We were sixteen when we promised each other we would never die. The night was warm and cloudless. Backs on the grass, eyes on the stars, we exchanged murmuring vows.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, fresh from the funeral. She spoke in a voice low and intense. She wanted to read all the books, travel to all the nations, meet all the interesting people. She wanted to witness all the world’s wonders, and she wanted to add a few of her own.
And not just that, she whispered, as if to herself, but gesturing at the glimmering heavens above — she wanted to shrug away the heavy earth and plunge into the cosmos. See Saturn. Sail Venus.
Only then would she entertain the idea of dying. Only then might she allow herself to find her soulmate, to thaw her frozen youth. The priests said that senescence — suspended at twenty — would resume only when you found true love. But it was up to us if we sought it, she urged. Death does not give meaning to life. Life gives meaning to life.
Why give it up for such a paltry thing as love?
Years later, after finishing our studies, we moved in together. A new grad’s salary only went so far. It gave us a little breathing room, and we found a new rhythm in our relationship as roommates.
But one morning after I made pancakes and set them down on the table and she made a stupid joke and we laughed and looked into each other’s eyes — we realized, with terrible clarity, that our faces had subtly matured.
I sat down, stunned. She excused herself, went for a walk. When she returned I saw that she had been crying, and she said she wanted to do this. She wanted it to work out. She wanted to see where it went.
I found that I did too.
It was a freak accident, they kept repeating. All I could think of was the stone, nestled in her eye socket like a baby bird. The priests assured me that her soul has returned to the cycle, and one day fate would ensure we met again. It was cold comfort.
There were others in the same situation. Some of them had aged for decades before their loss. They found themselves trapped in half-decayed prisons, now, and soon enough I counted myself lucky it had happened so early in our relationship. I remembered our promise beneath starlight.
I realized, slowly, that her death was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Life was precious, and I had forgotten that for the way she tilted her head when she laughed. Allowing ourselves to love each other had been a mutual suicide attempt. How could I regret surviving?
I repeated her words, said so long ago. Read all the books, travel to all the nations, meet all the interesting people. I had an eternal youth ahead of me, at least until I met her again.
I would meet it with open eyes.
Forty years later, it took a slow month to realize she was back. Once I saw it, it was obvious. The way she brushed her hair from her forehead … idly, I wondered if the priests were right, that it was the same soul reincarnated. That the cosmos had yoked us together, the red string of fate looping around our necks in a mutual noose.
I’d planned it out, but my hands still shook. Her eyes widened. I raised the gun and pulled the trigger. I thought I’d feel tears seep down my cheeks, but the only thing that swept me was utter and overwhelming relief. I had bought myself more time.
I would have to repeat this, one day, and didn’t relish the thought. But I was willing to do what it took to keep our promise.
No matter what.