A Case Against the Last Meeting Theory

Recently, I read something online. It’s a theory called the “last meeting theory.” It basically says that regardless of how intimate or close you once were to someone, once you finish that “course,” the universe will make sure that you’ll never meet again.

I hate that theory. With my entire being.

And not in the way that I believe it and hate that it might happen. No. I hate it because it’s false,

irresponsible, and cowardly.

How convenient is that, right?

Having a supernatural explanation for why you aren’t close to someone anymore. How convenient is it to

not have to take responsibility for your own actions?

You don’t have to ask yourself whether you could have called. You don’t have to wonder whether you

should have apologized. You don’t have to admit that maybe pride kept you silent, fear kept you distant,

or stubbornness kept you from saying the thing you desperately wanted to say. Instead, you can simply

shrug your shoulders, look toward the stars, and say, “Well, I suppose the universe decided.”

How wonderfully convenient.

The universe becomes the perfect scapegoat because it cannot argue back.

It cannot tell you, “No, actually, you were the one who stopped answering.” It cannot remind you that

there was a phone in your hand, their name was still in your contacts, and you chose not to press the

button. It cannot point out all the opportunities that existed between two people before silence

eventually became distance.

I’m not naive enough to think that every relationship works out. Of course not. Situations change,

feelings change, people change. Sometimes there’s a bad fallout; sometimes the end is for the better.

Some relationships absolutely should end. Some people hurt each other repeatedly. Some relationships

become unhealthy, abusive, manipulative, or simply incompatible. Walking away can sometimes be the

most loving thing you can do for yourself and even for the other person.

I am not arguing that every relationship must be resurrected simply because it once mattered.

Nor am I arguing that love requires you to tolerate mistreatment. It does not.

But I refuse to believe that those things happen because the “coursework” between two people has been

completed.

For one, the people you meet are never coursework.

Can you, at times, learn a lesson or two from knowing them? Of course!

But that doesn’t and shouldn’t turn another human being into a “bad lesson” or a “teaching moment,”

even when it might feel close to it.

A person is not an assignment handed to you by some cosmic professor.

They did not enter your life simply so you could develop character, learn boundaries, discover your

worth, or complete some invisible spiritual curriculum before graduating into the next relationship.

They were a person.

A complicated, imperfect, emotional human being with memories you were never present for, fears they

may never have explained, dreams you may never fully understand, and a life that continues beyond

whatever role they played in yours.

We should always look at one another as fellow human beings, just like us.

Obviously, some of them aren’t perfect, but neither are we.

And perhaps that is something worth remembering before we confidently label another human being

“the lesson I needed.”

Imagine how dehumanizing that sounds when reversed. Imagine discovering that someone you genuinely

loved, laughed with, trusted, cried besides, and shared pieces of your life with now describes your entire

existence in their life as nothing more than “a lesson.”

Maybe you were difficult. Maybe they were difficult. Maybe both of you were. Maybe you hurt each

other. Maybe you loved each other deeply and still failed one another. Human relationships are messy precisely because human beings are messy.

That doesn’t make the relationship meaningless.

When we make a habit of viewing relationships as lessons or coursework, we subconsciously undermine

their value as human beings.

Please stop referring to each other as lessons.

Look at them as people.

You can learn from someone without reducing them to what they taught you.

You can become wiser because of a relationship without pretending that wisdom was the sole purpose of

the relationship.

You can say, “Knowing that person changed me,” without saying, “That person existed to change me.”

Those are very different things.

And now to the part I hate most.

The idea of the universe “making sure that you never meet again.”

No.

The universe doesn’t do that.

Your lack of communication does that.

Especially in today’s day and age.

You expect me to believe that if you really wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to get in touch with someone?

Come on.

That’s just absolutely absurd.

We live in an age where I can send a message across the planet in seconds. We have phone numbers,

social media, email, mutual friends, countless ways of finding people whom previous generations might

genuinely have lost forever. Yet somehow we have romanticized silence into destiny.

No. Sometimes silence is just silence.

It’s your fear of reaching out that stopped you from texting.

It’s your fear of rejection that stopped you from reaching out.

It’s your cowardice that stops you from meeting each other.

Maybe you typed the message and deleted it.

Maybe you opened their contact a hundred times.

Maybe you watched their name appear online and hoped they would somehow know you were thinking

about them.

Maybe you told yourself that if they wanted you in their life, they would reach out first.

And maybe, somewhere on the other side of that screen, they were thinking exactly the same thing.

