Your Constantly Colliding Realities

As you sat there on that bench your words just seemed stuck in your throat. The language was trapped in an equilibrium between thought and spoken word. It was the fear that trapped you. If you said those words then they’d be out in the world, they’d be truth readily available for all to hear. And it was there, on that bench that you thought about what got you to this moment. To this point where all other points split from, where all realities are shaped and formed.

The way you figure it, homecoming Freshman year was where the realities started. Where the splits began to form, the decisions began to branch. You remember that night vividly. You had gone with some teammates wearing the only formal clothes you owned. You remember that she went by herself, dressed in that deep ocean blue dress. And though that night you two didn’t dance, even though you two didn’t even talk for whatever stupid reason, it was her you were looking at that night. 

That night is where you saw the first split in your realities. What would have happened if you had asked her to dance? What would have happened if you had just gone over to her to say ‘Hey’? 

You two didn’t talk even after that night, that was your second split. You sat across the classroom from her in math and wouldn’t say anything, but every so often your eyes would meet. A split second glance into the reality that could have been. The reality of Freshman year that you rejected that night at the dance.

It took a whole year for your realties to come together again. Sophomore year you two sat next to each other in English, and it was the teacher that made your realities meet. It was so great just to have them come together. You two talked that class about the book, that was all. Truth be told you can’t even remember which book it was. You were just so happy to finally have talked to her.

It stayed like that Sophomore year. Your conversations revolved around what you two were reading. You always wondered what it would have been like to have talked about other things. Your goals, your passions, your dreams. That was the third split. 

Junior year you two didn’t have any classes together and your realities wouldn’t come together again until Prom that year. You had asked some girl who had hung around in your circle. Though as you danced with your date that night, you couldn’t help but look at her. And especially her dancing with her date, who was just a friend you would later discover. It was that moment that you saw one of the realities you craved to be in. The one where you were the one she was dancing with. The one where you would look at her staring up at you as you two danced together. You weren’t though. You were in this reality, dancing with someone you’d probably never go on another date with. Wanting to be with her, but being too scared to date her. For what? Some stupid high school social structure? Because some sub-divine acned entity named you one of the popular ones and not her?

That was the summer that you two talked, truly talked. Not about school, but actual things. It was the book store that finally brought your realities together in a way you had dreamt, talking in between ringing up customer’s books. That’s where you told each other about your passions and ideas. That’s where she told you about butterfly theory and all the constantly splitting realities. That’s where you told her that you love to write.

“Well you’re in luck. I happen to love to read,” she said.

After you two closed the shop everyday you’d sit in the parking lot and she’d read what you wrote off of your phone. You remember how anxious you always were watching her read your stories, your poems, your soul. She always looked as if she were examining it, pondering each word you’d placed down, drinking it all in. It was because of those moments in the parking lot that you asked her out on your first date. 

Your first date you two went to an art museum. You remember walking amongst the collections of painted canvas and holding her hand as she guided you. You remember your first kiss. The anxious pull of your stomach and that beautiful moment of waiting, then the comfort and familiarity when your lips met. It was electric, the feelings and the passions more intense than anything you’ve ever felt before. You were in the reality you had wanted to be in for so long, until summer ended. That was the fourth split. What you thought would be the final split.

You were so stupid, believing in this higher order of high school popularity. You cared too much about what your friends thought of you. You broke up with her, and you couldn’t have wanted to have been in another reality more than in that moment. You wished for the reality where you hadn’t done what you did, but it didn’t matter. You were in this reality.

For a time you just retracted into yourself, focused on applying to colleges and getting the scholarships necessary to attend them. You got into UCLA and after getting your acceptance letter you dove into finding ways in which you could afford to go there. That’s where you found the poetry scholarship. And you don’t know if it was fate, or destiny, but for some reason your realities always come together, because you two would be going to the same school for another four years. So that’s what you wrote about your constantly colliding realities, and that’s how you got the scholarship.

So this is the moment where your realities meet once again, where you saw her on a campus bench reading. Where she looked up and saw you. Where you two talked for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. She invited you to sit next to her and you did. She told you that she had read your poem in the school newspaper. She told you how she felt about the last time your realities split. 

You apologized and told her about everything. About the moments where your realities split and where you wished things had gone differently. And the last thing to come out of your mouth stopped, and became lodged in your throat. She looked at you with that same pondering look she had when she was reading your writing, when she was reading your soul put into words and typed out into paragraphs and pages. 

Why couldn’t you just say it? It was three words to sum up the entirety of your feelings for her. Three syllables that could easily slip off your tongue in any other circumstance. Three syllables you had almost said to her during your summer together. Three syllables, that if not said, could create once again another split in your realities. One final split between what was and what could have been. Why was it so hard for you to say them? Was it worse to say them and worry about what happened or keep them lodged in your throat and wonder what could have been?

You decided once and for all to end the splitting. End the worrying about what could’ve been. End the regret you had always felt for not joining your realities from the very beginning. There, on that bench, you said the three words to end the splitting. To end the regretting. In a broken voice the words un-lodged.

“I love you.”