A Conditional Probability

“You’re one in a million kind of soul.”

Such compliment that wraps it all,

before today.

None of us is a scarce entity, nor exceptional. We could develop a society consisting of 7,500 human beings of our kind, of souls with mutual similarities. “I find a better version of myself in you,” you said, to me, and could be to another 7,499 humans out there—in the case where you happen to be the worst of your kind. Seven point five billions of souls coexist today, and really, one in a million kind of soul won’t be my favorite line of flatteries considering my sophistication in statistics. A million is merely a faux statistic we invent in attempt to emphasize how remarkable someone has become—as if there’s little opportunity for us to meet the other 7,499 people as such.

But there is always such opportunity.

Sometimes given, unanticipatedly.

Just like here, now. And here I am, left alone speculating. Why does the universe drag us into this? Why this rendezvous? Why now, here? Why your pinstripe sweatshirts? Why all obscure movies and historical stories and political issues that brought us into endless midnight talks? Why the yellowish skin of yours, and the fuzzy edges of your thick hair, and the slight freckles under your eyes?

Why a whole lot of these and other things that both of you share in common?

Wouldn’t be my chance of meeting any other person with such qualities,

unless, probably, if I happen to land on

the other side of the Earth.

Which I did, which led me into this, which I regret having said about.

But even if I do, there’s just so little possibility for that person to share a mutual devotion with me; I mean, what are the chances?

And the answer surprises me.

It also surprises me how easily things could fall into time and places, without even us planning, without even a single warning, without asking. No matter how cautiously I’ve been behaving. When calculations do not make perfect sense, yet once I begin to accept that this might be just how cryptically pleasant works of the universe, it becomes particularly conceivable per se.

Let your body sink into me

Like your favorite memory

Like a line of poetry

Or a fucking fit of honesty

You know it saves me to think even for a little while

I owned the set of shoulders that you came to rely on

I hear your voice resembling that guy on the radio as I submerge myself in guilt, as I try to sleep the provoking thoughts about us away.

In case our timing is right

In case you need more from me

Than a bit of advice

Or a tongue full of sympathy

But they reappear—always—with every daybreak, with every crepuscle we endure,

and with all the time in the world that we have.

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