Two people missing one another while both patiently waiting for destiny to do the job that courage was

supposed to do.

Stop blaming the universe while you comfortably sit back in your armchair, guiltlessly, because it’s always

someone else’s fault.

Shame.

Lazy.

Cowards.

Harsh? Perhaps.

But I think we have become far too comfortable dressing fear up as wisdom.

“If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

Maybe.

But sometimes what is “meant to be” still requires you to get off the bloody chair and do something.

Love has always required action. Friendship requires maintenance. Family requires forgiveness. Trust

requires effort. Reconciliation requires humility. None of these things survive indefinitely on good

intentions alone.

If you love someone, be brave and pursue them.

That doesn’t mean to be aggressive.

Be yourself and be respectful.

And understand that pursuing someone does not mean refusing to accept “no.” Courage is reaching out

honestly. Respect is accepting the answer honestly.

There is dignity in both.

If you miss your ex—and AND!!! if whatever caused your breakup has been resolved—then reach out.

Talk things through.

It doesn’t mean ignoring the previous problems, but be mature and loving.

Do not rewrite history because you are lonely.

Do not pretend the relationship was perfect simply because you miss the good moments.

Ask yourself whether anything has actually changed. Have you changed? Have they changed? Has the

problem been solved, or have enough months simply passed that the pain has become nostalgic?

There is a difference.

But if the problem truly has been resolved, if both people have grown, and if love remains beneath all

that history, then I see no honor in refusing to speak simply because pride insists that someone else

should go first.

If you had a fallout with a friend or family member and you want the relationship back, reach out to

them.

Be kind, patient, and loving.

Talk through your difficulties and mend the relationship.

Say the uncomfortable thing.

“I miss you.”

“I was wrong.”

“You hurt me.”

“I still care about you.”

“Can we talk?”

Those sentences require more bravery than pretending you have achieved some enlightened detachment

from someone you still think about every night.

Now, some of you might say, “I don’t want to.”

And that is totally fine.

Actually, I respect that answer.

If you don’t want the relationship anymore, then don’t pursue it.

If your life is healthier without that person, let it remain that way. If peace came only after distance, protect that peace. If you have genuinely forgiven them and moved forward, continue walking.

But let that be the reason.

Not the fact that the universe was stopping you.

Say, “I chose not to go back.”

Say, “We became different people.”

Say, “I still care about them, but I know we are healthier apart.”

Say, “I was afraid.”

Say, “I waited too long.”

Say whatever is true.

Just don’t hand your own choices over to the stars because admitting that you had a choice is

uncomfortable.

And perhaps sometimes you will reach out and discover that you were too late.

They may have moved on.

They may not answer.

They may forgive you without wanting you back in their life.

They may simply say no.

That hurts.

But at least then the story ended because two human beings made a decision—not because you spent

twenty years wondering what might have happened if one of you had possessed five minutes of courage.

I think that is what bothers me most about the “last meeting theory.”

It turns passivity into poetry.

It makes giving up sound profound.

It takes one of the most painfully human experiences—the drifting apart of two people who once

mattered enormously to each other—and makes it sound as though some invisible force closed the door

while both people stood helplessly on opposite sides.

Sometimes that happens. Life moves people across countries. Time changes circumstances. Death itself

eventually separates us. There are endings beyond our control.

But not every ending is destiny.

Some doors remain closed simply because neither person reached for the handle.

And if there is still kindness between you—

if there is still forgiveness—

if the problem can be repaired—

if you still love them—

if you still miss them—

then perhaps stop asking whether the universe wants you to meet again.

Ask yourself whether you do.

And if the answer is yes, be brave enough to find out whether they do too.

Maybe it works.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe you rebuild something beautiful.

Maybe you finally receive the closure you needed.

Maybe you discover that the relationship really is finished.

At least then you will know.

Because I would rather live with an honest answer than spend my life romanticizing a question I was too

frightened to ask.

People are not coursework.

Relationships are not cosmic assignments.

Silence is not always destiny.

And fear should not be mistaken for fate.

Call people while you still can.

Apologize while they can still hear you.

Forgive when forgiveness is deserved.

Tell people you miss them.

Tell people you love them.

And when a relationship truly must end, have enough respect for the person—and yourself—to call it

what it actually was.

A choice.

A circumstance.

A failure.

A necessary goodbye.

Anything but some lazy excuse about the universe completing its coursework.

Be better. Fill this world with love, not hatred.

There is already enough distance between people.

We do not need to invent the universe itself as another reason not to cross it.