“You think there’s a place where we met before we actually did?” he asked, intrigued.

“I do. I also like the thought of a version of us meeting just now, for the first time.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Feeling everything for the first time. It’s fun to think about.”

“But then…there’s a version where we haven’t met?”

“Sure.”

“And never will?”

It was so cute how that thought seemed to bother him.

“Actually, there isn’t because we’ve already met.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Now, right here, in this reality, we’ve already met. String theory doesn’t allow for that sort of paradox.”

“So…if we’ve already met, it means infinite versions of us are out there, right now, meeting for the first time?”

“Or already knowing each other for years. Yes.”

“That’s so cool,” he said, impressed.

“I think so.”

“What else? What about fate?”

“Not too sure on that one, although I like the red string of fate.”

“What’s that?”

“Red string of fate? The Japanese legend? You’ve never heard of it?”

He shook his head.

“It says that everyone has a red string attached on the tip of their finger. This string is invisible, imperishable, and unbreakable. It can bend, get matted, stretch itself infinitely—but never break.” I shook my head. “On the other end of these strings, are the people we’re supposed to meet in our lives, the people we’re meant to share our deepest connections with. Romantic, platonic, it doesn’t matter. It can be attached to someone you’ll come to call your best friend, a lover, or even a random stranger you meet for a flicker of a second but can’t understand why you seem to know them so well, you know? It’s just this simple thing—a string that connects you to all those people who will somehow make your life…more.”

“That’s really awesome,” he said and took a sip of wine.

“It’s a lovely legend.” I handed him back the blunt.

“So…do we have those?”

“Everybody has them.”

“But are we connected? You and me?”

For the first time, I was the one with all the certainty.

“Absolutely.”

*

“The rain stopped,” Ethan said as we lay in bed next to each other a few hours after having lunch.

He was on his back with one arm over his head, under his pillow; I was on my stomach, almost falling asleep again.

“What time do you have to be home?” he asked.

“Um—Five-ish?” I mumbled.

“Five?” He turned to me. “It’s almost four thirty,” he said, clearly disillusioned.

“Shit.” I was suddenly alert.

“Can I at least walk you home?”

“You don’t have to walk me home.”

“But it’s not enough,” he said.

“What isn’t?”

“This. You. Here.”

“Good,” I said, smiling. “’Cause I don’t want it to be enough.”

“What about…more?”