If I were a popcorn kernel, I’d want to be one of that rebellious bunch that refuses to pop, staying stubbornly at the bottom of the pot. The kind that turns the end of the bucket into a philosophical quandary about the exact moment, the perfect timing when things are supposed to happen but get ruined by impatience.

If I were a popcorn kernel, I’d want to be part of that group, and even more defiant—the kind that wouldn’t even toast enough to get shattered into bits by the jaw of some restless moviegoer who can’t watch a film without munching. And more than that, I’d want to be so tough that I wouldn’t just lodge myself into a molar but also crack one of those deep, dark fillings of the unsuspecting snacker.

But alas, I’m none of that.

Because if I were a popcorn kernel, I’d probably be one of those late bloomers that explodes at the very end, launching from the pressure but never reaching the lid of the pot. Instead, I’d land at the bottom, wedged under the rest, insulating the heat for everyone piled above me, stoically bearing the weight of the world like a colossal Atlas.

I’d burn alongside the others as a warning to the cook that they’re about to mess up and should turn off the heat before the whole house fills with smoke. A life of sacrifice and service that, in the end, leads to the same demise as all the others—without any reward.

If I were a popcorn kernel, my story would only be witnessed by the unpopped one, the hard kernel that gets spat out with a wad of saliva, clinging to a chunk of amalgam.