I sat across from her over tea. The steam sneaking up towards the roof, a shroud of disguise for us both.
I couldn’t tell what she was thinking; and she wasn’t able to muster her thoughts into words.
We would always be like this, I concluded. A distance more terrible and miserable than miles and oceans combined.
Distressed, I shifted into my chair. When did we become this? Or is this how we had always been?
In the end, you tend to think about the beginning a lot.
And so the start is where we end.
“Time heals everything.” She managed to say softly across the table, her light ember eyes burning into mine.
It caught me off guard, still unabashedly astray in my own labyrinth of reflections.
That moment defined my heart. And I knew it instantly then — I could never be in love with someone who believes time is the great doctor of wounds. That all healing would pass with the motion of a second hand, on a mechanism that measures in circles. Because isn’t that ironic? Even time seems to end where it begins. Maybe it was time that would destroy us.
Sardonically, I contested with, “Only love can do that.”
We both laughed — feverishly hard. It was the epitome to our dual-sided relationship.
Heart deep, both romantics searching for the adventure of a lifetime — both too scared to be optimistic about an intangible force, so we feigned cynicism. Perhaps this was the reason we could never really work out, I knew — I wonder if she did, too.
My mind too wrapped up in the now, and her heart too obsessed with the future — a time and place that is yet to exist. And I didn’t do well with superfluous imaginations — at least, not ones of my own. We wanted separate things, and so our futures would undeniably find us separated.
And so I did the one thing I’ve only had to do once before.
I chose me — and time would not change that.