March 29, 2024

Graphic by Jane Hao  

We became more one than three – the ultimate nuclear weapon.


There is a power of three in love, art, and war.

The Triangle Method infatuates any fool.
The Rule of Thirds satisfies the eye.
The nuclear triad deters humanity’s demise.

Thirds tickle the human mind — they satiate our need for balance.

My life’s trifecta is a classic trio: three girls. The perfect weapon.

There’s a synchronicity to our every move, sharing in our little mighties and miseries. We are socialized so exclusively to each other that everyone else is on the outside, looking in. Existing together is our nature before existing alone.

We’re only driven MAD by those we care enough to let in. Maybe that is the difference between a brief connection and one lifelong; clashing and still choosing them despite it. Between the three of us is a yeller, a downer, and a taunter; each of us is flawed, yet cohesive. There’s a catharsis in being close enough to contend. Closeness is comfort in silence, in the candid, in conflict.

When her mind is ablaze with everything, everywhere, all at once, she snaps. The ballistic missile: everyone is a prime target once the button is pressed. Winding up for launch, the missile hisses and screeches near light speed. Yet, sometimes, detonation is a false alarm. Crisis is averted on the comedown as she softens and finds quick forgiveness in those familiar with her mind. The outburst stings for a moment, but we realize she never meant it looking into those sorry, crescent eyes. In her high reactivity is the highest energy; she is bright, glowing, alive — an infectious essence impossible not to adore.

She is the homebody among us, the daughter of the dark side of the moon. Her social battery is always halfway charged —  something about public spaces and many faces twists her chest. It’s not asking because we already know she won’t want to go, and being happy to stay in, our walls shut tight. Only then does her nuclear reactor whirr to life, razor sharp. In her element, we discover depth and vivacity; she is a privilege to witness. We never feel that we’re missing out, because our small world is more pleasant anyway. The submarine, unseen under the surface, is a quiet superpower.

Wishing the best becomes a sort of self-righteousness. Pressing, nagging, advising, not knowing when to stop. The air bomber flying overhead, its blaring engine silencing those below as they held their breath; exasperating, precise. Criticizing where it hurts and thinking that if you just remind them enough, they’ll break their bad habits. Maybe all they really need is to forget themselves, the way we all do.

Sometimes, we’re an explosion waiting to happen. But what else should the connection between imperfect beings be? In struggle, all our flaws take the stage. In peace, we fall back into place: the mushroom cloud that settles from the death of the warhead.

Sincerity neutralizes the instability. That’s all it’s taken to create something real, a process you don’t realize is happening till suddenly it’s been ten years, and you still can’t imagine getting sick of each other. A balanced dynamic — three powers elevated in a union that brings them back down to earth all at once.

There are enemies to the nuclear order, trying to release the atomic disaster. Distance, change, boys, and white lies. Futures and plans across state lines.

They only amuse us. We’ll resist all odds before falling apart. Tamper with the Triad, and the whole world caves in alongside it.


People don’t change. Not much. We cannot evade how we’re wired in this nuclear game of cat-and-mouse.

Do you love who they are, who they’ve always been, who they’ll always be?

I do.

This cultural wave of self-love screams choose yourself, walk away, and don’t let anyone burden you.

Aren't there some things bigger than ourselves?

Graphic by Jane Hao  

My trifecta. Three girls. The perfect weapon to face reality.

Somewhere along the way of raising each other, from each world-building conversation in our bunk beds to our cars, we became one more than three. We tuned our minds together in tandem, and conversing became thinking aloud. It was meditative, rotting side by side in bed, arms linked, gazing up at our bedroom ceiling like it was the sky, talking and talking deep into the hours of dawn, realizing we were the only three people in the world who would ever really understand each other.

I’ll bear your burdens till our deterrence fails, scorching the very ends of the earth. We’ll hold hands like we always do, bask in good company, laugh incessantly at the burning sunset and nuclear shower of exploding stars. As long as we are three, we’ll be okay. Hellfire cannot touch the Trinity. ■  

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