Not us, though.
One of my favorite authors, John Green, liked to talk about numbers and infinity and how some infinities were bigger than others. Take 0.1, for instance. Then suppose you follow it with 0.11, then 0.111, 0.1111 and so on until you have an infinity of ones. But this isn't as big as the infinity of twos, with 0.2, 0.22, 0.222, 0.2222, and all the rest, each number adding to an infinity twice as big.
I liked to think that we were whole once, years ago--or at least as whole as we could be. Within the wholeness of our selves, we shared a warm, stalwart infinity that would stretch across years, college, careers, marriages, children… We'd remedy our midlife crises with a great big heat-to-heart talk and equally great big quantities of chocolate. I realize now that I was wrong. What we share is not so much infinity as it is infinitesimal, dwindling with every passing week of booked schedules and cancelled dates.
0.1 You play varsity tennis, I do varsity speech.
0.01 The day we're supposed to meet up with old friends, I have plans with my boyfriend.
0.001 I just don't see you at school anymore.
One day, you decide that our infinitesimal is no longer worth the recognition. It has become negligible, no longer a significant figure. Humans may not be inverse functions with asymptotes, but we still have limits that converge on values, except that instead of numbers, those values are usually things like trust, perseverance, and integrity.
So you took our 0.0000001
and rounded down.
From time to time, I still see your face, the flicker of light in your irises, the way you twist your mouth upward into a smile. For a moment I wonder if we are still clinging to that 0.000000001.
But I know better.
We are nothing.
I have other infinities to seek.
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