I’ve convinced myself that I’ve discovered the secret to time travel. The past and present are two lines that intersect at a certain point in a plane whose conditions are dictated by so many variables that its existence is almost, but not quite, impossible. I’m thinking of the last time we saw each other, the day we spent sitting on my car and when you jumped off and stood up you rubbed your eyes, talking about the silver spots that were flying across your vision.
If I can remember every detail properly, if I drive back to that exact spot at the right time of day, wearing the same clothes and binding my hair up in the same way, listening to the same song and blinking in the same rhythm, breathing at the same shallow pace and thinking the same stupid thoughts I did that day, I’ll manipulate every variable and reach that point in time again, and I’ll open my eyes and see you there next to me, rubbing your eyes with your thumbs. From the point I occupy now, I’ll go zooming backwards, we all will, past that fateful day where you’ll open your eyes and stand up, seal your wrists with a pair of kitchen scissors, put them back in your drawer and unwrite your last note. You’ll go to my house and put your arms around my brother and walk backwards up the stairs to the door of my room. I close my eyes and imagine it all, your hair flying out of your face in the wind and me turning towards you instead of away, the night where you’ll meet my brother, the first time I see you. I’ve discovered time travel, Laura, and I’m going to take you back to the place we all felt safe.
I know I talk a lot about never knowing what to say with you, but I know it’s my fault. It wasn’t about you, it was about my fear, I wish I hadn’t been so scared. All the times you looked down and said you weren’t doing so good, I wish I’d been brave enough to say what I should have. That I wasn’t either. Maybe that would have saved you.