Original subtitles

[man] I’m lonely.

I know I’m surrounded by a sea of people, but nevertheless, I’m lonely.

Nobody loves me.

And by nobody, I don’t mean anybody over 30 or anyone under the legal age.

I don’t mean males. I certainly don’t include family.

I don’t mean unattractive people, at least unattractive to me, which is subjective.

I don’t even mean the majority of attractive women under 30 out of my reach,

which narrows it down a bit.

Actually, to be honest, I just mean Jenny.

She is everybody in my world.

And if she doesn’t love me, then nobody does.

I know this doesn’t make sense statistically,

but I’ve realized the world works differently from math.

Or does it?

[woman] Hey! Stan?

Hey!

I haven’t seen you in years.

Yeah. How long has it been?

I don’t know.

Ten years, five months, two days.

[chuckles]

I’m sorry. I’ve got a thing for numbers.

I know.

-So, do you live around here? -Around the corner. I don’t get out much.

That’s probably why, because I come here all the time.

-Oh. -[Stan] There it is.

My failure to recognize that the world is mathematical. It’s all statistics.

My waiting around at home-- miserable,

complaining, playing the victim, Facebook stalking--

wasn’t helping my statistical chances of bumping into anyone.

Well, Jenny.

My life is going to change.

I’m a mathematician. I know data.

I’m good at data mining, good at finding patterns.

There must be patterns in everything, even human behavior.

[computer beeping]

They can be learned, right?

-[computer continues beeping] -It was 3:00 p.m. Saturday.

We met, intersected, at the corner.

She was walking down the street. I was walking up.

A possibility she could be here-- café, restaurant, bookstore.

Window shopping all in one area.

Jenny was my ultimate proof, the previously unsolvable problem.

Why Jenny? Well, just look at her.

Well, actually, look at me.

I can’t hold eye contact. My heart beats faster. I sweat.

I look shifty. My feet are shifty.

I can’t quite talk and I wanna get out of there.

And yet, I really, really want to stay.

She says nothing.

It’s a nice neighborhood. I like it.

-[Stan] But I hear-- -Invite me up. I’ll do anything to stay.

They lock people away for things like this-- hallucinations.

Or is it delusions?

[Jenny] Whatever’s in his mind is deeply locked away,

only let out in the form of letters.

Yeah, paper with writing, sent by snail mail to your house.

The fresh smell of warm afternoon envelope.

The scent of paper, ink.

The thought that someone took the time to think, to write,

to communicate his deepest thoughts and feelings to you, it would melt me.

He would melt my heart every single time.

And yet, in person, not a word, not a whisper,

as if he had never, ever sent one.

I liked it though, the secret world.

Didn’t want it to end,

the feeling of nobody knowing except him...

the secret that I was special-- we were special--

surrounded by a sea of people, often feeling absolutely alone

except that one person knows you’re alive, cares you’re alive.

It made me feel alive.

-So, I’m just about to-- -Yeah, I have to go.

Someone to see. A date. An appointment.

[Jenny] I died a little with those words.

Okay. Well, I’ll see you around then?

[Jenny] Why’d he say that? What’s he trying to tell me?

[Stan] “See you around” reeks of possibility.

Was it a question or a statement?

Almost positively 30% a question and 70% statement.

And then we walk, her to the west and me to the east.

Just like that Murakami story,

on meeting the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning.

What I should really say is--

-Hey, Jen? -Yeah?

Do you remember when we were in middle school?

-Hey, Jen? -Yeah?

-Remember when we were in middle school? -[Stan] So I made an opportunity.

There in the split second while she’s smiling is my opportunity.

As the smile fades or she turns her head, it’ll disappear any moment, any moment!

Say something! Say anything!

When I used to call you for help on calculus?

[Stan] There you go. That’s definitely a smile that remembers.

-I think it was the other way around. -Really?

Well, either way, there were a lot of calls.

[Jenny] This is kinda nice. Really nice.

It’s the first time he’s bringing this up.

A world that was practically hidden from the light of day.

Those phone calls were only ever at night, late at night.

It was way back before mobile phones-- landlines, dial phones.

A whole other level of courage was needed

to dial the number to the object of your affection.

You see, you had to dial each number and wait for the clicks.

It was a long time between each number. A lot of time to reconsider.

[Stan] I’m amazed I went through with it. Many times I didn’t.

Could have been the time of night? Too late?

Was there any rule about this? Sometimes I just had to.

But, boy, sometimes I’d go and pee, then wash up,

eat something, check and recheck the time,

brush my teeth, wander in, dial, then leave if there was no privacy.

It needed to be perfectly private.

And then you get through. Your heart’s racing.

Not so much because of the anticipation of talking to her,

but the fear of talking to her mother.

Or worse still, her father.

-[Jenny’s father on phone] Hello? -Hello, Mr. Lee?

-Who is this? -Hi, I’m Stan, from Jen’s class.

I was wondering if I could speak to Jenny.

