A straight wire carries a current of 5 A in a magnetic field of strength 0.2 T. The length of the wire in the magnetic field is 0.3 m, and it is placed at right angles (90°) to the magnetic field.

What is the force acting on the wire?

A straight wire. A current. A magnetic field.5 A, 0.2 T, 0.3 m. Perpendicular.

Plug it into F = BIL, and the force is, just is — 0.3 Newtons.

A clear answer. Measurable. No emotion. No hesitation. There’s comfort in that, in the predictability of numbers, in the obedience of variables. I remember spending time memorizing formulas during physics class.

E = mc². F = ma.

Every problem had a way out, as though life were an equation, and if you knew the right letters to plug in, you could solve for x — x being happiness, or identity, or the boy in the second row whose laugh made you feel like summer. I used to wish there was a formula for choosing the right career.

For knowing how to be.

For becoming.

A clear, precise string of logic for finding purpose. For unlearning shame. For letting go when love no longer serves. A formula for heartbreak. A theorem for healing. An equation that could tell you, definitively, this is what you were born for. But maybe we’re not supposed to know. Maybe we are the experiment, wild, complex, and inconclusive.

And still, in this world of filtered truths and curated timelines, we reach. We build mood boards like sacred texts, pixelated prayers for the lives we want. We mistake aesthetics for intention. We chase formulas made of reels and quotes, comparing the chaos within us to someone else’s choreography. Maybe that’s the contradiction. That we long for freedom but crave certainty.

That we’re both the scientist and the storm.

Some days, I’m grateful we haven’t cracked the code. That There is no single map for how to live. That I can sit here, writing poetry, pondering the softness of my own existence, scrolling, coding, loving — like I do.

Maybe if there is a formula, it’s one no algorithm can compute.

A poet who loves like an engineer.

A chef who loves like a singer.

An artist who loves like a scientist.

A girl who loves like the whole universe is inside her, untamed, unfinished, untranslatable. And maybe that’s enough, that you can be many things and nothing at once.

You can decide if this is a tragedy or if it is freedom.

Maybe the purpose is not something you solve, but something you live into, word by word, choice by choice, wound by wound.

Maybe some lives are not meant to be defined but to be felt, and to be remembered not by how closely they resembled a formula, but by how wildly they refused to. So if you ever feel lost, if you ever wish for neat answers, remember: even the stars don’t know they’re stars.

They just burn.

But if you need a formula. Do it this way.

Know that you are loved

Sigur Rós Loves You 🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

I’ll admit it,I loved loudly. I sent long texts. I asked questions that made your chest tighten. I said things like “What are we?” and “How do you actually feel?” without waiting for the weather to be right.

And you flinched every time. Like love was a candle and I was coming with a hairdryer.

You told me I was too much. Too emotional. Too curious. Too passionate. Too invested. I thought you meant I was too honest. Too alive. Too awake. But no, you meant I was inconvenient.

You wanted soft affection, not deep connection. You wanted the idea of love, not the labour.

And I realised, maybe I wasn’t too intense. Maybe you were too… shallow. Not in a mean way. Just in a kiddie-pool way. Just in a “I want romance, but I don’t want to bleed” kind of way.

But me? I will always be intensity. I will always be honesty. I will always love like a flood. Not because I’m reckless, but because I believe love deserves to be all-in, not on trial.

So if you thought I was too intense, that’s fine. I’ll save that for someone who swims better.

Know that you are loved

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

I used to believe playlists were the highest form of intimacy. Sharing songs felt like undressing, melodies instead of clothes, lyrics instead of skin. I built you a sonic love letter. You turned it into a soundtrack for heartbreak.

Every song was a timestamp. Track 1: the night we walked home in the rain and you pretended not to be cold. Track 4: the morning you made eggs and didn’t burn them. Track 7: the one you said reminded you of me, even though it was written by a man who definitely cheated.

And now? Track 2 makes me want to block you. Track 5 makes me cry in traffic. The whole thing sounds like a documentary of a relationship that had promise but no connection.

I tried to delete the playlist. I really did. But then I thought, maybe I don’t have to erase the past to move on from it. Maybe I can let those songs exist as fossils. Proof that we tried. Proof that we danced. Even if the rhythm was always off.

