Two lines, side by side—
Always closer,
Never close.
The Streetlamp and the Stray
There’s a streetlamp near my apartment. It buzzes faintly at night like an old man muttering to himself. Below it, a cat sits—always the same one, I think. Black fur, white paws, like gloves she’s grown into.
Every night I bring food. Every night she watches from a distance. She never runs, but never comes close. Her eyes are steady, measuring, as if some invisible line keeps us apart.
I know that line.
The Equation That Haunts
We learned about asymptotes in school. Curves that approach a line forever, getting closer and closer—but never touching.
At the time, it felt abstract. Another thing to memorize. But years later, in late-night silences and words that almost meant something, I finally understood.
Love can be asymptotic. So can healing. So can the person you thought you’d become by now.
You move forward. They move forward.
Closer.
But the gap remains.
What We Reach For, and What We Don’t
- There are people you will almost forgive.
- Places you will almost feel at home in.
- Dreams that will almost come true.
And that’s not failure. That’s life.
To love something you cannot have is not a flaw.
To try anyway is a form of grace.
Lessons from the Line That Never Touches
- Not everything is meant to be reached. Some things are meant to be honored from afar.
- The beauty of the curve is not in touching the line, but in choosing to keep approaching.
- Almost is not emptiness. It is motion. And motion is still alive.
The cat never eats from my hand.
But she waits beneath the lamp, every night, and I come anyway.
Not to catch her. Not to tame her.
Just to show I’m still here.
Still approaching.
Still close.
Even if we never touch.
life 
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