It’s a little late, Stan.

Oh, I know, I know. I’m sorry.

It’s just that I’ve got a math problem I’m stuck on.

All right. Hold the line.

[Stan] Which was kinda true. Kinda.

We always needed an in to start the conversation.

But it always ended up somewhere.

Talk about music class, band practice, what she was planning for summer break.

I’d always wonder where she was, which room,

what it looked like, what she was wearing.

I never knew, even to this day.

Never stepped foot in her house, yet spent hours connected to her life.

In the dark, a voice in my head that I was addicted to.

Anyway, seeing you’re around here a lot, and I live just around here,

I thought maybe--

[Stan] I’m looking for a sign, some sort of sign of positive reinforcement.

I’m giving you a lead here. Give me a sign!

[Jenny] I’m nervous. I can feel my heart beating.

Is he gonna ask me out? I’m getting shifty. My feet are shifty.

[Stan] She’s looking anxious, like she wants to get away.

This isn’t good. Don’t ruin the friendship.

Don’t ruin what you have. Don’t pressure her!

I thought maybe we should sometime--

You know, if you’re around, we could... catch up?

[Jenny] Oh, it’s a friendship thing. Catch up.

I knew it. Nervous for nothing.

Catch up. Great.

Okay, maybe. Why not?

[Stan] Maybe? What’s maybe? Maybe is a rejection.

Maybe is, “All those times you called, I was just helping you with math.

Nothing else. Rein in your imagination.”

Only if you’re around and I’m around. If we’re both simultaneously around.

That would be necessary. Should we draw a Venn diagram?

-Work out when our schedules intersect? -Exactly.

That wouldn’t be a bad idea.

[Stan] I decide not to ask her for her schedule though.

It may come across as creepy.

So, when we meet each other next, we’ll catch up then, okay?

Yeah. We’ll leave it in the hands of fate.

[Stan] So, how does this fate thing work?

Do I just wait and not think about anything?

Not think about when she might be there, when she might come back?

Because thinking about it will alter fate in some way.

Do I actively work out how to bump into her again? Will that be fate at work?

Are consciousness and choice just false perceptions

of a free reality that’s already predetermined?

Damn it. What do I do now?

[Stan] I didn’t ask her out. That was clear to both of us, I’m sure.

So, when we meet each other again next,

we’ll catch up then, okay?

Yeah, we’ll leave it in the hands of fate.

[Stan] Been through this a lot.

In fact, the only women I’ve ever really had relationships with

are the ones who asked me out.

Which kind of made me feel pathetic, which reflected back on them.

You know that Groucho Marx line

“I don’t wanna be part of a club that’ll have me as a member”?

That would plague my relationships.

I’d always end up thinking, “If you’ll take a pathetic, spineless fool like me,

why would I want you?”

But I’d be so spineless, I’d never instigate the breakup.

-If you’re as pathetic as me, ignore them, -[cell phone rings]

passive/aggressive style, until they break up with you.

We need to break up.

[Stan] Then put on a surprised but slightly sad face.

Not too sad that you’re saying, “I want you back.”

Just that you appreciate their effort in breaking up with you,

that you’ll kinda miss them, that it didn’t mean nothing to you.

Of course this has to be delicately balanced.

Sometimes it’s mistaken for--

You don’t really want me to leave, do you?

And you end up with makeup sex,

which lets face it, is more fun than regular sex.

There’s that sense of loss and resurrection. No pun intended.

And then, of course, there’s breakup sex.

You know, ’cause it’ll be the last time you do it.

And that’s kinda interesting too.

Everything tastes better if you know you’re never gonna have it again.

And then you’re lost in that cycle--

break up, make up,

break up, make up.

The tension and release keep overwhelming

your ultimate desire to find someone you truly love.

Sex is the ultimate illusionist.

But we’ll get to that another time.

This is all beside the point.

Having been in relationships multiple times

doesn’t make you any better at asking someone out

whom you truly, truly want to be with.

In mathematical terms, there’s an inverse relationship

between the stakes-- how much she means to you--

and the chances of you actually asking her out.

Although in my case, it’s pretty much a flatline.

So, for someone who has failed to ask out girls that matter to me--

and I’ve failed many, many times--

it’s no surprise that I could be a consultant

on the stages of not having asked her out.

The first stage: denial.

This is awesome!

This is easy. Everyone does it for most of their single life.

But we’re not even good at denial, ’cause when it’s shoved in our faces,

-we just wanna shout-- -Hey, hey, get a fucking room!

And if we finish the sentence, it would be--

Because seeing you like this makes me reflect

on how empty and worthless my pathetic existence is

without someone to look me in the eyes and say, “You are my everything.”

Get a room. Don’t tell me what you did. I don’t wanna know!

[Stan] Second stage: justification. Why would you ask her out?

She was looking old. In 20 years, she’s gonna look 20 years older.

She’s probably a health freak, fundamentalist in something.

It would never fit in my lifestyle.

