In a universe parallel to this one, you and I stay up some nights, holding hands in bed, worrying about all the versions of ourselves that donât end up together. Parallel You says, âSomewhere we never even kiss.â Parallel Me says, âSomewhere we never even touch.â Parallel You supposes that the universe in which we never cross paths must be a kinder one than the universe where we make the effort to love each other and fail at it so miserably that we part ways and never speak again. Parallel Me says, âThat universe doesnât exist.â Parallel You says, âThatâs not how this works.â
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