In one universe, she’s married.
An adorable daughter.
A man who makes her laugh without trying.
She hugs me goodbye at the airport.
I say, “Take care.”
Because what else do you say
when the life you want already belongs to someone else?
—
In another, she’s just a friend.
The kind who talks about something funny she experienced that day.
Her messages are sunlight and gravity.
I reread them just to feel something.
She calls me thoughtful.
Sweet.
She doesn’t hear the quiet way I break
between her sentences.
Always listening
for the version where she loves me back.
Sometimes, she calls me “dude.”
And sometimes, she doesn’t.
And I pretend that means something.
—
In one reality, we met in a bookstore.
She was reading a collection of John Keats’ poems.
She didn’t know who I was.
I made her laugh.
She said, “You’re something.”
Then she left with someone who wasn’t me.
And I stood there, holding a smile
like a receipt for something I never got to keep.
—
There was a version where we almost made it.
She told me she loved me.
For one week, I wasn’t pretending.
I was just… me.
Whole.
Weightless.
Like my soul finally fit.
Then she left.
Said the world wouldn’t allow it.
That loving me in the shadows wasn’t enough.
I didn’t argue.
Because I knew she was right.
But God, I wish she hadn’t been.
—
And once, just once, she looked at me
like I was the version she’d been waiting for.
But the moment passed,
like a train that forgot to stop.
—
Yesterday, I woke up in a universe where she doesn’t exist.
Not a name. Not a memory.
Just a silence I’ve carried since I was old enough to feel lonely.
I used to think that loneliness was my natural state.
A fact of life.
A condition.
But now the silence isn’t emptiness.
It’s memory, stripped of shape.
And it sounds like her absence.
—
That’s how it works now.
I wake up somewhere new.
Same day. Every day.
A different reality. A different fate.
And I never know which version of her I’m about to grieve.
Every morning, a new sky.
Same ache.
Same question.
What will it be tomorrow?
Another silence?
Another almost?
Or… just once,
the version where she is mine.
And I remember how to breathe.
—
This morning, the world was still.
Which reality is it today?
I don’t know.
There was a softness in the room,
like the warmth of dawn had already settled in
even though it was still dark.
It was quiet.
And there was light, soft and honest, leaking through the curtains.
The kind that doesn’t demand anything.
The kind that lets you breathe.
And there she was.
Still asleep.
Not a memory. Not a mirage.
Just… here.
Like this had always been her side of the bed.
Her hair a little messy.
Her body tucked under the duvet,
face half-covered.
One arm draped across my chest
like she’d done it a hundred times before.
Like her body already knew
what mine had spent lifetimes searching for.
I didn’t move.
Not because I was afraid to wake her.
But because I didn’t want to break the spell.
—
We made coffee like we always had.
Except we never had.
Not in any of the other realities.
She poured it too fast and spilled a little.
Said, “Oops,” and smiled like the day didn’t need to be fixed.
She could be clumsy sometimes—
one of those things I always adored about her.
I smiled and said, teasing, “Honey…”
“I know, I know…” she laughed, already wiping the counter.
I gave her a playful smack on the butt.
She shot me a cheeky look,
wrapped her arms around me from behind,
and kissed my cheek.
I closed my eyes for a second.
Tried to hold the moment in place
like the still frame of a dream
I wasn’t ready to wake from.
—
We didn’t talk about forever.
Just what to do before noon.
A walk. A film. Maybe that café she likes.
She reached for my hand across the table like it was muscle memory.
Her fingers curled around mine
without hesitation.
No performance. No roles.
Just two hands that remembered where home was.
—
We were supposed to go out for lunch.
But somehow, we ended up here,
wrapped in warmth,
in memory,
in each other.
I kissed her,
not with urgency.
Not to possess.
But like someone
finally allowed to be seen.
Her lips tasted like recognition.
And relief.
She touched me like she was reminding me
that I was real.
And my mouth traced her skin
like I’m trying to memorize the shape of her
without breaking the moment.
She wrapped her legs around me,
pulled me close,
and held on.
She closed her eyes and exhaled gently
like she’d missed me
in a thousand other lives.
At one point, we laughed.
Not at each other. Just… joy.
Joy that somehow, we were here.
“I love you,” she whispered.
I looked into her eyes,
those eyes that always saw through me,
and said,
“I love you. In every universe, I will always love you.”
She didn’t ask what I meant.
She just pressed her forehead to mine
and whispered something that felt like a promise.
—
We made a simple dinner
and watched Perfect Days.
A film about a man who lives the same gentle routine,
day after day.
Cleaning toilets.
Listening to music.
Watching trees move.
It’s the kind of film that makes you feel like silence might be enough.
Like the shape of a life isn’t made from drama or declarations,
but in the way light lands on someone’s face
when they’re not looking.
I used to think that movie was about appreciating the small things.
To slow down.
To pay attention.
But tonight, it felt different.
Tonight, I realised it’s about being present,
not just in the day,
but in finding what it means
to feel alive.
In the way she laughs.
The way her hand fits in mine.
The way her eyes soften when I speak.
That every minute with her
could be the most beautiful thing in the world
if I just let myself feel it.
Maybe the point of life
isn’t to build something permanent,
but to let love be real,
even if it only lasts a day.
Lou Reed’s song played over the end credits:
“Just a perfect day, you made me forget myself
I thought I was someone else, someone good.”
I cried a little at the end.
She turned to me and smiled,
like her heart softened
seeing me that unguarded.
“I’m not crying,” I joked. “My eyes are just sweaty.”
“Sure, tough guy,” she chuckled,
and leaned her head on my shoulder,
squeezing my hand a little tighter.
She teased.
Just to stay close.
Like some part of her knew
without needing to ask
how many universes it had taken
for me to find us here.
—
Somewhere between her brushing her teeth
and me folding the blanket at the edge of the bed,
I felt it…
the static,
the shift,
the quiet way the world begins to close its hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up somewhere else.
And she’ll be gone.
Again.
And I’ll never find this reality again.
—
I didn’t tell her.
Didn’t say goodbye.
I just lay beside her,
her hand resting on my chest,
watching her fall asleep.
I touched her face,
kissed her forehead,
and tried to memorise her scent.
And for a moment,
I let myself believe
this was the version I would get to keep.
The version where she is mine.
Even if only for a day.
Where each moment is endless.
Where love isn’t borrowed.
Where I don’t have to wake up
and lose her all over again.
Even if I already know,
I will.
Featured image adapted from a photo by Etienne Boulanger
See more on Unsplash: @etienneblg
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