Third stage: stalking.

Of course, this was a lot harder during the analog days.

We actually had to physically follow them,

which was and is less legal than digital stalking.

So I recommend only digital nowadays.

Fourth stage: fantasizing.

Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.

Oh, yeah!

[Stan] You get the idea. And finally, the last stage: desperation.

That’s where I’m at.

Fate sometimes needs a little help with probability.

That’s all I’m doing, just increasing probability a bit.

And the longer I do this, the greater the chances, right?

Well, actually, that’s not how it works.

But fuck it. I’m desperate.

Where the fuck is she?

Oh, my fucking God!

I’m sorry. Did I say that out loud?

[Jenny] So he didn’t ask me out. Not really. Not at all.

I wasn’t about to ask him out. I don’t do that.

It’s not ladylike. It’s not right.

There’s a natural order of things that should not be disrupted.

Guys ask girls out, not the other way around.

And this is from experience.

The few times I did ask a guy out, after waiting and waiting and waiting,

it was always a pathetic relationship.

How could I respect someone, a guy, who didn’t have the courage to ask me out?

I couldn’t. I didn’t and it showed over time.

I’d get angry quickly, scream down the phone at all hours of the night,

get pissed off at the smallest things,

like the way he wore his hair, his shoes, or the way he snored.

Anything, really. He would slowly become a kept man.

A kind of slave, really.

Get your car. Pick me up now!

Did you just ask me why?

If he protested, huge arguments would ensue until he backed down.

In the end, they stop protesting. They know what’s coming.

-They take it like a pathetic, beaten dog. -[dog whimpers]

And then they’re so pathetic, there’s no attraction anyway.

So you break up with them.

-Listen, I’m breaking up with you. -Oh. Oh!

Yeah, that’s... bad.

And strangely enough, I think they want it so badly, the breakup,

they’re almost relieved, which hurts me.

How dare you, you spineless nothing of a man!

How dare you be relieved at me waking up with you!

I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you!

[knocks]

[Jenny] So I retract the breakup, take him back.

I’m gonna give you another chance, Simon. Okay, I’m serious. You get to try again.

[Jenny] We have makeup sex,

which strangely enough makes me feel clingy.

I know it’s weird.

I think there are juxtaposing hormones released after sex.

I end up in the cycle again of having given myself to some guy I don’t respect.

Yet I have enough self-esteem to think, “If I gave myself to him,

my naked, emotional self...

then somewhere deep down he must be pretty awesome

or he must have potential to be.

I just have to mold him.”

And that’s what I do. So, all the nitpicking, the jabs,

the retorts, the arguments, it’s really to make him a better person.

So, I don’t have to punish myself emotionally over this pathetic,

-sorry excuse of a man I shacked up with. -[dog whimpers]

Meanwhile you’re always on the lookout for someone better.

Hoping for someone better.

And you don’t break up.

I think you’re always more attractive to other men if you’re with someone.

Single chicks always draw the suspicious question--

“Why is she single? What’s wrong with her?”

So, I stay in a bad relationship, no matter how pathological it is,

because I think it increases my chances of finding a better one.

I think it’s okay that he makes a move even if he knows I’m in a relationship.

Because that’s generally accepted, right?

Though I could never accept an invitation from a guy I knew was in a relationship.

Double standard, but that’s how this world works.

So, here I am, thinking about him, Stan, while I’m waiting for my boyfriend Zac,

feeling nothing, not an ounce of guilt.

Just hoping, wishing he had asked me out,

wondering how I’ll bump into him again,

whether it’ll be another ten years.

Wondering where he lives, what his room is like.

What his hands will feel like holding mine.

What his arms will feel like wrapped around my waist.

When I’ll get to hear his voice in the deep of the night before I sleep.

We left it to fate when we’ll meet again.

I do not believe in fate.

[Stan] Oh, my fucking God!

I’m sorry. Did I say that out loud?

I’ve never been called God before, but I’ll allow it.

Hi.

[Jenny] The trick is to pretend you don’t care.

Hi.

Hi.

I’m sorry about the “God” thing. I’m surprised to see you here.

[Jenny] Surprised? So you’re not thinking about me?

Not the way I’ve been thinking--

No, obsessing about you?

Are you waiting for someone?

No. Yeah. I mean, I’m not sure if he’ll come.

[Jenny] That’s a lie. He looks nervous. I think it’s a lie.

Yeah, me too.

Well, shall we wait together then?

[Stan] Great! I’ve completely redefined this.

Completely made her into a convenient pit stop

while I wait for my more significant friend or friends,

who’ll never turn up because there was no appointment.

So, worst-case scenario, I’ve reduced her significance,

made myself into a liar or the sort of person

whose friends stand him up in the middle of the day.

I won’t stay for too long. I don’t wanna intrude on you and your friends.

Oh, no, not a problem at all. I mean, we’re friends too, right?

Shit! I said it, the word “friends.”

I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.

