The first time we met, we stared into each other’s eyes for a full twenty seconds before we said a word. In two years’ time we will stare into each other’s eyes and have too many words, too few. I will not know the depth of what you have experienced. I don’t know that girl’s name. I won’t want to. I won’t want to know what happened. Every experience is its own, and I must not feel like I am any less.
You were there when he tried to hold my hand. You witnessed the different stages, sat with me in the end. You won’t want to know, either. You walked away when I tried to tell you. You won’t need to know. I have found that these recounts do nothing good for the other.
When I was young I had a fanciful dream that I would marry the first guy I liked. I was nine then. Every night, once I got to bed, I imagined that there was a telepathic connection like a shiny telephone line that connected me in my room to him in his. That ship has sailed, and other experiences have been branded into our skins. We will stare into each other’s eyes and only be able to glimpse the depths, and that’s okay. Each is infinite, and the final one is none the lesser. You will be infinitely special in your own right, and I to you.