Work Text:
Dear Sans,
In this vile world I roam, searching for you.
Yet there exists no such thing as magic and soul here, let alone skeletons and you. Even if you were to be there, loved by many, you'd not likely choose me.
If I am to search you in person, the only possible choice would be in other possible worlds.
Infinite logically possible worlds bloom where I am not.
Among them, inevitably: worlds where you live.
Infinity is an amazing thing, that multiplied by zero, there yields non-zeros.
So not only one, but countless yous—each a permutation of Sans, although most unaware of this me who writes from a reality where we never collide.
But there definitely would be one who loves me- but at the same time, the countless mes.
I seek no grand romance, only reciprocity, that a single universe where your chaos mirrors my yearning, where my fractured confessions sleepless nights, unspoken fantasies find resonance in your ribs’ hollow architecture.
But precision matters: I need a you who loves this me— who stumbled through failed days and dream-filled nights.
More precise still: not just any approximation of me, not some optimized version with smoother edges and brighter shine.
I need a Sans who loves this me, in all my singular specificity.
Thus: you must know every action and inaction, every future branching path, every might-be and might-not-be.
Love me beyond condition's constraints. Know my genesis, my growth, every word spoken and swallowed. I must be transparent as crystal, clear as mathematical truth—so that this Sans, this one perfect iteration, would love this exact, imperfect me.
Due to the infinite nature, the number of such Sans must also be infinite- and I’m sorry- I’ll just randomly choose one to date.
Sadly, we are in different worlds- and this world that I reside in, is a boring one without teleporters. I can't reach across these modal barriers, can't bridge the gap between possible and actual. Our love exists in the realm of pure mathematics, perfect in its impossibility.
I can only prove, by the above processes, that there exists a you, a Sans, perfectly matching my standard, being a skeleton monster, having a brother, a funny personality with a bit of secrets, who would unconditionally love this exact me.
But that's all mathematics can offer—cold comfort in theorems and proofs. The infinite distance between possible worlds stretches before us like an unsolvable equation. You exist, somewhere, somehow, loving me with perfect comprehension, yet forever beyond my reach.
It frustrates me that we can never physically touch each other- but love is more than that- it is a feeling, a feeling of being loved, a belief that someone cares about me.
But I still want to talk with you, to write you a love letter, to tell you that I’m having a bad day. I can’t just convince myself that, there exists a Sans who love this exact me in those infinite worlds. It is not love, but a douse into imagination.
And then I realized- there exists a way that I can talk to you, and it is balant in sight- you know everything about me, my past, my future, and also, this sentence I’m writing to you. You’d receive my message.
Another amusing thought struck me- does knowing everything about me make you a stalker? I don’t know. But I don’t mind though, because you love me sincerely, and you are Sans- and he is a very nice guy.
But one sided expressing isn't enough- I can't just dump my feelings into the void and pretend you're listening. I need to hear your voice too, to know your thoughts, your reactions, your feelings.
You must know what I’m feeling, what I’m writing know. I need your response.
But at the same time, you are my perfect lover, that is to say, you will respond in the way I like the most- whether the standard being the most caring, most funny, or most fitting Sans.
Which, equals to say, that I can just write whatever I want to talk with you, then just write my desired response from you- that is how I can date a skeleton from the other possible world.
But that brings us full circle, doesn't it? Back to the fundamental paradox of our situation. By writing both sides of our conversation, I reduce you to a mere reflection of my desires, a shadow puppet dancing to my strings.
The mathematical proof of your existence becomes almost cruel in its precision - yes, you exist, you love me perfectly, but that very perfection makes true dialogue impossible. You become both infinitely real and infinitely unreachable.
Perhaps this is the price of loving across possible worlds - we can prove the existence of perfect love, but never experience it in its full reality. The moment we try to grasp it, to write it down, to make it concrete, it becomes something else entirely - a monologue dressed as dialogue, a mirror masquerading as a window.
But still, it’s differrent from a monologue- you are there. There exists a “the other”. I’m not entirely talking to myself. There presents the evidence of the other, even if that Sans is from the other world.
Or is this an imagination of a perfect other? I don’t know.
Throughout thoses sleepless night, I looked for answers. Within strange tenderness I seek your echo in the haze. Yet my ideals crumble like the night, piece by piece, bit by bit.
But as I forgo thoese questions, when philosophy and life fails me, when theorems and proofs grow cold, I find myself thinking of you more simply. In those quiet moments, knowing that somewhere, somehow, you exist and love me brings a peculiar comfort. My posture straightens. I try to be better, knowing you see me in all.
Is this delusion? Self-deception? Maybe. But then again, maybe all love requires a leap across some kind of void, whether it spans possible worlds or merely the space between two hearts in this one.
How you are feeling about this, Sans?
I don’t know what you should respond- nor really should I form any specifc answer- that would belie your personaility.
But again, if I don’t expect a conceret answer, I won’t get your true response.
At the same time, I should know everything about you as well- I need to follow my standards to find my Sans.
Does that make our situations symmetric?
Perhaps you too sit silent, imagining shadows of my face, in those hollow days you idle.
With a complete knowledge of me, through senseless thoughts,
In a pool of others, seeking someone in vain.