I quietly shut the door behind me. I left as quietly as I could. I hope I didn't wake her.
I am of two minds on everything. My own worst devil's advocate. Constantly flip-flopping from happy to self-destructive impulses. I read about quantum theory, psychology, parallel worlds. Where once we had only black holes draining space into a null-point, now we may have white holes surging god knows what into our reality.
It's said that every decision we makes branches off into another timeline, running apart yet alongside another where we chose the opposite. It would explain this sensation of being torn apart, but then again so would a simple case of heartache.
I see both timelines stretched out before me, the defining line being drawn between content stability and nihilistic probability. In one world, we're married, there's children, I write for a living and make mediocre entertainment. In the other, my past is just ashes, I'm lost on backroads on a junked motorcycle, a book of poetic prose on my hip.
I can't see too far beyond that next bend though, unable to fully determine the outcome. I ask my therapist which is most real, as if she could make the decision for me. Only the girl upstairs in bed has that power, and really even that power is only within her because I make it so.
Time and space is breaking apart between us. I think she lies in the positive universe, as I dwell in the negative heart. It feels so beyond my control, though I must own the responsibility of my present situation. My choices, my behavior, led me here. I chose not to be there at her friend's wedding, left here there under the cold night sky.
I made that decision. This is the outcome. Has the die been cast? Time unable to be re-written, no do-overs this time, not with her. I broke the spell, created the schism, forged the rift that left the girl I love on the other side. A sacrifice to self-destruction? Am I doomed to self-fulfilling prophecy?
I don't want to believe. I fight, rebel against the notion that what has been done can not be undone. That cracks can be repaired and all can be made whole once more. But every moment is like puzzle-piecing back together shattered glass, trying to recall how our reflections fit next to one another.
I don't want her to see us like that. But how realistic is untouched shimmering perfection these days? With her calamity jane ways and my cursed bad luck, I don't see how it can be properly mended. And maybe I don't want it to be.
In one of those universes anyway.
In the other, we hold each other, melting and molding around each other, snug, complete, whole.
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