Universal Apathy

I used to think the universe was out to get me. Not in a dramatic, lightning-strikes-twice kind of way, but in the quiet, petty way it forgets to answer your prayers and lets your socks vanish in the dryer. You know, the small stuff that feels personal even though it obviously isn’t.

Eventually, I stopped waiting for signs. Stopped thinking the traffic light was red because I needed to slow down metaphorically. Maybe it was just red. Maybe the universe wasn’t teaching me anything—it just was. Motionless in its vastness, humming its own tune, not even aware I existed.

And weirdly, that helped.

There’s a strange relief in realizing no one’s scripting your life behind the curtain. That fate isn’t micromanaging your heartbreaks or curating your triumphs like some cosmic film editor. Things just… happen. Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes you don’t. And it’s not personal. It never was.

But that doesn’t mean it’s meaningless.

You can still assign meaning. Stitch it into the fabric of ordinary moments. A conversation that arrives exactly when you need it. A stranger’s kindness on the worst day of your year. Not because it was “meant to be,” but because you decided it mattered. That’s power, too.

I think we want the universe to care because we don’t trust ourselves to. We want fate to choose us, to validate our choices. But maybe the deeper courage is in deciding your life has weight even when the stars are silent.

The universe isn’t cruel. It’s just busy being everything. And we—we’re the ones who assign cruelty or kindness to a sky that never asked to be worshipped in the first place.

So no, I don’t think the universe cares whether you win or lose. But that doesn’t mean your story isn’t worth telling. It just means the meaning is yours to make.

And maybe that’s not indifference. Maybe that’s freedom.

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