Asymptote

Asymptote is a mathematical term relating to analytic geometry. It’s a heavy, technical word that alienates a lot of people, especially when you read its ‘simplest’ definition for the first time. An asymptote is when the curved line of a graph continually approaches a straight line without meeting within a finite distance. The language hides a lot from us. It hides its beauty, its majesty, and just how simple they really are.

On a graph, it is just two lines: one straight, the other curved. The two lines meet and run alongside each other into an endless horizon without ever touching. At their closest distance to one another, the two lines are a hair’s breadth away, but still never touch. The academic language hides how wondrous an asymptote is, and how lovely it is to stumble on one.

I was studying my master’s in Statistics at college. There wasn’t much for me to do in the city, so I would spend a lot of time in the library reading the classics and avoiding work. That’s where I met him for the first time—John. I knew of him; we were in the same class. He sat two rows behind me, close to the door.

He tapped at my desk with his finger while I was reading, trying to get my attention without being rude, I guess. John was tall and thin, freckles all over his face, with a mat of red hair. I couldn’t help myself from chuckling a little when I saw him in front of me. He smiled at me awkwardly and pointed to the book on my desk.

“Have you finished?” His voice was calmer than I imagined, and I couldn’t help but listen.

The book was a well-worn copy of The Analytical Statistics of Cascading Systems. I’d read a chapter before putting it down to read a novel. “No,” I blurted. John somehow straightened himself even more before talking again.

“Well, could I borrow it? It’s the last copy, and I need to study.”

I knew that if I gave him the book, I’d never get the work done, so I invited him to sit down with me. He reached out, and I gently placed the book in his hand. Then it was night, and John and I were friends.

We’d often study together like that—randomly meeting in the library and comparing notes. Thanks to him, I was able to get through most of my first and second year without any difficulty. And because of me, he actually met people and had fun.

College was a blur from then on: surviving the parties, classes, exams, failed relationships, booze, drugs, and that time I shaved my head. But John was always there. Even at parties, it wouldn’t be long before the two of us would just spend the whole time talking to each other, arguing over the use of statistics and what came next for us. I’d say we’d end up working together on some problem to help people. And John would just smile at me.

It was the same smile he had at graduation, holding onto his diploma. I saw him across the stadium grounds, thanks to the small miracle that carried us to the final year. He’d bought his robe and hat instead of renting like the rest of us. I asked about it afterwards, half expecting a made-up story about his mother wanting it. But instead, he squared his shoulders, becoming very quiet and intense as he looked at me.

“Because I want something to remember us by. We earned this. Together.” He meant that.

John and I bounced between parties all over campus that night. We couldn’t find a place that fit for us, so we drank and wandered around looking for more booze. It was a mixture of relief and melancholy that night. It’s a hard thing to accept change—especially because of something so simple as the passing of time.

So we drank and got kicked out of every party there was, and when they didn’t want us, we headed to a bar on Main Street. It didn’t want a college crowd, so the drinks were priced for people with jobs. And then there was me and John—sitting in the corner, splitting a beer between the two of us, trying our best not to sink into chairs and fall asleep. The bartenders had tolerated us long enough, giving us the boot around midnight.

While walking back, we sat on a park bench, needing to rest. We didn’t say much to one another, just sitting, enjoying the silence as the ground shifted beneath our feet.

“What do you want to do next?” John said, his eyes not leaving the ground.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. I just want something real.” I felt John sober up as he spoke to me.

“I’ve got this offer to study in England.” He cut himself off and went silent.

“Cool,” I slurred.

“It would be nice if you’d come and see me.” His voice broke.

“Maybe. I’ll see. But I think that’s great.” I turned my head to see John clasping his hands with his head down. I knew that was a lot for him to say. I let him rest before I stood up and started laughing. John looked up at me. He must have thought I was mad when I kept going. Then I felt my feet grow itchy, and I ran home. It took a while, but eventually I heard John's heavy steps following me. He overtook me and let out a wild, freeing scream, surprising both of us. John and I raced home like we were children running away from a bully, screaming that we were free and terrified about what came next.

When we entered the room, we fell into bed together and tried to sleep the rest of the night off. John kept rolling back and forth, never settling. I smirked and watched him until I couldn’t take the weight on my eyes and slept. But in the middle of the night, when things went quiet, I woke up and saw John staring at me. We watched each other for a while, and he seemed nervous. I became so aware of him and his body as we lay there, inches away, feeling his quiet breaths on my lips. John reached his hand up to my cheek, shaking. I whispered to him:

“It’s ok.”

He snapped out of it and turned away from me. I hovered my hand, wanting to touch his back, but stopped myself. The tears came slowly and silently.

In the morning, John left before I woke up. I searched the campus and dorms for him until a friend found me in the hallway of the library, saying I’d just missed him—that he had his bags with him and looked like he was in a hurry. I thanked them and walked to the bookshelf to see it. The well-worn copy of The Analytical Statistics of Cascading Systems was slightly askew from the rest. I picked it up, felt the warmth of his hands on it, and brought it to my lips. I held it there until it went cold.

Some time has passed now, and I think of John a lot. I think of what could have been. I think of what a waste we were. And I see how it was always going to be like this, as John and I were the most desperate of asymptotes.