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Perhaps, if we were to believe in science and fiction, there are indeed other universes. And that, along with the belief of these other universes, there are infinite possibilities. And that, within these possibilities, there is one where we met and where we didn't. Perhaps, in another universe, where we weren't supposed to meet the way we did, our lines barely intersecting, oblivious of the great love that did not even remotely cross paths, we could have lived happily just the same. Perhaps.

But then, there would also be a universe wherein we met, but only tangentially so, and not bringing us to the road that led us to this. Maybe, in another timeline, we would have met in class, we would have laughed at the same jokes and shared the same umbrella one rainy afternoon. Maybe we would have had the chance to talk about music, and we would've known that we both liked The Cure, that I adored Deftones, that you loved Led Zeppelin. Then we would've gone our separate ways just the same, and that would have been that. Or maybe, in yet another dimension, for some reason or another - a butterfly landing on a different leaf, or the wind blowing south instead of east - we did not meet the people whose hearts we will break. Regardless, we would have been different people. And when the cosmos finally decided it's time for us to meet again, it would not have worked, for I have not been bruised, and you, not jaded.

And the thing is, the thought of that universe existing casts a sudden, hollow pain inside my chest, so much more than the thought of one where we never met. For it means we were so close, but not even quite at the point of an almost - that we caught the light but only a flicker, that we circled around the sun but we were facing the moon.

If I can posit one consistent fact across all universes, though, it's that everyone will somehow be touched by some kind of music that reaches deep into our souls. Who wouldn't be? I can feel it in my bones that the stardust they say we are all made of, this stardust kneels down to song. It recognizes music as a higher, supreme being. And I am quite sure, by the way the nerves down my spine tingle to the opening riffs of some truly outstanding ballads, that there is no variant of me existing elsewhere that has not at all found my way to great music, those whose lyrics resound, and whose melodies affirm.

I say this because at this very moment, as I listen to the Beatles' Revolver, all I can think of is how beautiful it is to stumble upon songs that can transcend time and space, sound and light, fiction and non-fiction, infinities upon infinities; but then also, I think to myself, what a travesty it is, how cruel, how tragic for me to have stumbled upon Here, There, and Everywhere in the same timeline where I met you only briefly, barely; to sing its every word by heart, and not have a love like ours punctuate the chorus.