But the pause, the moment of silence spoke reams about our past.

The look up to me, the glimpse of vulnerability.

Maybe a hint of sadness, then the look away.

The recomposure and the smile.

[Jenny] I just wanna get out of here, all of the sudden.

I don’t know why. Well, I do know why.

I feel like a fool. I think I gave away too much.

I’m pretty transparent. He can see right through me.

I can tell, those eyes.

Those eyes.

We used to lock gazes way back when.

Nothing said, nothing given away except those letters.

Secret letters on summer break.

And the occasional lingering eye contact.

But not now. I’m shifty. I can’t hold his gaze. He’ll see too much.

[Stan] She’s avoiding eye contact.

She’s keeping a distance. I should keep mine too.

But it’s so satisfying, so tempting to try.

Just give me one lingering look.

I long for them. Have waited years for another.

In the past, it was our only communication in the light of day.

It could start as a casual glance across a room.

Our eyes would make contact-- one second, two seconds.

Then boom, three seconds.

There’s something about that third second.

It’s a well-established norm, I think.

No one holds for that third second unless you’re saying something.

And that something is big.

The first few times, it takes you by surprise.

And then it’s so good, you wanna go back for more and more.

It’s never enough.

Two pairs of eyes coming to rest on each other,

as if to say there’s nothing else worth looking at.

We are all there is.

In that third second, we dip our feet into the pool of eternity.

This is what it feels like, timelessness.

And then that slow smile that starts in the fifth, maybe sixth second.

I don’t know. You can’t count when you’re in a space devoid of time.

It’s some other dimension altogether.

[Jenny] In that space, he can see everything.

He used to see everything when we locked eyes.

You give over to someone, like a dog rolling to expose his belly.

Vulnerable, trusting.

And then the smile would come.

-Slowly, teasing me apart, -[bee buzzing]

prying me open like a flower in spring.

It was new, unexplored,

this other world that only we could create together.

And I miss it, the way you miss your first home.

Oh, no, not a problem at all. I mean, we are friends too, right?

Yes, of course we are friends.

Good friends. Close friends.

[Stan] Shit. Stop while you’re ahead.

[Jenny] I want to crawl into a hole right now.

[Stan] Someone please save me!

[man] Hey, Stan! Hey, Jen! I didn’t know you guys know each other.

Uh, yeah, from school.

No way!

Yup, a long time. Good friends.

Uh, am I interrupting something here? Could I join you?

[Both] Please.

Uh, anyone need another cup of coffee?

[Both] No, we’re good.

-I was waiting for Zac. -Me too.

So, how long have you known Zac?

Mmm, not long.

[Jenny] What’s the best way to let this big, fat cat out of the bag?

This was one secret I didn’t want to have to deal with.

My plan was perfect-- find someone new,

flirt a little, date a little, discreetly,

and then let him make the move, so effectively, I’m not the one cheating.

I just couldn’t fend him off.

But I feel guilty enough that I let it get so far

that there must be something deep down that made me realize

we’re not right for each other.

Now what? I have no idea what Zac will say.

No idea why I agreed to meet him here in the first place,

especially knowing that there was a chance, however remote,

and hope, of bumping into Stan.

[Stan] The fact is it’s not chance at all.

I was thinking I finally worked it out-- statistics, chance. It’s none of those.

It ends up being a premeditated decision by a mutual friend.

At least I think he’s a friend of Jen’s. There was no sign they were anything else.

Although, how many female friends do I have?

Well, none.

None that I haven’t at one stage wanted to date or nail in some way or other.

I know that sounds crass.

[Jenny] Would it be crass of me to leave? Get up and just leave.

Make a lame excuse and go.

Shit.

All I was hoping for-- putting out positive waves of possibility for--

to bump into Stan again.

All decimated by having a third person in the mix.

And a significant other third person at that.

[Stan] Chemistry is a delicate thing.

I know because Jen and I were on a school chemistry titration team with one guy.

I forgot his name. I blocked him out.

He added two extra drops of a reagent to the mix.

Two extra little drops

and we ended up 103rd in a competition with only 100 entries.

They didn’t include our result because it was so far off the graph,

it would’ve ruined their bell curve.

So when I say I wanted to nail them in some way or other,

I mean that there is an attraction,

something between you two that kept you coming back

that had to be very carefully balanced

to make sure you didn’t go too far or keep too distant

because that could ruin a perfectly good friendship,

one that’s based on mutual attraction.

But with someone like Jen, you wanna tip the balance the whole way.

Actually, you just wanna tip in the whole damn solution

and share in the amazing explosion.

But you don’t, and you titrate the reagent,

drop by tantalizing drop, feeding the friendship/fantasy,

maybe until you go too far and no one wants your result

because you’ve taken it way outside the normal bell curve.

How long have you known Zac?

I met him at paintball a few months back. He shot me in the balls.

And, uh, he stayed with me at hospital until it was all, you know, patched up.

Are you all right?