One day, I’ll build a new playlist. It won’t start with heartbreak. It’ll start with joy.

Know that you are loved

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

I watched you across the room at that party, the one I technically wasn’t invited to but showed up for anyway, thanks to mutual friends and a misplaced sense of dignity. You were holding court near the drinks table, telling a story about hiking or heartbreak or both, and people laughed like you were the only source of light in the room.

You didn’t see me. Not then. Not really.

But later, in your car, under the soft hum of the radio and the smell of your overused cologne, you said I made you feel “seen.” Which was ironic, since you wouldn’t even look me in the eye at the party.

You kept me secret, folded neatly into your spare time. I was the person you texted at 1:42 a.m. and the one you ghosted by 9:00. You told me I was special, but not in public, not where it counted. Like I was a precious stone, but only in poor lighting.

And I stayed. Because sometimes, even crumbs feel like dinner when you’ve been starved long enough.

But I know better now. I deserve someone who doesn’t just see me, but wants to be seen with me. Who doesn’t treat me like a footnote or an afterthought, but a damn headline.

So here’s to every room I’ll walk into without shrinking. To every version of me that will never beg to be acknowledged.

Know that you are loved

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

I was trying to be discreet. That’s the worst part. I was crying in the shower like a woman in a film where the director wants to win an award for “Best Symbolism.” You know, water, grief, solitude, that sort of thing.

I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be dramatic. I just needed a place to fall apart where the acoustics were nice. So I let the water drown the sound, or at least I thought it did. But you still heard me.

You paused whatever you were watching. You didn’t knock. You didn’t say, “Are you okay?” You just waited for the sound of the tap to stop, and then said, “There’s rice in the microwave.”

I didn’t need a therapist. I just needed softness. I needed someone to ask, not even fix, just ask. But instead, you offered leftovers. And honestly, that told me everything.

Grief doesn’t always come in screaming waves. Sometimes it’s quiet. Polite. Well-timed. But even then, it deserves an audience. Not applause ,just presence.

That was the day I realised I was alone in the relationship. And it was also the day I started to understand what real love might look like: someone who hears your pain and doesn’t mute it.

Know that you are loved

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Jealousy is one of those emotions that makes you feel alive and completely unhinged at the same time. Like drinking four cups of coffee before an apology text.

It begins small. A name you don’t recognize. A comment that says “you look good” from someone with suspicious cheekbones. Suddenly, you’re a CIA agent with access to their tagged photos, their cousin’s bridal shower album, and a screenshot from 2016 that proves everything.

They call it the green-eyed monster, but it’s more like a detective with poor boundaries and a battery-dead phone. It whispers things like, “Zoom in,” “Compare,” and “They liked this photo at 2:14 a.m. What does it mean?”

But here’s the thing, darling, jealousy isn’t always about distrust. Sometimes it’s just love in a bad outfit. A wonky mirror held up to your own fears. And in that reflection, you don’t see them flirting—you see yourself wondering if you’re enough.

The truth is, we’re all a bit mad. Anyone who says they’ve never stalked someone’s ex’s sister’s wedding video on YouTube is either lying or in a coma.

But love, real love, is not about tracking likes. It’s about believing you are still worthy, even when doubt dances in the corner.

So yes, I got jealous. I even typed “who is she” in your DMs, then deleted it. But I stayed. I chose us.

And next time, maybe I’ll just ask instead of interrogate your playlist.

Know that you are loved.

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

When we ended, I told myself I’d be graceful. Dignified. Like someone in a breakup montage wearing a linen shirt by the ocean.

Instead, I found myself scrolling through your dog’s Instagram. Yes, the one you made “as a joke” but posted on religiously. The one with the bio that read: “Treats > Feelings.” Which, in hindsight, was probably a red flag.

I wasn’t looking for pain. I was looking for a sign. Any sign. That you missed me. That you regretted letting go of someone who knew your food order and your attachment style.

But you were doing great. Or at least, your dog was. Smiling in every photo. Wearing those ridiculous birthday hats. Captioned things like “paws-itively loving single life.” Subtle. Very subtle.

So I DMed him. The dog.

I said, “Hope your human is well.” I knew he couldn’t type back. I knew you’d see it. But that didn’t stop me. Because closure is a myth invented by people who’ve never loved someone who still uses your Spotify account.

