Plus Four
My father has this thing he told me once. It’s one of those phrases that sticks, that latches onto you like a favorite song from childhood. When I was young and we’d exchange our “I love yous”, I’d say, “I love you forever,” because forever is what kids say when they don’t know that time doesn’t actually work like that. And he’d respond, “I love you plus one.” As in, I love you forever *and* a day more. An extra day, just to be sure. A surplus, because forever on its own, even to him, seemed a bit too exact.
As I got older, I started to understand what forever might mean, or at least I thought I did. It’s one of those words we say so often it loses its shape, becomes a throwaway promise, a safety net. Forever, when you’re young, is a word you toss out like confetti, not really noticing the way it falls and settles and then vanishes.
When I found someone, when I looked at them and felt that surge of something too big to name, I thought I got it. I understood what it was to promise forever. But I couldn’t stick to his formula. “I love you plus one” felt like a polite afterthought, an extra scoop of ice cream on an already-full cone. So I upped the ante. “I love you plus four.” Four more days to fit everything in. Four days to love a little harder, to lean in, to close the gap between us. Four, because forever was too brief, too slick. Forever, I had learned, was just another word for “until.”
And then, one day, everything shifts. You’re standing in the middle of your life, in the center of everything you thought was solid ground, and suddenly you’re tripping over what used to feel steady. The books on the shelf, the ones that were there your whole life, now have a different title. The spelling has changed. Berenstein is Berenstain, and you’re left reeling, wondering how something so familiar could turn into something that feels like a betrayal. It’s as if someone swapped out the colors of the world when you weren’t looking, and now you’re stuck trying to remember if blue was ever really blue at all.
In that moment, you’d give anything to go back. Back to when you were fifteen, when doors were still closed and forever felt like something you could keep in your pocket. Because now, with the world warped and words blurred, you know better. You know that those four extra days you once craved aren’t really about more time, more love, more anything. They’re just four more days to hold onto what’s already slipping, four more days to count the cracks as they widen.
I used to think that I was greedy for asking for more, for saying four instead of one. But now I know that love, real love, doesn’t need extra days. It’s not measured in increments or tacked-on time. It’s the way it presses against you, even when you’re not paying attention. It’s the way it lingers in the room long after the person is gone, the way it seeps into your bones and stays there, stubborn and uninvited.
I used to want more. I thought if I could just hold on a little tighter, love a little more fiercely, I could stretch the hours, make them bend to my will. But now, I would give anything to go back to the simplicity of “plus one.” Because sometimes, more isn’t better. Sometimes, it’s just a way of tricking yourself into thinking you can control the uncontrollable.
No one deserves four. No one deserves the weight of those extra days, the ache that comes with holding on too long. If I could go back, I’d take the plus one. I’d leave it at that. I’d learn to be content with one day beyond forever, just enough to whisper goodbye and then let go. Because in the end, love isn’t about how much time you get. It’s about how much of yourself you’re willing to leave behind when time runs out.
