I Hope We Never Meet

It’s easier to dance with you from afar

Yve Spengler

“You’ve changed,” he told me, looking into my eyes as if for the first time. I watched the bridge of what we’d built collapse into rubble. His words carried a sting—but even then I couldn’t feel hurt the way he wanted me to. I knew the foundation of who I was had not changed. If anything, time had allowed him to see who I was more clearly, and it was the shattered mirage of who he thought I was that left the air thick with its debris. 

We started out sharing the deepest parts of ourselves with each other, sheltered in the warm air of his car. We said “I love you” on the plastic playground in his backyard, and I felt certain it was love because of the way I adored every detail about him, like how after basketball games the hair on the back of his neck curled, or how I always knew he was stressed because he’d go to bed early. Somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing when reality faded in lieu of the collective vision we thought we shared. 

“You’re in my English class, right?” Summer began the same time we ended, and I had spent its long sunny days in unescapable grief. By the time September arrived, I finally felt ready to meet new faces. She asked me about our Shakespeare class as we filed into the dining hall. I couldn’t help but crave the way her eyes looked directly into mine. It wasn’t a gaze of love, but of really seeing who I was despite the flaws she’d encounter. Worried that I wasn’t someone worth seeing, I looked nervously to the fluorescent lights in the ceiling before timidly returning her gaze. Semi-blinded from the light, I asked, “do you want to sit with us?” 

I was allured to an existence outside of the boundaries of who someone thought I was. Subconsciously, I began to create my own definition of who she was to me—safety. We danced. I believed if I closed my eyes to the dizzying music, she would still be there to lead me through the steps. We got close but as my heavy lids fell, the song came abruptly to a stop. I widened my eyes, determined to resolutely meet her gaze this time. But she was already untangling away from me—as if, to her, our meeting was accidental. It turned out I had wanted more from her than she could bear. I was left dancing alone. 

Maybe it’s happened to you—the first time you meet someone and everything just clicks. You were made to make sense to each other. The Universe had been holding out on your crossing until the perfect moment, until your lives could finally unfold in tandem. You envision a future where you hold hands in the brisk autumn air, the stars shining approvingly upon you. Without a doubt, you are each other’s people. You decide to choose each other day in and day out for the rest of your lives.

This dream only lasts as long as the sun doesn't rise to shed its light on the harsh actuality that this person is not the one for you. You can spend years together until everything changes the moment they realize you aren’t a fit anymore. Maybe, you never were. You had once been inseparable, but now you do anything to get away from the haunting idea of what once was—of what will never be. 

You hold onto the fantasy of past and future love even after it fades, like a lifeboat in the most turbulent of storms. The smallest, most unforeseen current knocks this love out of your hands, forcing you to confront the truth. This whole time, the lifeboat was only a piece of driftwood. So you dream again, gathering more wood, thinking the next raft will be fashioned better. This time, you have more knowledge to create with because you know what to look for. 

But you are still drowning. You cannot make a boat out of a few stray pieces of wood. The expectations we turn to for comfort will perpetually leave us gasping for air. So I hope we never meet, because at a distance the horizon mirrors an infinite future where we sail safely to the other side. I hope we never meet, because up close, I’m afraid your image of me will shatter and the music will stop. I hope we never meet, because I’m starting to get good at dancing alone.