Entangled

Physics gives us a metaphor: two particles once meeting, their histories carried forward even across a widening dark. Not lovers. Not prophecy. Still, the image stays with me.

One life touches another, and neither returns unchanged. A word becomes a habit. A laugh returns in an empty room. A song crosses years without asking permission.

Isn’t that something like us? Not ancient frequencies destined to remain in tune, but two people who met deeply enough to leave a resonance.

This is not a rope. It cannot bind you to me. It is a pulse of memory, a recognition that rises and passes through.

If one day you forget me, I will not call it betrayal. Love changes shape. It disperses into gestures, into what we learned to notice, into the courage we carried away.

And when I turn toward the night, I will not ask the galaxies for proof. I will remember the ordinary miracle: for a while, across all that distance, we found each other.

Perhaps that is enough. Not a law of reality, not a promise beyond time, but a true meeting whose echo still moves in me.