announce.

My thumbs trembled. Every time.

Don’t get me wrong.

It’s a word people hear all the time, but in some places, it carries a weight only a few understand.

It’s a truth that’s still valid, still alive, still very much mine — but not for everyone to see.

Over time, this word was casually mentioned in front of the right crowd.

And apparently, my keyboard was paying attention. Very, very carefully.

At first, I laughed.

Surely this was just the ghost of my past haunting my predictive text.

But then panic hit: what if I accidentally sent it to the wrong person?

What if I wrote a perfectly innocent sentence and — boom — unintended exposure?

So I did what any responsible adult does: I reset my phone’s keyboard to erase all personalized predictions.

But deep down, I know it’s just waiting…

Waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect conversation, the perfect audience to remind me that it still remembers.

And maybe that’s the point: in a world where technology sees everything, even your deepest, most private habits, you can erase the keyboard’s memory… but the echo stays.

Maybe your keyboard isn’t just remembering — it’s trying to help you never forget the truth.

– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*

All my life, I believed I never had a nickname.

Not in school.

Not in college.

Not in university.

Which was odd, because nicknames were practically a cultural requirement. Everyone had one — sometimes several — circulating inside friend groups like private currencies. But me? Nothing. Or so I thought.

Turns out, I was wrong.

I found out two years after finishing my bachelor’s degree, in the most ridiculous way possible: an anonymous chat. A former classmate — completely unaware he was talking to me — started describing someone from our department.

“There was this one person,” he said, “whom we used to call Short-circuit.”

Yes… that person was me.

And the guy telling me this wasn’t just anyone. He was the inventor of the nickname — and also the best friend of my crush from our bachelor’s class. The nickname had existed quietly inside their friendship circle. They used it all the time. Yet the one person completely unaware of it was the one it belonged to.

Now, Short-circuit wasn’t about my temper. My temper was fine.

My height, though… yes. That was short.

Not just the shortest in my class, but the shortest in the entire department. I used to stand behind the dais and only my head would be visible above it — like a live wire peeking over a podium.

But height alone doesn’t earn a nickname like that.

What really powered it was everything else.

I had — and still have — an electrifying mouth and a mind that refused to stay quiet in the face of nonsense. If something felt unjust, I spoke. Loudly, if necessary. If teachers were wrong, administration was unfair, or rules were absurd, I confronted them.

Arguments followed. Sparks flew. And somehow, people were left speechless.

Those with lesser intellect — or simply a strong survival instinct — learned quickly: don’t provoke this one. Because if I got angry, no one knew what would come out of my mouth. And whatever it was would be remembered forever. Possibly quoted. Definitely laughed about.

And yet — here’s the twist — I was also the person everyone relied on.

My handwriting was so clean and readable that even an illiterate person could follow it. My notes were structured, organized, and miraculously coherent. Before exams, students from every section photocopied my notebooks for clarity, sanity, and last-minute salvation.

So there I was — small in size, loud in presence — sparking debates, cracking wit, and leaving an imprint far larger than the space I physically occupied.

That’s what Short-circuit really meant.

Not chaos — but voltage.

Not madness — but intensity.

Not size — but impact.

And the most mind-bending part?

For years, without my knowing, a nickname existed that captured me with unsettling accuracy — passed casually between people who saw me clearly, while I had no idea.

Now I can’t help but wonder if this has been happening my whole life. What if they’re calling me "Mighty Mite" at the office right now?

– from the collection *Zenith Diaries*