When I was eighteen, my boyfriend and I made a vow in a gravel-strewn parking lot after a loud, pulsating concert. It was the last show we would ever attend together. We were both leaving for colleges in different states that coming August, and even though neither of us dared to say the words out quiet, we both knew what that distance meant.
So, instead of a heartbreaking goodbye, we made a cinematic teenager’s promise: in twenty years, if we were both still single, we would come back to the exact same band, the exact same city, and find each other in the crowd.
At eighteen, twenty years isn’t a real number. It’s an abstract concept, like infinity or the edge of the universe. We meant it with all our hearts, but by spring, the distance had done its work. Nobody cheated; nobody committed an unforgivable sin. It simply became impossible to bridge two different worlds across hundreds of miles.
