One of Chekov’s famous works is a trilogy of short stories sharing the familiar aching of missed opportunities; a lesson always dragging towards shore, a little too slow and out of tide. Anything tangled up into three’s makes my head spin. That can be choked up to my obsessive-compulsive disorder, the mathematical orgasm of prime numbers, or how painstakingly common it is for matter to be uneven. The stories in the trilogy are: A Man in Case, About Love, andGooseberries. But missed opportunity goes beyond the title, beyond the page. The missed opportunity is this. Me, in the here and now—reading and writing about another mans interpretation of ‘missing out’ from a hundred years before I was even conceived—before I had the ability to hold loss in my hand, where it fits in the palm but feels heavy. I’m sitting between walls and a whiteboard. Learning how the sun is not the source of all energy; already knowing that because my heart racing can both fuel a plane and my aching. Missed opportunity is when I’m looking at the moon, but I feel as if the moon you’re seeing is somehow better—brighter as it shines down on ocean waves, reflecting the sea’s wishes to your irises. I’m jealous of your moon, because I want to be seeing it too. But I’m here. Going through the motions, but somehow hopefully happy doing just that. My moon is a bit closer to reach though, if I look at it through the right lens—so maybe, you’re envious too. Anything missed is synonymous with absence. Therefore, you or that, there or somewhere, is nothing more than a blank page. I have to be there, in it, to experience it. But I’m human and I can only be in one place, and one place will never amount to enough when human nature is contingent to desiring more. Life is a timeline of missed opportunity. But, I want you to understand I do not mean that with nihilism. Rather every opportunity except the one you’re currently experiencing, is missed and vanished from ever becoming reality—how beautiful and scientifically unlucky that you are experiencing this very moment in time, right now. That I am sitting here, between walls and a whiteboard. Reading Chekov’s thoughts and writing these specific words. How phantasmagoric that I am here. That I know you. That I can dream of another moon. That I have the ability to miss. To grasp across the skies. To think in threes and to have so, so much that would hurt to lose. So much worth missing.