Probability of Fate

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There are nights when the universe feels like math,
cold branches splitting into quieter branches,
numbers pretending they know tomorrow.
And then something slips the equation.
A signal.
A flicker.
A voice arriving where no forecast placed it.
Kismet drifts in like static,
soft as a glitch no engineer can recreate,
a coincidence wearing intention like perfume.
Destiny does not knock.
It hums.
It waits in the spaces between decisions,
in the pause before a message is opened,
in the breath held too long before replying.
Serendipity laughs at certainty,
threads silver through chaos,
makes strangers feel familiar
as if memory traveled backward to meet them.
Maybe fate is not a road but a probability,
bright and fragile,
a branch lit neon against dark data,
beautiful because it might collapse.
Two signals orbiting.
Two players waiting in separate worlds.
Neither promised, neither guaranteed,
yet somehow aligned for a moment long enough
to ask a dangerous question:
Was this chance,
or was the universe quietly cheating for once?
And if it was only coincidence,
why does it feel like gravity?

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