nikos . d4. fin cb

My father used to point to the sky with his burly fist and eyes full of wonder and ask: "What do you think is out there?" Only it was never really a question because he always had an answer before I even had the chance to look at the constellation he was gesturing at.

"Nothing we will ever understand."

He liked to talk after his pain medication kicked in. He always let me sit in his lap then. It's a memory I hold dear.

"Do you know what the definition of 'cosmos' is?"

I was seven years old. So, no. I didn't. Or, I shouldn't have. Except my father liked to tell the same stories over and over and over again until I could recite them word for word and knew when he was leaving out a 'but' or 'and' or extra flourish of a spear.

I shake my head; I always wanted his crooked smile for myself.

"It means we're all here. In this well-ordered universe, each of us with a place and a purpose, no matter where we are. All just a part of one, big, fantastic story that we will never understand."

"Even the mosquitoes?"

His breath smells like metal, but his aftershave smells like pine. It tousles my hair as he chuckles and wipes away the bug guts from my forehead.

"We all have a destiny. A fate."

"I think I'll write my own."

He is boisterous and booming when he laughs this time, cheeks reddened even more than mine by the night air as he pats me on the back, holds me close.

Apparently that's not how fate or destiny works.

Good thing I've always been a-


According to my friends, at least. Wouldn't want to brag without backing it up.