The White Dice

The white dice were blank. No numbers. No edges of fate carved into them.

Just smooth, quiet faces. I’d never seen dice like that before.

How am I meant to throw something that lands on nothing? White edges.

Every other die I’ve known promised outcomes. Something. Reasoning. A reason to hope.

But the white dice don’t land on anything. They don’t choose. They don’t want.

Nothing to start with and nothing to end with.

What happens when you stop wanting what you need? You fade. A quiet dying. A fear of living.

Uncertainty, undecided. No fear of unhappy endings.

Because if you roll the white dice, you bet on yourself. And you bet on love.

Something unwritten — that was never written for you.

Nothing to win and nothing to lose.

Misery was written on you. You weren’t made for love. You were made to lose.

The dice were never placed in your hands.

When you roll them, you bet on love. You bet on you. I pause.

I don’t understand. I live in the white man’s land. Sinking in quicksand. And every day, I’m expected to stand. I’m not here for play. Not for pretty endings. I’m done pretending, defending, or mending.

You weren’t made for love but you bet on it every day. This is the message that I'm sending.

And every time hatred breeds it stings so deep it settles underneath my skin.

You settle in living fire and you let it burn. It was never your turn.

Between the edges lives the fear of never starting or never ending.

Always,

Zahra

✨ When silence speaks louder than words…
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