So “it didn’t go well” is just a brand my present self stamps onto an event; put plainly, I think it’s nothing more than an illusion. When my slightly-further-in-the-future self looks back at me now, I’m sure I’ll think, That was one of the important stepping stones too.

I didn’t know why, and I had no proof. But maybe—just maybe—we’ve been here, with these people, in this place, in this moment, thousands and tens of thousands of times before.

Maybe I would have died back in third grade, at eight or nine years old. Thinking that, a strange feeling sprouted toward this life that had been extended back then. A feeling that was tender, grateful, like a guardian saying, “You’ve come this far.”

There was almost no one else walking through the dark midnight streets. I felt like a small fragment of his passion—his flame—had transferred to me, and was quietly glowing inside. As the night breeze passed through my body, it felt cool and comforting.