For all of human existence we’ve searched for answers. One of humanity’s enduring traits is the undying quest to understand our place in the universe. To understand . . . why.
At the height of particle physics, where the language of science no longer adequately describes what’s happening, the only thing left is poetry of the soul. It’s this place where many scientists meet God. Every day I see how the universe hangs on a particle’s edge, how one alteration to the laws of nature, a billionth of a billionth of a change, would result in the annihilation of everything. In physics, we understand either we are very, very alone—the result of chaos and coincidence—and we will die alone, or someone out there cares very, very, very much to have created a universe that would collapse with the slightest of changes to the fundamental laws that build our existence—but won’t, because we aren’t alone and never will be.
When I was younger, I fell in love. I thought the only thing that mattered was my love of science, my passion for physics, my quest to understand the fundamental laws of nature. I believed I only had room for one love. I believed if I fell in love with a man then I would no longer love my career or pursue my passions. I was scared that the all-consuming love I’d experience would make me leave my job for marriage and family.
I promised myself I would never, ever, ever give up my life for a man.
I grip Henry’s cold, limp hand.
He has no pulse.
No breath.
I kneel on the cold metal next to him, the hard floor digging into my knees, the scent of fear clogging my nostrils and constricting my throat. The harsh lights cast him waxen and still.
“Henry?” I grip his shoulders, shake him. “Henry.”
He’s gone.
How do I know?
Because that constant magnetic pull that thrums between us like a clear stream flowing in a lush forest—it’s gone. That electric buzz that dances over my skin whenever we touch—it’s not there. The resonance I feel, the sense of rightness—it’s vanished.
In its place is an icy finger trickling down my spine, dragging away Henry and leaving cold emptiness.
“Please,” I whisper.
And then I look down at my body lying still, unmoving, dead, and I know exactly what I have to do.
I’m at that fork in the road again. Not many people get to stand at the same fork twice in their lives. Once the choice is made, it’s made. Before, I chose to lose Henry, to deny love.
This time around, I can choose to let Henry go. I can go on living my life as him, pursuing all my goals. Serena Otaki will be gone, but I’ll still be here. I’ll visit Henry’s family. I’ll take care of his parents like he’d want me to. I’ll write articles under his name and attribute all my achievements to him as well. I’ll visit my family in California as Henry, and after a while, I’ll forget I was ever Serena. I won’t have Henry, but I will have science.
Right now, Serena Otaki is lying on the ground without breath or a heartbeat. I can choose to let Henry go. For the second time I can choose myself, not give up my life for a man.
It’s funny. I never meant that phrase literally.
But now I do.
I think about how much Henry loves his family. How he held his mom in a tight hug as if he was afraid he’d never see her again. I think about how he teased his brothers and laughed with his sisters and how he so clearly loved his niece and nephews. I think about how he wasn’t ever afraid to tell me how he felt. How he made my mom healthy meals and read her books and made her laugh when she was tired or afraid. I think about how my mom asked me to take care of him—of me—by being there for him and giving him someone’s hand to hold.
Henry has so many people who love him. He has so many people he loves. He’s never been afraid to receive love, and he’s never been afraid to give it.
Me? I’ve only ever been afraid.
I’m not anymore.
I can’t let Henry die. I can’t let him stay me and lose his life. I’d do anything to keep him here, even switch back. Right here and right now. So that I’m the one who’s gone and he can keep on living and see his mom and dad again, laugh with his brothers and sisters, and have a nice cup of tea next to the kitchen fire on a rainy day in the country.
And with that cup of tea, or twenty, or two hundred, he’ll start to feel better. And eventually he’ll fall in love again and he’ll have that cozy feeling he gets when he thinks of smiling over at the woman he loves, holding her hand on the couch, and reading her a line from the book he’s enjoying.
I understand him. I know his capacity for love is endless. That’s why I know it isn’t me that should go on, it’s him.
This is his body. This is his life. This is his future.
And that future spreads out before me like a ribbon unfurling from its spool. It spins out, and I can see all the years in front of him.
Love. Marriage. Kids. Happiness.
That’s all I want for him.
And if my time is here? If I have to give up everything for him?
My life? My future? My passions?
So be it. I wouldn’t want any of it without him anyway.
“Henry,” I whisper, leaning over him, gripping both of his limp hands in mine.
Across the cavernous space, beneath the bright lights, the elevator doors slash open and a team of paramedics carrying a stretcher rushes out.
Someone must’ve seen Henry collapse on the video feed. They must’ve called for help.
But if they take him away? I know deep inside that I won’t ever see him again.
So I lean down before they can reach us, and I press my mouth close to his.
Above, the lights flicker and the cavernous space pitches into darkness. I grip Henry’s hand, hold myself against him, and press my mouth to his unmoving lips.
Then I’m whirling, flying, tearing through space and time, spinning, spinning, spinning in a dizzying rush that’s faster than light and more violent than a cataclysm. Everything inside me tears, rips apart, and I collide with—Henry? Is he there?—and everything in me wrenches and rends, splitting into a thousand shards of being. And I know this time, there isn’t any going back. This time Henry and I are switching—we’re switching back—and he’ll be alive, and I’ll be gone.
And I’m not sorry to die. I’m only sorry to leave him.
As the electric storm raging around us slows and all the particles inside me start to coalesce, I’m pulled, hurtling back into myself.
But before I go, before I die, I have to tell Henry something. I pray, I hope, that as he slams back into his own body he hears me and understands.
I never told him. I never said the words that have always been in my heart.
So I say with my last remaining breath, “Henry, I lo—”