Physics

A very short story about physics and friendship

You always loved your calculations.

 

"It is positively evident," you declared, "that the universe is made of minuscular, vibrating strings."

So, E's, and A's, D's, and G's whirring about inconspicuously are what create the framework of those chocolate eyes?

I never could quite comprehend everything.

 

When I six, and going through that obnoxious stage where kids need constant self-assurance, I asked you if we'd be friends forever. I remember we were making paper handcuff chains. We were playing Pretend Prisoners.

You took your fresh, safety-scissors quality-cut strip of paper and folded it and taped it. It looked like a halo.

You pushed it across the craft table towards me.

Perplexed, maybe it was my frown that cued you to translate your logic.

"It's a Möbius Strip," you claimed. "If we were as small as ants, and walked along it forever, we could go over both sides without touching any boundaries. That is our friendship."

 

One day, we were eating Chinese takeout together at one of your messy glass tables. After mocking our fortunes from our cookies, I asked you if you had a lucky number. You then went into a tyrannical rant about the futility of such superstitions.

"But, if you had a lucky number," I persisted, "What would it be?"

After much nag and badger, you told me it would be Pi.

I explained how irrational that was of you, to choose one that never ended.

You laughed, and told me I was correct.

"But don't you want the stability of one single digit?" I continued. "Something small, that you can squeeze in your palm? Something that helps connect you to the definity of the unknown?"

You laughed again, and told me that ‘definity’ wasn't a word.

 

The day you were diagnosed, you had your first bottle of wine. I remember how red your eyes were. Chocolate-cherry flavored. I remember how my heart dropped when I realized how wasted you were. I remember when you started yelling and cursing about the meaningless of life, the meaningless of your life. How the impact of humanity on the universe was so low it was basically zero. How we are on the verge of an oblivion in which everything ceases to exist, and there's nothing we can do about it.

You and I cried for the first time that night.

I guess even child physicists break.

 

The next day during your hangover, I asked you The Question.

"How much time do you have left?

You paused, your lips creeping into a faint smile. "Most people don't realize that time has a definite end. I can't predict how much time I have left because it could stop before I finish this sentence."

"Time will stop when you die," I whispered. You never heard.

 

I always used to stay with you during your chemotherapy, even when it was gross. I guess I just missed you.

Once, during a particularly hard session, you turned to me and spouted the oddest rumination. "I wish we could still play-pretend that we're prisoners."

I thought you were just confused from the current physical exertion, so I went with it. "We still can, if you want to."

"No," you told me. "I can't pretend I'm a prisoner anymore. I am one."

 

You always loved your calculations.

On your deathbed you told me that you couldn't wait to meet Einstein in heaven.

"I thought you were an atheist," I remarked, confused.

"Yes," you replied. "A hopeful one."

 

I could feel my gears winding down. A sudden sense of anguish overtook my machinery, and I felt heavier than a black hole. "I-I'm going to miss you."

You smiled sadly at me. "Not everything is infinite. I'm afraid parts of me won't last quite as long as my lucky number."

I blinked back tears.

"You once asked me if I craved the stability of a single digit," you continued. "Unfortunately, these single digits you speak of really aren't single at all. They are dragged down by an infinity of zeroes behind their decimal. No one, nothing is truly stable and ending. That's why infinity is a word, and definity isn't."

"But you said that time is definite, our lives are definite," I declaratively questioned.

"Yes, I did say that. I believe was wrong. We might stop breathing, and time might stop ticking, but the memories and traces, the universe remains. That is immortality. That is infinity."

We sat there in silence for a long while. Eventually, I left.

I knew that he had too.

On my way out of that wretched hospital room, I looked back once.

I could clearly see his Möbius Strip Halo above those closed, chocolate eyes.

Somehow, time went on.

Reviews

[MrRobato]

I don't really understand it but I like it.

[Clippedredwings]

Well, thank you. I'm apologize if I didn't get my point across.

[MrRobato]

That's okay I enjoyed it anyway :)

[Clippedredwings]

Great, thank you :D