Distances in space are arduous to gauge, ambitious to travel. I don't know which part of the world you're in but it just takes me closing of eyes to reach you.
Not all lovers talk alike. And we talked about the lightest of the stars and the heaviest of the black holes. I loved how you questioned existence. If soulmates exist, do you ever meet them? A moment of silence later, I used to answer in affirmative. I think they cross paths. I loved how we talked about our past lives and our next lives, and this life too. You wanted a mini home-gym. And that was the plan - fairly simple life. I'd make breakfast each day, you'd cook dinner. And on Sundays, we'd stay in - naked, all day long. We'd have a telescope on our terrace and matching tattoos somewhere on our bodies. Like cotton candy clouds suspended in a rose pink sky, our plans - how simple, how rosy, how suspended.
The last September, I reminded you of something. Another plan of ours. You didn't remember and it was so okay. Later that night, I sent a few pictures of mine and told you about the plan B. The gigantic concept of multiverse - a universe of universes. An idea so vast, that all permutations and combinations exist in it. They are all equally likely and they all happen.
I wonder if, in one of the universes, we're still together; we happen. You have no clue, how this hypothetical theory found in the mighty books of physics gives me hope. My last sliver of happiness in this ever-expanding universe. A wormhole between this day and that day.
We'll meet soon. Our lives stretch out beyond us and I just know. If not in this universe, then maybe in some other. But we'll meet soon.