I didn’t get a reply. Obviously. But a week later, you changed the password.

And that, weirdly, helped.

Sometimes closure doesn’t come in a final talk or a weepy reunion. Sometimes it comes in the quiet unfollow. The unread message. The slow realization that love can be real and still end.

I hope your dog is okay. I hope you are too.

I hope you laugh when you see my name and not flinch.

And if you don’t, well, I still meant it.

Knows that you are loved.

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Love, according to ancient scrolls and every Nigerian auntie over 45, is supposed to be patient and kind. Which is odd, because the last time I was in love, it felt more like being trapped in a WhatsApp group called “Are We Talking or Not?”

Love, in its ideal form, is soft, like a baby’s cheek or a pillow that’s only been cried on twice. But in reality, love often behaves like it has poor network reception. One minute it’s there, saying “Good morning, beautiful,” and the next, it’s offline, last seen 3 days ago, posting memes about inner peace.

They call it ghosting. Not the Halloween kind with bedsheets and unresolved deaths, but the modern, emotionally-slimy kind where a person disappears mid-conversation and reappears two months later with “heyyy” and a new beard.

Is that love? Is that patience? Or is it just people who never learned to send full stops with their honesty?

I once waited four months for a reply from someone who said they “just needed space.” I respected that. Until I saw them at Domino’s Pizza with someone who looked like they didn’t believe in space at all. They were sharing a large pepperoni, and what looked like joint trauma.

Still, I want to believe in love, the patient kind. The kind that doesn’t vanish when life gets boring. The kind that stays even when your skin peels from stress and your jokes get weird.

Love is not always dramatic. Sometimes, it’s just replying to texts. Or remembering how someone takes their tea. Or not disappearing into the abyss every time they mention “feelings.”

So if you’ve been ghosted, my dear, it’s not because you’re hard to love. It’s because some people can’t carry the weight of your honesty, so they disappear into thin emotional air. That’s not your fault.

Love doesn’t ghost. Love turns on its read receipts and says, “I’m here.”

Know that you are loved.

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

We’ve all got one. The One That Got Away. The person who made us believe in soft mornings and chaotic butterflies. The person who texted “I miss you” two weeks after ghosting us, just to keep us emotionally moisturized.

But here’s the twist no one prepares you for: sometimes, The One That Got Away comes back. And when they do, they’re… weird.

Not weird in a fun, quirky, “I now read poetry and make vegan jollof” way. No. Weird in a “Hey, I’ve been doing some thinking” way. Which is code for: I made poor choices and now I want to download your love like an old file from Google Drive.

When they come back, they always say the same things. “I wasn’t ready then.” “You were too good for me.” “I had a lot going on.” All of which are true. But also useless. Because in the time they were getting ready, healing, or allegedly finding themselves, you were becoming someone new. Someone stronger. Someone who started charging their phone overnight again.

Love isn’t a Netflix show you can pause and resume when you’re bored. It’s presence. It’s effort. It’s choosing someone even when you’re not in the mood to be poetic.

But here’s the part that stings, you still loved them. Maybe a part of you still does. That part quietly asks: what if they’re different now?

And they might be. But so are you. Are they ready to love this different you? Do they know you now eat cold semo? or are they still in love with the version of you they left?

So if they come back weird, just know you’re not obligated to stay weird with them. You can love someone and still walk away. You can remember the sweet and forget the sour. You can wish them well… from a solid emotional distance. Only choose to keep them, if you like the new weird.

Not everything that returns needs to be reopened. Some people are best left as memories. Beautiful, strange, and unfinished.

Know that you are loved.

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

There are people you love in person. And then, there are people you only love in 2-minute audio snippets with soft background music, a whisper of wind, occasional Lagos traffic, and the ever-comforting phrase: “sorry for the noise, I’m outside.”

You were the second kind.

Ours was a relationship without logistics. A love story with no calendar. A situationship powered by audio waves and delusion. You spoke in voice notes the way poets speak in metaphors, vague, emotionally charged, and impossible to hold accountable.

Every “good morning” was timestamped at 1:47 a.m. Every “how was your day?” came after three whole days of ghosting. And somehow, I still found it beautiful. Tragic. Like a Shakespearean romance, if Shakespeare had WhatsApp and commitment issues.