What, down there? Oh, yeah, I think so.

I mean, it’s a little blue... from the paint.

But mechanically, it’s all fine.

Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I’m just trying not to imagine... anything.

-[Jenny giggles] -[Stan] Great.

The girl of my dreams is a foot away,

we have a mutual friend about to interrupt us,

and all I could muster up to tell her was an incident ending in blue balls.

[Jenny] The strange thing is, I really did get concerned about his,

well, his ability to father a child... or two.

Is that looking too far into the future?

The nesting instinct is so strong at this age.

I want to nest. Just wanna have babies.

Recently, with almost anyone.

But now, I think of this man. But that was before blue balls.

I’ve never had that feeling with Zac.

We’ve slept together, but I’ve never felt my body belonged to him.

I know it’s a strange thing to say, but, in my mind,

I’ve always imagined this-- this giving over of my body,

my soul

to the one.

And... I never felt even an inch of that with Zac.

Sex was an act-- fun, pleasurable enough.

There was attraction but no opening of my soul,

no perfect sublimation.

And that’s not a power thing. It’s just something that I want to do--

I feel I’ll instinctively do or experience with the right man.

I’m sorry I told you the story. I bet Zac would have told you sooner or later.

Strange he hasn’t.

A story about being the cause of blue balls

is not something you can bring up at any time.

So, how did you two meet?

-On Tinder. -What?

You know, on your phone. You swipe through people’s pictures

and whoever’s around who’s also swiping,

you guys connect.

-Totally by chance? -Yeah.

You get to meet people who you may never, ever get to meet in your life.

And you just started chatting?

Mm-hmm. It’s kinda like a dating thing.

[Jenny] And there it was. I slipped it in. Or slipped it out.

The cat, out of the bag, into the middle of the fucking room.

And now, in the silence that ensued,

the cat grew as big as the ten-year silence between us.

It was palpable, a crushing, decimating blow.

I know it. I could see it.

[Stan] I was totally, absolutely winded.

Couldn’t find any words, even though I was racking my brains

to say something casual, off the cuff.

Anything to divert the attention from the big, fat conclusion--

Zac and Jen are dating.

[Jen] And I’m reeling, too, at the shame, the secret connection between us.

Somehow I’d unwittingly been disloyal to it, broken our pact,

dirtied our secret island by bringing the big, bad world into it.

But part of me was happy,

elated to see that under all the soil, the gravel and mulch

there’s a seed growing, sprouting for me.

Sometimes you have to hurt someone to find out if they really like you.

And I think he really likes me.

[Zac] What’s up, guys?

What have you both been talking about?

Better yet, what have you been thinking?

That’s what Jen likes to ask. Don’t you, honey?

So, what have you both been thinking?

[no audible dialogue]

[Zac] What’s up, guys?

What have you both been talking about?

Or better yet, what have you been thinking?

That’s what Jen likes to ask. Don’t you, honey?

So, what have you both been thinking?

It used to take me by surprise-- it’s so disarming.

And I could never lie about it.

So I would just come up with the honest answer.

[Stan] And there it is-- the confirmation, the stamp of ownership.

Sign language between guys-- “she’s mine.”

And there in the space just after, she tries to smile.

Everything is in the trying.

The attempt, the obstacle or resistance to the attempt,

all whilst holding direct eye contact.

It says so much.

There are 43 muscles in the face, apparently,

17 muscles needed to smile, all controlled by one nerve,

the facial nerve, which has five branches--

temporal, buccal, cervical, mandibular, zygomatic.

All innervating different muscles, working in concert like an orchestra

to create expression in both space and time.

And timing is everything.

The amount of time she holds the smile,

the time it takes for her to reach the smile,

the lack of a full smile, the lack of the smile in her eyes,

the slight sadness, the dropping of the smile,

the lingering eye contact,

the time she takes to drop eye contact

in the context of him sitting right next to her,

watching her every move, no matter how subtle.

And what does this all say?

What I’m believing she’s saying is,

“I’m so sorry for this, that he’s here.

It’s interrupted our world, our time together.

It’s brought our magic crashing back down to reality.

And though I want to move on as if it’s nothing, I can’t. I won’t.

I want so much to turn back time. Please know this.

Please know that ten years on it hasn’t changed.”

[Jenny] He returns the favor.

I’ve lived years on the memory of these looks,

the silent messages that mean so much more

than anything we ever have to even say to each other.

The lingering of his eyes on me, the smile.

A moment like this can replace months of anything with someone like Zac.

People say that heaven or eternity is a long, long time.

I think it’s actually the absence of time-- timelessness.

That “aha!” moment when you stare out on top of the Austrian Alps,

when you try to take in the vastness of the sea, the sky, the Milky Way.

This same “aha!” moment staring into his eyes

when you feel that something deep inside resonates with the universe,

that all the misunderstood and unknowable

somehow just makes sense,

when the experience of these moments are beyond time,

can take you back years,

make you feel like a vulnerable teenage girl looking for approval,

for a boy to like her.

