israel Centeno
You met me on February fourteenth. I met you the next day—or at least that’s what I remember. There’s always a delay in my awareness, a lag in my perception, as if recognition itself requires a second revolution around the sun.
Since then, we’ve been caught in the loop. No beginning, no end. Just the endless tracing of this eight-shaped orbit, our bodies sketching the geometry of infinity. Was it destiny that bound our hands, or did some unseen quantum field entwine our energies, collapsing probability into inevitability?
Sometimes I think we exist beyond time, caught in a singularity where past and future tangle like threads in a fraying rope. Other times, I wonder if we were nothing more than an anomaly—a heart skipping a beat, an extrasystole in the fabric of space-time, lasting only a breath before the universe corrected itself.
But then, just as I convince myself it was all an illusion, I find you again, standing at the next curve of the loop. The moment unfolds precisely as before: your gaze catching mine, the flicker of recognition delayed by a fraction of a second. And I know—whether by fate or physics, love or error—we will draw this shape forever.
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