In quantum physics, “entanglement” describes a relationship between the fundamental properties of two particles that could not have happened by chance. It’s an invisible link between two objects, allowing them to affect the other in ways that can’t be explained by classical physics.
Meeting Utsav felt like a quantum entanglement event. We could not have been more different, yet something at a subatomic level drew us together.
Utsav was a free spirit who hadn’t worked a traditional job in three years. I was the poster child of workaholism: fresh out of college, drowning in the pressure of starting an investor-backed business. He was confident and charismatic, and he knew it. I was high-strung and awkward.
Utsav’s days were slow and peaceful — sleeping in, playing volleyball, lounging in the park. Mine? A whirlwind of social commitments crammed between Zoom meetings, scarcely manageable but for the grace of a meticulously color-coded Google calendar.
“Is that really how you pronounce your name?” were his first words to me at a mutual friend’s party, sparking a conversation about our shared Indian American upbringing. Soon, I was too engrossed in our debate about A.I. girlfriends to realize I had been knocking cans off an overflowing recycling bin behind me the entire time.
We spent the next six hours together: a rooftop, a dinner, a viewpoint. At dinner, he psychoanalyzed me while I tried to restrain myself from ordering every salmon roll on the menu (he made the connection that my obsession with salmon was linked to memories of cooking it with my parents).
Three days later, I showed Utsav the broken window of my apartment door where I had thrown my phone (and eventually my head) at the glass — a night when years of anger, hurt and stress had become too much to hold in.
I don’t know what I was thinking, showing him proof of my unhinged rage and helplessness. It was embarrassing, terrifying, raw. He was going to think I was crazy, and rightfully so.
His casual response: “That must have felt good.”
He was right. It had. And hearing that was freeing.
A few nights later, we were sitting on his bedroom floor at 3 a.m. I was exhausted, but my mind wouldn’t quiet. He was watching me intently while I pretended to read one of his books, trying to avoid his gaze.
I had just ordered my Uber home when Utsav finally voiced his feelings for me. The catch: He was leaving for a monthlong retreat soon and didn’t want to enter it with any romantic commitments. He suggested seeing each other until his retreat started, and then making a clean break.
“I think there’s a lot you could learn from me, and I from you,” he said.
I thought he was pretentious — and I was even more annoyed because he had a point.
Why did I say yes? Maybe I was curious. Maybe I knew the “what if” would eat me alive if I didn’t. Maybe I could feel in my bones that our collisions would change the person I was becoming.
In many ways, not having to contemplate our long-term prospects was liberating. I didn’t have to worry about what my friends and parents would think about him or what a shared future might look like. But it didn’t remove the depth — by no means was this just a casual fling.
That night, after revealing his feelings for me, he said: “I’m also worried about you. You push yourself with this incredible intensity — but I worry that it’s unsustainable. And frankly, I don’t trust you to take care of yourself.”
I shot back my usual responses: I like the intensity, I am taking care of myself (look, I worked out today), I’m handling it, everything is great. But they felt hollow.
“I want us to be responsible for our own happiness in this, Shobha,” he said. “I want to be responsible for mine and you to be responsible for yours. Most people would be happy with your 80 percent, but I don’t want to settle for your 80 percent. I want 100 percent of you. And that can only happen if you take better care of yourself.”
My reaction hit me in waves: shock, anger, panic. How could this stranger immediately point out something even my closest friends didn’t see? Who did he think he was? And how did he know?
As I learned more about Utsav, I realized how he could see me so clearly: He knew my wounds because they mirrored his own, and he recognized my fears because they were his, too.
My fears ate at me. What could I offer someone who seemed so complete without me? Why did he want to be with me, as flawed as I was?
My doubts crept into our every interaction. The smallest things — warming up dinner, driving directions — became proxy battles for my self-doubt. They became a dance I knew well: scrutinize myself to avoid missteps, pick a fight from the weight of my own judgment, and leave before he could see my inadequacies. This was easier than staying to face what might be real.
Repeatedly, I pushed until his composure gave way to forceful exhales and pointed questions that I wasn’t ready to answer. Each time, I was certain it would be the end — that he would finally decide I wasn’t worth the uphill battle. But somehow, we would find our way back to steady ground.
As we drove in silence one evening, I was preoccupied with criticizing myself about something I can’t even remember now. I knew Utsav could tell something was wrong. Finally, I forced it out: “I don’t think I’m good enough for this.”
He blinked in confusion. “The thought of whether you’re good enough has never crossed my mind,” he said. “All I want is for you just to be you.”
I didn’t believe him.
May turned to June, and my dread grew heavier as Utsav’s departure loomed closer. One week. Five days. Four.
One night at a raucous bar, Utsav seemed different, nervous and uncertain. He pulled me toward a couch, the noise dampening into a cocoon around us.
“I need you to know something,” he said.
My stomach dropped — this was it. He finally saw what I’d been trying to show him all along: I wasn’t good enough for him.
“Your love for me?” he said. “That’s all you. That’s a reflection of your own capacity to love. It’s not dependent on me or anything I do to deserve it. It comes from you.”
My mind spun as I searched his face. Finally, something shifted in my chest, and I started to understand. If my love came from within me, then his love came from within him too, just as freely given. It wasn’t about deserving. It was about allowing myself to be seen, rough edges and all.
I thought about all the moments I had censored and criticized myself, thinking I needed to be different, better, more. I remembered showing him my broken window, all my unguarded moments he had seen and stayed for.
How backward I’d had it all. In trying so hard to be “enough,” I missed seeing what was already there.
For the first time, I stopped trying. Stopped proving. Stopped performing. I just sat with him. Fully present.
Here’s the other thing about quantum entanglement events: When two particles become entangled, they remain connected, even when separated by vast distances.
As I write this, Utsav is across the country at his retreat. I’m still in San Francisco, living the life I had before I met him. But everything feels different.
We talk once a week. We share updates, reminisce, or sit in a charged silence. We avoid talking about what might happen after he’s back. We end every call with “I love you.” I don’t know what I want or what will happen. I don’t think he does either.
I do know that something fundamental has shifted in me. I’m building a life based on what I want, not what I think I need to do. I have taken responsibility for my happiness, and I’m seeing how this doesn’t compete with connection — instead, it allows me to show up better for the people I care about. I’m learning that insecurity is not a reason to close myself off from love.
Regardless of what happens, our six weeks taught me that the deepest connections don’t come from trying to prove our worth, but from having the courage to be exactly who we are while trusting that we can be loved for it. They come from sharing pieces of our lives with someone without obligation, simply because we want to.
Like entangled particles, we exist fully in our states yet also resonate with each other — not because we must, but because together we overflow with possibility.
The post I Still Don’t Know Why I Said Yes appeared first on New York Times.
