The gravity model is a theory that says the desirability of places is based on size and distance between three or more cities. In short, the gravity model is based upon two variables: population and distance. For example, when given a choice between Los Angeles, California and Charlotte, North Carolina when you live in Atlanta, Georgia, you would weigh the closeness value of Charlotte to the stability and economic prospect of Los Angeles and decide based on both the size and distance of the cities. If you were to go live in a small town like Charlotte, it would be closer to your original home; however, if you were to go live in Los Angeles, there would be greater economic opportunity.

The one variable that the gravity model does not consider is the attraction of two people by the heart: a pull that gravity cannot intervene or interrupt, a static magnetism that forms between the narrow halls of your veins that lead to the arteries in your heart and grips the cells that form around your organs. Theoretical gravity does not affect the electric pull of two people whose intertwined fingers fit together. They’re intertwined, but they defy the standard of love that says they need to complete one another. Neither was broken with chips in their skin or cracks in their lungs; they were made better.

I’m a scientist. I understand the scientific theory of time-space relativity and the geographical notion that the world is becoming compressed together with every technological advancement that makes every island and piece of land easier to access. I understand the idea of distance-decay, which states that the more spatial distance there is between two places, the less interaction there will be between them. I understand that, but I’m not quite sure I’m ready to accept it because accepting it would mean I’m ready to let go. I’m not ready to let go.

I’m a scientist. I understand that magnetism can only be broken by the force of heat, de-magnetism, and shock. I understand that magnets can be broken by blunt force or scolding fire, and I know there is no way for magnets to be demagnetized by the separation of their opposite pole. But I am not a magnet. I am a human being, and I fear that maybe the gravity model was right in the first place, that maybe distance-decay applies to people just as much as it does to cities, that maybe love is able to be demagnetized by separation.

So we’ve been apart for six months.

I’m a scientist, so I’ve seen the damage cigarettes can do to lungs but it’s the only thing that reminds me of her lips on my own so I smoke them anyway. I’ve seen cadavers with charred lungs, ruptured spleens, and broken hearts. I’ve read articles about people with no heart problems or history of heart problems who have suffered cardiovascular failure because their partners died. And I’m not a doctor, but I know that the heart is pretty important in actually living, so every minute that we’re apart and I’m consciously thinking about her makes my heart quiver as though it’s hollow and the wind is blowing through it and making the entire structure shake. So I try to distract myself. Try to find something to do with my hands, even though I want nothing else but to comb my fingers through her hair, kiss the top of her head, and feel the coarseness of her hair. I try to find something to do with my lips, which is where the cigarettes go because chewing gum makes my teeth feel like they’re being ground together into nubs. I try to find something to do with my eyes other than stare at pictures of her as though she’s going to leap out of the picture frame and into my arms. I try to do something to forget about the distance between us, and even though cigarettes, thoughts of suicide, and alcohol don’t actually decrease the effects of distance-decay, they work well enough because they make me forget. And, even better, they let me dream about her being beside me. Sometimes I’m high enough on the prospect of death and coke that I can hear her heartbeat like she’s inside me, or maybe that’s just mine amplified to the volume of two hearts beating as one. But either way, it makes me feel good. It makes me feel like we’re connected.

And maybe one day our hearts will be broken and sink into a black hole. Maybe our hearts will separate and go into a parallel universe where distance does make the heart grow fonder, like there’s some science to it. Or maybe we’ll stay in this universe and every time we talk, time will slow until it reaches the point of nonexistence, as though we’re in a vortex, and then whenever we part ways, time will lapse and count down to the next time we speak until it doesn’t exist again. Then again, these are barely even theories, just hopes so that maybe I can keep you on my mind and in my heart. After all, I’m only a scientist.