parallel devastation // string theory

this universe—this one right here—
is the universe where everything fell apart.

it’s the one where each choice
felt small in the moment
but shifted entire lifetimes.

this universe is where we let go,
thinking we’d find our way back,
but never did.

it’s the one where one night
would break us forever.

this is the universe
where you drown
in someone else’s chaos
because it was easier
than facing ours.

in this universe,
i lost our fate—
alone in a room,
crying so hard
i couldn’t breathe,
wondering why the universe
would hurt me like this.

why it would give our future
to someone else.

in this universe,
i married the first man
who promised to stay,
even though he was the one
i should’ve run from.

the universe laughed cruelly
as the bruises bloomed
and the bills piled up,
and i learned how to survive
holding a newborn in one hand
and court papers in the other.

in this universe,
we became strangers
ten minutes apart,
living these parallel devastations—

me, raising a child alone;
you, barely knowing yours;

us, drowning separately
in versions of lives
we swore we’d never live.

… … … … … … … … … …

but in another universe—
one just next to this one—
it was our child.

the test turned positive.
you held my shaking hands,
kissed my forehead,
and said, okay, we’ve got this.

the world didn’t suddenly get easier.
we still argued.
you still pulled away sometimes.
i still spiraled quietly at night
when the dishes were still in the sink
and the future felt too far to touch.

but it was ours.
we fought for it.
we showed up.
we did what we could
with what we had.

and eventually—
inevitably—
everything still fell apart.

the weight of our histories
was too heavy to carry
in one crib.

the love didn’t vanish—
it just stretched too thin
between feedings and forgiveness,
resentments we couldn’t name
and wounds we’d never stitched.

and so we split.
quietly.
softly.
no war.
just the ache of knowing
we had become a memory
while still standing in the same room.

but even in that universe,
even after everything collapsed—

you never hit me.
not once.

you never abandoned us.
you still felt like home.

you came to her recitals.
you picked her up when she got sick.
you still looked at me
like i was someone you’d once prayed for.

and when i was too tired to be strong,
you carried her up the stairs
without saying a word.

we weren’t lovers anymore.
but we were something deeper.
something more enduring.

two people bound
by a little girl
and a kind of love
that didn’t need a label
to be sacred.

and that—
that was our worst case scenario
in that universe—

and it was still
the most gorgeous thing
i’ve ever witnessed.