Two. There are two types of infinities:
The grand ones— those that have transcended the test of distance and time and matters of consequence.
And the smaller ones— those that fizzed out through the distance; that faded away with the passing of time; that didn’t survive the consequences of the matter.
Once, I remember thanking you for an infinity so small, it comfortably suited its whole self at the back of a postcard, before time, distance and matters of consequences ate the story alive.
My iPhone remembers you. It predictively displays your name on my search bar, rendering any attempts of moving-the-hell-on, on my part, useless.
It is as if its algorithm is somehow hardwired to the chaos of my pulse; a lie detector test of sorts.
For example, at “I do not love you,” it bleeps.
No, it blares. Like emergency ambulance, forest fire, intruder alert blaring— it can be fatal to not own up—
I love you.
I still write you messages, then hit backspace once I feel I have purged enough emotions for the day. Or night. Nights, mostly — When everything else is silent and what is left to hear is the thunder of all that I pretend I haven’t trapped within.
My fingers knowingly type up your username on platforms where you could be stalked incognito. Even on days when I do not intend to.
You have to understand: My reflexes may be overriding what this (mind) and this (heart) could not agree on.
I wish I can write us a novel: 500 pages of a slow beginning, an epic end, and a handful of magic/tragic moments in between—
But no, because our infinity had been so short, it could fit in a single tweet. And I’ve always wondered if length has anything to do with what the world would count as being just as real and as immobilising and as life-changing.
I’ve always wondered if we ever counted. I still do.