And each replaying of these moments

takes you into a different world,

a world devoid of space and time.

So?

I was just thinking about timelessness

and how some things in the world are just beyond time.

[Zac chuckles] Come on. Nothing is beyond time.

Look, we’re born into time, we die in time.

Sometimes before our time.

You mean like that time at camp when we were sitting on the hill,

soaking it all in, right?

So it was a nice view, this place?

No, no, it’s kind of transcendent.

Like your understanding of the universe is beyond thinking.

Yeah. It’s beyond our level of understanding.

Which is bound by space and time.

So, uh, this place had a really, really nice view?

[both] Yeah.

[Stan] And all that talk about stars and time and space,

it means nothing ultimately,

highlighted by a moment like this.

It haunts me, this image--

her leaving, turning to smile at me as if to say,

“Why didn’t you do anything? Why?

In the ten years or preceding years?

This is your fault. I’m here because of you.

This ever-widening gap-- all your doing!”

Her looks, her smiles,

everything a message, a clue to her inner wants,

and I have done absolutely nothing about it.

I stand on the sideline paralyzed by thoughts,

by suppositions, by probability, by theories.

All I had to do was act,

take a step, make a move.

The timelessness of all these moments are all well and good

until you have to return to this world of time...

and you realize you have to do something within the bounds of time.

And though you realize it with every bone in your body,

you also realize that what we hate most about time is loss,

and with loss comes fear.

And so it’s better to linger with timelessness...

than to face the possibility of loss.

[Jenny] Tonight I sat on the edge of a cliff.

The power of the waves, their endless reach

juxtaposed with the end of light fading so gracefully into the night.

It’s a transition that’s so beautiful, but one that we fight every day.

Time-- scary, but blissful.

I love my solitude on the cliff.

I asked my mom once if she would bring me

and leave me here alone to return in my own time.

She laughed and told me I can do that when I become a woman...

but that the irony is, the older I get, the less alone I’ll want to be.

But I can imagine sitting on this cliff with somebody else.

A special someone.

[no audible dialogue]

[no audible dialogue]

[Jenny] Yes, I do feel guilty,

although I haven’t done anything wrong objectively.

It is wrong. My objective is wrong.

I’m here, but I want to be somewhere else. To be fair, I should let him know-- Zac.

What’s wrong with me?

I’ve been here before and never had a problem with it, the overlap.

It’s normal, isn’t it, to have some amount of overlap between relationships?

You don’t break up with someone for no reason.

Who wants to be single with nowhere to go on Friday night?

And yet there’s something building up in me,

an excitement from that little meeting,

I’ve been wondering what it is, and I think I’ve finally realized

that it’s potential.

There are men who inspire your imagination, who are aspirational...

who make the images of your togetherness

bigger than anything you’d ever imagine for yourself.

These thoughts, these feelings build,

like the currents of an ocean--

invisible, but powerful--

and I’m at their mercy.

The undertow is so strong it sucks me back in,

pulls me under, then drives me back to shore on an exhilarating ride.

[no audible dialogue]

The waves come in, subside, then surge again.

With them comes the guilt.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Zac.

Nothing at all.

-I think I could marry someone like Zac. -Wow.

That’s the first time I’ve heard you say the word “marry”

in the same sentence as someone else.

I know. I must be growing up.

It’s a good thing, right?

But you did say someone “like” Zac.

That’s not a good sign.

For Zac anyway.

[Jenny] There it was, the big, bold elephant in the room

we all ignore at some point.

I think many ignore it for life,

marrying for no other reason than--

Yeah, but there’s nothing wrong with him. You know?

[Jenny] But now I know why.

’Cause one day you’re going to bump into someone

and in that brief meeting,

although it may have absolutely inconsequential passing of real content...

the currents that will begin to stir in you

will never allow you to stay with that “nothing wrong with him” guy.

[Stan] I imagine her with Zac on the cliff.

Our cliff.

I don’t even know where that cliff is.

I imagine where she may be late at night with Zac.

Here I am, getting jealous when I have absolutely no right.

But there it is-- awful feelings, awful thoughts, and I hate myself for it.

I hate my spinelessness, my jealousy, my romantic ideal.

I hate that she has dirtied it with Zac.

I hate Zac and the time she has with him.

And I hate that hating all these things doesn’t in the least

make me any more attractive to her

or get me any closer to calling her to “keep in touch.”

Her number was my lifeline in school.

She’s thrown it out to me again.

Let’s face it. I’m drowning here.

Who sits where? I’ve heard about this.

It’s huge. Like, who gets to sit on the main table?

Is it gonna be, like, equal?

You have this many? And then, how many colleagues?

-And then the price gets-- -Excuse me. I need to go to the ladies’.

[Jenny] The tide has come in.

[Stan] And then it starts,

the anxiety bubbling away.

The wait-- excruciating, but addictive.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

A minute.

Time says a lot.