I fell for you between timestamps. Between the “heyy” and the “I slept off, sorry.” There was something tender about being almost loved. Something addictive about never fully knowing if you liked me, or if I was just a pit stop between your self-discovery and your data plan.

You never sent a picture. Only vibes. No FaceTime. No calls. Just your voice, carrying the weight of unspoken promises and badly suppressed laughter.

I once asked to see you. You said, “soon.” And in that moment, I knew: “soon” was a location only I lived in. You were in maybe. I was in definitely. And we never met in the middle.

And still, I kept those voice notes. All 172 of them. I created a playlist. Called it “delusion with range.” Sometimes I replay them. Not because I miss you. But because I like being lied to in surround sound. There’s comfort in it. Like rewatching a movie where you already know the main character dies, but you keep hoping this time, they’ll live.

I don’t think you meant to be cruel. I think you meant to be casual. And I mistook that for intimacy.

Anyway, thank you. For every half-truth spoken like a lullaby. For every “let’s see how it goes” that led nowhere. For teaching me that sometimes, the most deafening silence comes after a voice note that ends with “talk soon.”

Spoiler: we never did.

Know that you are loved

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

When you see someone you fancy, you may feel a flutter in your stomach, often described as “butterflies.” But why butterflies? Why not moths? Or a mild swarm of tax-evading bees?

Science, which is like feelings but in a lab coat, says the butterflies are caused by adrenaline, a chemical your body releases when it thinks it’s about to be eaten, fall in love, or reply to a “hey” text after two years. So essentially, falling in love feels like running from a bear in a nice shirt.

I remember the first time I felt butterflies. I was twelve, and Daniel from church smiled at me during hymn 302. It was either love or the goat meat from the night before. Either way, I threw up in the offering basket.

Some people chase butterflies for years, hoping to capture the rare Monarch, handsome, emotionally intelligent, and vaccinated. Others settle for the caterpillar, undercooked, emotionally unavailable, but he sometimes brings suya.

But here’s the thing: feelings are not insects. You can’t swat them away or trap them in a jar. And if you try, you’ll look unhinged at weddings.

Love, real love, isn’t about the flutter. It’s about what comes after. The stillness. The odd joy of watching someone eat badly boiled yam and thinking, “Yes, I could do this forever.”

So when you feel those butterflies, don’t panic. You’re not dying (unless you are, in which case seek help). You’re just a human. A big nervous human. Trying to be brave with your heart.

Know that you are loved.

Sigur Loves You🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Astrology, they say, is the ancient art of blaming the planets for your emotional instability. It began in Babylon or maybe was coined by santi, no one really knows. What we do know is that star signs now determine everything from who you should date to why you cry every Tuesday.

You’re a Virgo. Probably. Unless you’re not. But if you are, then according to 97 TikTok astrologers and one girl named Zara who sells crystals out of her car boot, you’re “grounded, analytical, and emotionally constipated.”

I, on the other hand, am a Pisces. Which means I cry when pigeons walk too slowly. Together, we’re apparently incompatible, like Coke and Mentos or exes who still share Netflix.

But here’s the thing they never tell you in horoscopes: love isn’t about alignment, it’s about delusion. Not the dangerous kind. The kind that makes you believe someone chewing loudly is still worthy of affection. That’s the real miracle, not Venus in retrograde, but patience in the face of someone saying “I don’t believe in birthdays.”

I once dated a Sagittarius. The apps said we were a 90% match. They also said he’d be emotionally honest. He was not. He did, however, own three gym shirts and a strong opinion about The Matrix. He was also capable of punching people during a marvel movie if they coughed. We lasted six weeks. Two of those were silent.

So, no. I don’t believe the stars always know best. If they did, Mercury wouldn’t keep reversing like a keke with a broken side mirror.

What I do believe is this: even if the planets think we’re doomed, I’d still choose you. Every time. Not because you’re a Virgo, but because when you laughed, it made my spine feel like warm bread. And not even Saturn can explain that.

So whether your moon is rising, your chakras are drunk or you enter the avatar state in 5 star restaurants, remember this:

Know that you are loved.

Sigur Loves you🕊️

Subscribe now

Leave a comment