Maybe in Another Life

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

We look at each other, neither one of us breaking the gaze. His eyes are on me, focused on my eyes, as if I am the only other person in the world.

“I know what it means to miss you,” he says. The light turns green, and he speeds down the boulevard. “So you’ll have to find a pretty insurmountable problem if I’m going to let you go again.”

The way she says the word moron makes me feel more loved than I’ve felt in a long time. She says it as if I’d be a complete idiot to think I was ever alone. And to know that the idea is absolutely absurd to her, to know that it’s so far-fetched as to make me a moron, it’s a nice feeling.

You can’t change just one part, can you? When you sit there and wish things had happened differently, you can’t just wish away the bad stuff. You have to think about all the good stuff you might lose, too. Better just to stay in the now and focus on what you can do better in the future.

“And my heart breaks for every single version of me that didn’t end up with you.”