It’s the language between the words when someone replies.

The gap says so much.

I know she’s read it.

If she takes a minute to start typing it’s because--

[Stan] Maybe I’ve overstepped the boundaries.

She’s taken. It was wrong to bring up something of the past-- childish.

What sick, obsessed kind of spineless man

hangs onto the content of middle school letters?

It’s over, school. She’s grown up. She’s moved on.

She wants a man, not a boy.

[phone chimes]

[Stan] I’m a fool. I’ve made a frickin’ fool of myself.

[Stan groans]

[Jenny] He’s read it, and the clock starts now.

-[ticking] -Ten seconds.

Twenty seconds.

A minute. A minute is the maximum I’ll give.

After that, you don’t really care.

I’ll give anyone the benefit of the doubt.

There aren’t many occasions where you read a message

but can’t reply within the space of a minute thereafter.

I can think of only a couple of occasions.

[phone chiming melody]

-[phone continues chiming] -[sirens wailing]

[splash]

[Stan] Recover. Rebuild your image. Women don’t like saps.

They want strong, hardwood men.

That’s a good turnaround.

You’re a player. You’re wanted. You’re the boss.

[Jenny] Oh. He’s dating someone.

-Then you gotta do-- -Yeah.

If you’re in media, you’d treat it like a wedding film. And it’s gotta be good.

[man] I don’t get it, all this... [continues, muttering]

Hey, is everything all right?

Yeah.

-Why? -I-I don’t know.

-You just look a little pale. -No. I’m fine.

Okay, so, what I really don’t get is the ring.

Like, who said you have to get, like, diamonds...

[Stan] It’s not like letter-writing.

It’s immediate, but without the emotional feedback

of a face-to-face conversation,

without those 47 separate facial muscles telling you it’s okay, you’re accepted,

smiling on your every word, even when you trip over yourself.

Emoticons just don’t cut it.

With letters we risked everything.

There’s no response, line by line.

You just have to cut a path with your words, go with it and write.

And, after a page or two, you send.

Everything poured in.

Nothing to temper your words.

You’re looking for nothing in return. It’s a gift, a blind gift.

Take it or leave it.

I’m not editing based on any initial reactions.

That’s the beauty of a letter.

[Jenny] It’s too late now. The moment has passed.

It’s too late anyway. It’d be rude or suggesting too much to reply.

I really miss the days when we had no censorship...

when talking into the night until parents warned us to go to bed was the norm.

When I was free to express my ideals for two pages before sealing and sending.

This game of back and forth, it’s a constant struggle,

reading into everything and knowing nothing.

[Stan] The ball’s in her court. If she’s interested, she’ll reply.

[Jenny] He’s basically told me he’s dating.

And he’s not making a move.

I gave him my number. The ball’s in his court.

If he’s interested, he’ll ask me out.

[Stan] In any mathematical proof,

you may know all the steps involved with the proof.

But to get to the proof, there is always that amazing step

when the miraculous leap of faith happens--

the “aha!” moment when you somehow, whilst studying the problem,

get hit by a bolt of mathematical lightning

and you think you know just where to jump, how to jump into it,

what the rest of the proof is, the path to the answer.

It’s a risk, but you have to take it, and more often than not it works.

Nothing logical in that step. It’s faith.

I set out to solve this proof-- Jenny.

It requires a leap of faith.

[cell phone rings]

-Hello? -Hi. It’s Stan.

-I’m sorry I’m calling so late. -No, no, it’s fine.

My parents are asleep.

So are mine.

-So... -Yeah, so...

Yes?

I have a problem,

a proof that I’d like to run past you.

For old times’ sake?

Yeah.

Okay, sure.

Do you know the Murakami story...

about the 100% perfect girl?

No, I don’t.

Well, it’s about how a young girl and a boy meet,

and they’re perfect for each other.

Perfect?

One hundred percent perfect.

And they told each other stories

and they completely accepted each other

and they no longer felt alone.

They really had found the 100% perfect other for themselves.

But over time they doubted the miracle

and started thinking,

was it really all right for their dreams to come true so easily?

So they decided to test themselves...

just once,

to separate,

and if they really were perfect for each other

they’d meet again, they’d know it,

and they’d get married right there and then.

But they moved on in life

and became cynical and doubtful of all their ideals?

Yes.

So much so that

one day when they passed each other on the streets,

they forgot how perfect they were for each other?

Their memories were so faint,

he could barely drum up the courage to talk to her.

Well, that is a problem.

How do you propose we solve that?

Well...

they should never have parted.

Well, that’s not the problem at hand now, because they have parted.

Well, then...

when they meet again...

he should...

tell her the story...

the whole story.

Yes, he should.

I think you got your proof.

This isn’t a cliff.

It’s the closest thing you’re gonna get around here.

-So all that you wrote about-- -A vivid imagination.

-It wasn’t real? -What’s real?

Our feelings? Our imagination? Is that not real?

So,

this is my cliff.

Your cave-- it isn’t really a cave, is it?

The “aha!” moment.

Yep.

You know, you’re the first one I’ve brought up here.

[Stan] In the 15 years we’ve known each other,

I can’t remember ever being this close to her.

I can smell her hair.

Her sweat, it’s intoxicating.

I can feel the distance between us wanting to close.

My stomach churns, but it’s warm.

[Jenny] Usually I care about a million things--

Did I match my shoes with my bag? Am I overdressed?

Is my mascara running from the heat?

Am I too close? Can he see my crow’s-feet?

But there’s something about someone who knows you from when you had

no class, no style and no fashion.

School uniforms and being a teenager--

the greatest equalizers.

He knew me then in the heat of summer--

wet backs drenched from sweat,

unglam hair, pimples and training bras.

The horror.

He knew it all, and there’s so much comfort in that--

a homely comfort, a favorite old pair of pajamas comfort

that I really, really like.

What are you thinking?

-That’s my line. -But I asked first.

[Jenny] But within all this comfort

is the fear that the wrong move, the wrong words

will make it all go away,

as if he let you in because he thought you were someone else.

Don’t give it away-- your inner faults and fears,

girlie desires, superficialities.

[Stan] I used to write pages to her that would start and pour out effortlessly.

But here, now, I can barely construct full sentences.

The oral part of my brain is completely separated from the writing section.

This is my only explanation.

There is a massive disconnect.

For her too, I’m thinking.

I was thinking about your story.

[Stan] She brought it up.

The big elephant in the room metaphor

that was so easy to talk about in third person,

so easy to share in, like some complicit secret.

But now, here in the open, it’s like opening my chest and asking,

“What is that, that heart thing, and what does it feel?”

And how you thought that he should tell her his story.

What-- What did he tell her?

Well...

I don’t know where to start.

They meet again after years of being apart.

[Stan] And their memory of how close they were...

had become so faint and so full of doubt

that they could barely speak to each other.

[chuckles] Help me out here. Anytime.

She sensed it in herself, and in him.

So she quickly ripped out a couple of pages of a notepad

and handed it to him.

“Write to me instead,” she said.

[Stan] He took the paper...

and it took him a moment to remember how it was done.

But something in him clicked.

A warm, familiar feeling poured over him.

He smiled and began to write.

Seeing this made her happy...

so she took a page for herself...

and she began to write as well.

So they both wrote in silence,

perfectly happy.

[Stan] Finally he sensed an end to his writing and he turned to her,

already waiting with her folded letter in hand.

They exchanged letters nervously and then sat opposite each other.

He read hers and she read his.

The 100% perfect couple knew each other in a time and space

that was only for them.

They didn’t know how their perfect world would ever interact with reality,

or if it ever would.

In some ways he never wanted it to,

cherishing every moment,

even the memories of each moment of their world.

These memories he would replay over and over--

a glance, a smile,

a “hello” in the morning could fuel his life for years.

Their connection was more powerful than anything the world could throw at him.

She was his lifeline.

[Jenny] I have kept every word you’ve ever written or said to me

deeply locked away, accessed only by me.

No one else has seen or heard about the secret world we created.

Sometimes I wonder why it’s so deeply locked away.

I think it’s because I don’t want it to escape.

I don’t want to lose it,

to dilute it with the normalness of day-to-day life.

I’m so scared that in the open light of day

someone will see through it and reveal it’s no more than just a fantasy.

[Stan] But the fear when he met her was always paralyzing,

the fear that any change between them would shatter their world.

[Jenny] She held onto the fantasy because it was real to her

and it was powerful, the possibility of the perfect one for her.

Hope was always more powerful than any reality she’d experienced so far.

But what she was beginning to think was that their story was very real.

The world they had was built on a relationship

of sharing their deepest personal thoughts and feelings,

something that happens so rarely, even between couples.

And what they had built over years of sharing

was possibly why they always felt so incredibly close...

when they were ever in the same space together.

[Stan] As he read from her letters again,

he realized that they had written so much to each other

that when they met, anything they said just seemed superficial.

They had started a relationship at the deepest level

and both understood that in the silence they always shared.

And so they finished reading...

and they both looked up at each other, and they smiled

and sat in their perfect silence.

Perfectly happy.

Until?

Until...

they both...

reached down.

[Jenny] Deep down.

And thought about what neither of them was really saying.

At the risk of everything, he just said it.

[Stan] And that’s what it all comes down to.

All the probabilities, the sick, anxious hours of waiting,

guessing, planning, dialing,

messaging, hoping, imagining, fantasizing,

procrastinating, comforting.

[Jenny] Flirting, dating, lying, cheating,

talking, bitching, waiting,

wishing, praying, assuming.

[Stan] It all comes down to just a boy telling a girl--

Jenny...

I like you...

so much.

Perfect.

A hundred percent perfect.

[Stan] One second.

Two seconds.

Then boom.

Three seconds.